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This Is Crazy

Page 3

by Natasha Madison


  “This is going to end up on SportsCenter,” Matthew grumbles. “I have to go. Kiss the kids for me, and you twins …” I look at Zara, and she looks at me. “I’ll liquidate some stocks to make sure I have bail money.” He laughs, but my father groans.

  “I see this ending very badly.” My mother laughs.

  “For one of us anyway.” I smirk at her.

  Chapter Four

  Evan

  “Let’s go.” The coach yells at me to start the drill. I skate from the corner of the rink to the blue line, looking slightly over my shoulder, and wait for the Corey, my defenseman, to pass me the puck. I skate a little to let the puck hit the back of my stick. I hustle it up now, pushing against the boards, the sound of ice crushing under my skates echoing in my ears. I skate past center ice all the way to the other blue line, looking over and seeing that line partner Denis a second behind me. This summer, I worked on my speed and my cardio, and it’s paying off in one of my best seasons ever. I’m number one on the leaderboard for goals, number one for points, and if this continues, I’ll be in the running for that Art Ross trophy.

  It’s so close I can taste it. “Skate harder,” I yell to Denis. He tries, but I just go without him, shooting at the empty net and watching the puck drop in the back of the net. I skate around the net, laughing at Denis who is finally getting to the net. I now switch backward and look at him. “Guess having that doughnut before practice wasn’t a good idea,” I tell him, and he sticks his gloved hand up, telling me to fuck off. The sound of the whistle has me stopping.

  “That’s it,” Coach says. “Rest for the night, boys. Tomorrow’s practice ten a.m.,” he says, skating off the ice, and we follow him. I get off the ice and walk down the red carpet to the dressing room. Unsnapping my helmet, I put my stick against the wall with the rest of them. I take off my glove and put it on the bench right under my name. I grab my phone and see that I have a couple of messages from my sister Candace who takes care of my social media. Well, she takes care of the Facebook and Twitter. I do my own Instagram, which is a pain in my ass.

  I’m going to be dropping off fifty shirts for you to sign tonight.

  Don’t forget to call Mom.

  I also fed your dogs.

  Also you should check who just tweeted you? Might have to go undercover, brother.

  I’m about to open my Twitter when I hear laughing behind me and look over to see Jari, our goalie, sitting down looking at his phone. He looks up at me. “Dude, did you check your Twitter?” I shake my head and open my phone.

  Zara Stone @ZaraStone

  When your ex-boyfriend gets engaged, you ask his idol @EvanRichards to be your date to crash his wedding. What do you say? Wanna be my date?

  #myexhasapencildick

  I chuckle at the hashtag and then look at the name again. Holy shit, Zara Stone. My fingers move across the keyboard before I think about it.

  Evan Richards @EvanRichards

  Sounds like a plan. DM me.

  The minute I send it, my phone blows up, showing me Candace is calling.

  “Yo,” I answer, grabbing the bottle of Gatorade next to my gloves, then sitting and taking a drink.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she shouts, and I can so picture her in the Range Rover I bought her with her glasses on and her makeup and nails perfectly done. I shake my head. I’m the oldest of the three. Chloe is the middle child, and she stays out of my business unless she needs tickets or a reservation somewhere. But Candace is the one always up in my stuff. Okay fine, I pay her to take care of my things, but sometimes, she goes overboard. But she’s knows hockey; I mean, our father played hockey, not pro level, but he played it in college, and then he took on the role of coaching. My uncle is also a huge hockey player, and he only played five games in the NHL.

  You would think with a hockey family that I started playing hockey when I was a kid, but I didn’t. When I was thirteen, my father forced me to go play with him and a couple of his friends, and the rest is history. I was drafted forty-fifth. I never thought I would actually play in the NHL, but the team gave me a shot, and at nineteen, I was raising the cup over my head. It was a dream come true. I was traded two years later, and now seven years later, I have a couple of months left on my contract before I’m a free agent.

