You’ve met his kind before. Too many times, actually. The athletes who walk onto the private jet like they own the air in it, who smirk like the world is already theirs. The ones who think their fame excuses their arrogance. And from the moment Evan Zanders steps into the cabin—six-foot-five, all tattoos, smug grin, and that kind of swagger that’s meant to be noticed—you already know exactly who he is.

You don’t care.

You’re not dazzled by the Chicago Raptors’ star defenseman, or the fact that half the world probably worships the ground he walks on. You have a job to do, and that doesn’t include entertaining some cocky athlete’s ego. Still, you can feel his presence the moment he slides into his seat in the exit row, phone in hand, eyes flicking to you only long enough to acknowledge you exist.

“Hey are you…?” You start but he doesn’t let you finish

“Yes, I’m Evan Zanders,” he cuts you off before you can get a word out, his gaze never lifting from the screen. “And yes, that’s Eli Maddison. Flight attendant, good guess. Sorry, no autographs.”

It happens like clockwork. He expects recognition, expects you to swoon or giggle or trip over your own words like every other person who crosses his path. But you don’t flinch.

“Good for you. And I don’t want your autograph.”

Your tone is flat, bored even, like you’re already tired of this conversation. His head doesn’t move, but you catch the slight pause in his scrolling.

“What I was going to ask,” you continue, arms crossed, “is if you’re ready for me to give you your exit row briefing?”

That gets his attention. His eyes lift—hazel, sharp, and annoyingly good at catching detail. For a moment, he studies you, like you’re some puzzle he wasn’t expecting to be handed.

Your hair is pinned back, the glossy blue-black curls refusing to be completely tamed. The freckles across your nose are faint but visible under the soft lighting of the cabin. You know exactly how you look: professional, composed, unimpressed. And you make sure he sees every bit of it.

Most people shrink under that gaze of his. You don’t.

“Sure,” he says finally, leaning back in his seat, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Knock yourself out.”

You ignore the smile, ignore the way he tries to test you with it. You’ve dealt with worse than Evan Zanders. But still, something prickles in the air between you, like the challenge has been set without either of you agreeing to it.

As you move down the aisle, finishing your duties, you catch yourself wondering why it bothers you—the way he looks at you, the way he clearly expects you to play along. You remind yourself it doesn’t matter. He’s just another spoiled, arrogant athlete, the kind you’ve built walls against for a reason.

And yet, when you glance back, you catch him still watching you. Not with the same practiced arrogance you’ve seen before, but with something quieter. Curious. Intrigued.

You shake it off, tucking the thought away with all the other fleeting impressions you’ve collected over the years. You have no intention of letting Evan Zanders get under your skin.