  “What are you talking about?” I try to act stupid, but I know the minute I sent out that tweet, she got a notification on her phone. Laughing, I lean down and untie my skates

  “You really want to go on a date with Zara Stone?” She hisses out her name. “I heard she’s a bitch.”

  “From who?” I ask her, knowing she doesn’t even know who Zara is. But she has hated every single girlfriend I’ve had. The last one I had four years ago, she threw a party for me when we broke up and posted about it. It did not go over well with my mother, who was pissed at both of us.

  “I know people,” she says, and I laugh now loudly so she can hear me. “I’m serious, Evan.” She stops taking. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You are at the top of your game. You are like the most eligible bachelor out there.”

  “Cand, you can relax. It’s just a date. If that even.” I try to talk her off the ledge. My phone beeps, and I see I have an incoming call from an unknown number. “I have to go. Someone is calling me.”

  “Okay, are we still on for tacos?” she asks.

  “Yes meet me at my house,” I tell her and then accept the other call. “Hello?”

  “Hey Evans,” the male voice says, and I think I know who it is, but I’m not sure. “It’s Grant, Matthew Grant.” Holy shit. So Zara’s father is the Cooper Stone—he’s basically a hockey god or idol with more records than any other hockey player out there—and Matthew is her brother. From what I hear, you don’t fuck with him, but apparently, his other sister dated his arch nemesis under his nose.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying not to laugh at how crazy my life has gotten in the past ten minutes.

  “You know why I’m calling?” he says, and I hear guys talking in the back. He’s probably at practice also.

  “I have an idea,” I tell him.

  “So we are on the same page,” he says, and I have no idea what book he’s reading. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and he disconnects.

  “What the fuck just happened?” I ask and don’t expect anyone to answer, but Brett, my closest teammate and partner in crime on the ice, answers me.

  “You just put another nail in your coffin.” He laughs, and I get up, moving my skates out of the way, and pull my jersey off, tossing it in the big bin in the middle of the room.

  “It’s one date. Jesus,” I tell him, and he just shakes his head.

  “Have you seen her?” he asks me, and I shake my head.

  “I mean, maybe in passing,” I tell him and then grab my phone and go back to Twitter and click on Zara’s picture. It fills my screen in the little circle, and I have to sit down. I swear I hold my breath when I see her. Her strawberry blond hair covers half her face and half her lips. Her gaze is aimed at the camera, and I swear it feels like she’s staring straight at me. I zoom in and see her eyes look gray, and her lips are plump and half open. She isn’t pretty, and she isn’t beautiful. Exquisite is the only word that comes to mind.

  I hear chuckling again, and I look at Brett. “So not really right.”

  “I …” I stutter, looking down at the picture and then up again, and he continues chuckling. “I didn’t.” It comes out lower now. He’s shaking his head as he unwraps tape from his leg. “Do you know her?”

  “Met her last year at the Max Horton Foundation event. She walked in and jaws dropped,” he says. “Her date was this skinny dude who looked like a banker. Maybe that’s the pencil dick.”

  I look down again, imprinting her picture into my brain. “It’s just one date,” I tell him, turning my phone off and putting it on the shelf. “One date.” I don’t know if I’m trying to tell him this, or if I’m trying to convince myself of it.

 
; I get into the shower and then make my way over to the kitchen, grabbing a heaping plate of pasta and chicken. I look around and see it’s almost empty, so I sit down and start eating while I scroll TSN to check the stats. I see my Twitter app is going nuts, and I’m about to open it when Candace calls.

  “Hey,” I say, putting the phone to my ear while grabbing another forkful.

  “Hey so,” she starts, and I know she is irritated. “In case you are wondering, you have about four thousand DMs with girl’s numbers. There are actually fifty people who created fake Zara Stone accounts.”

  I shake my head. “But did Zara ever DM?” I ask.

  “She did. She dropped her number,” she says, and I go through them, stopping at the one I know is Zara’s and see she put her number. “Are you going to call her?’

  “Yes,” I say, grabbing my drink and taking a sip.

  “I think it’s a mistake,” she says.

  “I’ll remember that,” I say and disconnect. I look down at the number, and for the first time ever, my palms are sweaty. This is stupid. I’ve called girls before. This isn’t even me reaching out to her. She reached out to me first.

  I don’t have the balls to call her, so I text her instead.

  Me: Hey, it’s Evan. Is now good time to talk?

  I press send and look at the text I should have sent with an emoji. While I’m looking down, I see the bubble with three dots at the bottom appear and then disappear, but no message is coming through. I watch it like a hawk, and finally, she answers back.

  Zara: Getting ready to have family lunch. How is tonight?

  I smile at the phone and then type out my answer

  Me: Text me when you can talk.

  I put the phone away and then get up and head to the gym. For two hours, I lift weights until I feel the burn everywhere. I take another quick shower before I leave and look at my phone. Grabbing my baseball cap, I put it on backward, then grab my phone, wallet, and keys. I look around and yell out a bye to whoever is left in the locker room. Today was not mandatory, but it’s always good to get on the ice. I walk to my black BMW, pressing the button to unlock the door, and get in. I make my way home to my brand-new house. Well, it’s not brand new because it’s been six months. I know I shouldn’t have bought it since I don’t know where I will be at the end of the season, but I couldn’t help myself. I pull through the gate to the community and make my way down the street. It’s a new development, which is why I couldn’t say no. I love huge properties. I don’t really care how big the house is as long as I have my space.

  I pull into the concrete drive that runs in front of the house and then turns into the driveway that leads to my house. The grass is green, but it’s Dallas, so it’s always green. After I park in front of the garage door, I get out, hearing the barking. I laugh and walk up the one step to the huge brown door. The tinted glass doesn’t allow me to see inside, but if I know my dogs, they are at the door. I open the door, and Lilo and Stitch jump on me.

  “Hey there,” I say, walking into the huge foyer. A winding cast-iron staircase leads to upstairs, but the staircase is blocked off by a cast-iron gate to keep the dogs from going upstairs. I look to my left and see that the bedroom door is still closed, which is great, since two days ago, they got into there. Lilo is a golden lab and Stitch is a chocolate lab, and boy, do they get in trouble. I rub their heads and then walk through the foyer and straight into the family room.

  This is where I spend most of the time. I had the brown couches custom made to be almost like you’re are lying in bed. The eighty-inch television hangs over the sand-colored marble fireplace. A wooden bookcase sitting to one side contains photos of all my big moments in my career. A couple are also of my family at functions or at Christmas. On the other side is the hallway to my bedroom, which sits in the back of everything, and another gate stops them from going in there. I walk past the kitchen that sits on my right to the back door, and I open them to let the dogs run outside. I close the door, going straight to the kitchen to grab some water.

  I grab the television remote that sits on the counter separating the family room from the kitchen. I turn it on to SportsCenter and then walk to my stainless-steel double fridge, opening it to grab a water bottle. I turn and grab an apple that sits in the middle of the island. The huge bowl sits on a marble countertop, the same marble counters all around the kitchen. The color is on the dark brown side, but the cabinets are a light brown, so the counters pop more. It came with a six-burner built-in range that I cook on sometimes—okay, maybe not that much—but my mother has cooked some delicious meals on there when she visits.

  I grab my phone and order the stuff for the taco party that I’m having tonight with Candace. Hearing the dogs bark, I look out the window and make my way outside, seeing them running after each other at full speed. This, right here, is why I bought the house. I don’t even see my neighbor, or if I do, it’s far away. I walk to the end of the concrete patio covered by a wooden lanai. I have a fireplace on one side with the dog beds right in front of it. Two rocking chairs sit in front of the window by the door. My mother loves sitting in them and rocking in front of the fire at night. A grill sits on the other side of the patio, next to the outside bathroom I had installed. A white hammock hangs right at the end of the patio.

  The pool in the middle of the yard surrounded by palm trees gives it a tropical feel. The dogs finally look up and see me and charge straight for me. Lilo drops the ball at my feet, and I bend over, picking it up and throwing it as far as I can and see them take off.

  I play catch with them for about thirty minutes before they both lie at my feet panting. I turn around and pick up their water bowls to fill them with the outside hose. They get up right away, coming to the bowls. I leave them outside when my phone beeps, telling me someone just punched in my code at the gate, alerting me that my order has arrived. Walking inside, I go to the door right as he was about to ring the doorbell.

  “Hey, Senor Evan,” Manual says, handing me a huge bag. “This is everything for you,” he says, and I nod at him. “Have a good night and keep up the scoring.” He tips his hat to me and walks back to his car. I bring the big heavy bag back into the kitchen and put it on the island and start taking out the containers. I take the plastic bag of homemade tortillas out first. Then the round container of queso is next. I open it up and smell it.

  I grab the big bag of homemade chips, dipping one in and letting it melt on my tongue. I unload the three containers of taco stuff. One is beef, one pork, and the other shrimp. A bowl of Spanish rice is on the bottom. The door slams shut, and I know it’s Candace.

  “Oh good, I’m just in time,” she says, dumping her purse on the table right off the kitchen. She comes over and starts opening the containers. “I’m starving,” she says, walking to the cupboard and taking out three plates. We get our tacos, and she tells me what needs to be done in the next week as we eat our dinner.

  “Did you see Twitter?” she asks me when I finish my last bite of queso.

  I shake my head. “No.” I pick up my plate and bring it to the kitchen. “I only keep Instagram so I can do the stories.”

  She gets up from her chair and comes over, putting her own plate in the sink and rinsing it off just before she puts it in the dishwasher. She walks over to the counter and grabs the dish towel to wipe her wet hands.

  “Your DMs were blowing up. I had to charge my phone five times since that tweet this morning.” I shrug, not sure what I’m supposed to say. “Are you really going to do this?”

  “I honestly don’t know what you mean.” I lean back against the counter and cross my arms over my chest and watch her. “Are you asking me if I’m going to go on a date with her? Yes, I said I would.”

  “You don’t even know this girl. I heard she’s drama rolled up in her five-foot-ten body,” she says, not missing a beat.

  “It’s one date, Can. I’m not getting married,” I tell her, and she just nods.

  “Fine, but when it blows
up, and it will blow up, I’m not helping you clean up the mess,” she tells me, walking to the table and grabbing her purse.

  “I pay you to clean up the mess,” I tell her. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Yeah well, you don’t pay me enough. I’ll be demanding a raise,” she says. Turning and walking out of the house, she slams the door behind her. I shake my head and rub my hands over my face.

  The dogs follow me, and as soon as we get to my room, they run and jump up onto my king-size bed. My feet sink into the light gray carpet as I walk to the bed and scold them, pointing at their two beds at the end of the bed. They look at me and then walk out of the room to no doubt go lie on the couch. I walk to the dark gray side tables, taking the remote and turning on the television that hangs in front of the bed over the fireplace. I didn’t want anything fancy in my bedroom, but then I came home and found my mother had gone against everything I wanted.

  It’s masculine, I will say that, but with a softer touch, according to her. The gray fabric headboard is comfortable when I sit up and watch television, so that is all that matters. The covers are a light gray and look fluffy as fuck, but I don’t make my bed every morning either. I just throw the covers over. I fall into bed when the phone in my pocket buzzes. I see it’s from Zara, and a smile comes over my face, but I have no idea why.

  Zara: I’m free to talk if you are.

  “Here goes nothing,” I say to myself, pressing her name and listening to the phone ring.

  Chapter Five

  Zara

  With shaky hands, I type out a text I’ve been thinking about since this morning.

  Me: I’m free to talk if you are.

  I got home from my parents’ house an hour ago, and for the last hour, I kept going over in my head what the hell I did. When he texted me if I was free to talk, I went into the bathroom so Zoe didn’t know I regretted sending out the tweet. It was in the moment, and I’m totally blaming the tequila.

 

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