Throwing my suitcase on the opposite bed in my hotel room, I plug my charger into the wall, powering my phone. I forgot to charge it last night, so it died halfway through the flight to Denver.
As I’m waiting for it to light up, I strip off my god-awful uniform, hang it in the closet, and dig out my comfiest sweats. I’m all about comfort. Give me sweatpants, leggings, and oversized flannels every day for the rest of my life, and I’ll die a happy woman.
The polyester/wool mixture of my flight uniform is stiff and unflattering, and my first mission after every flight is to get it off as quickly as possible.
My phone dings on my nightstand, and without looking, I already know who it is. It’s the only person I can’t go a day without speaking to—my best friend. Ryan is the only person who chooses me first, above everyone else, day in and day out.
His name with the twin dancing emoji next to it confirms who I already knew it was.
Ryan: How was your first flight?
Me: It was good! Hockey boys are nice—for the most part.
I leave out the fact that I’m working for the NHL’s biggest diva this season.
Ryan: Those Canadians, am I right? But you know you miss flying basketball.
Me: Idk Ry, have you seen a hockey man’s ass?
Ryan: Proud to say I have not and never will.
Me: Speaking of basketball, are you ready for your game tonight?
Ryan: Absolutely. Gonna miss having you in the stands, though. I need my good luck charm.
Ryan’s basketball season and my flying season have always overlapped, and now that I’m working with hockey, their schedules are the same. I haven’t made too many of his games since he went pro, but I always make sure to watch him however I can. I’m his self-proclaimed good-luck charm, but seeing as the Chicago Devils haven’t had a winning season in three years, I don’t think my charm is working too well.
Me: I’ll be watching. There’s a sports bar a few blocks away. I’m sure they’ll have it on TV.
Ryan: Or you could watch it from your hotel room…alone.
A laugh slips from my lips. Ryan knows he has no control over who I spend my time with, but he may be the most protective brother of all time.
Me: Too protective.
Ryan: I’m your older brother. It’s my job.
Me: Three minutes older.
Ryan: Still counts. Gotta get to the arena. Be safe. Love you, Vee.
Me: Love you. Kick ass.
As soon as I exit out of our messages, I redownload my Tinder app. I never use the apps when I’m home, but one of the perks of spending a good amount of time on the road is the casual hookup with a stranger.
I feel more confident in bed when it’s someone I know I’ll never see again. I don’t worry too much about how my body looks or how soft I feel under someone random. I get to let loose and feel good with the sole purpose of getting off, knowing they’ll never lay eyes on me again.
I swipe right on a few attractive men, but I swipe left on even more who are too handsome for their own good. And Denver’s men seem to be more beautiful than other cities I visit, so I swipe left on more than usual, making sure I don’t get connected with someone I find to be too attractive.
I deal with enough insecurities on my own that I’m working to overcome. I don’t need to add batting out of my league just to get laid.
So, I stick to men I find attractive enough, but not so much so that their typical type are girls who may as well be on the covers of magazines.
Within a matter of minutes, almost everyone I swiped right on matches with me, giving me a boost of confidence. Shopping through my options, I land on a guy who lives outside of the city, with his bio reading, “Just looking for a hookup.”
I love the honesty, and that’s precisely what I’m looking for too.
As I’m drafting my extremely charming and witty opening line, there’s a knock at my hotel room door.
Dropping my phone on the bed, I throw a sweatshirt over my head before squinting through the peephole, finding my other new coworker, Tara, on the other side.
“Hey.” I swing my door open with a smile.
“Can I come in?” she asks without much expression on her face, which makes me worried. But also, I just worked an entire flight with her, and not once did she smile unless it was directed at one of our passengers.
“Of course.” I usher her in. She takes a seat in the chair at the desk as I plop myself back on the edge of my bed.
“How was your first day?” Tara asks.
Oh, okay, so she is being nice. “It was great. Everyone seems really cool.”
“I heard you’ve worked with professional athletes before.”
“Yeah, I was flying a basketball team out of Charlotte the last few seasons, but this is my first time working for a hockey team.”
I assumed that would start a conversation about my past work experience, as most people flip out with excitement when they learn I worked for a professional basketball team, but instead, it leads her into the real reason she’s here—to try to intimidate me.
“Well, this isn’t your last job, so I want to reiterate some rules.”
And here we go.
“First of all,” Tara begins. “I’m the lead flight attendant, which means this is my airplane, my crew, and my hockey team. I don’t care that you have experience in the athletic charter business. I’m the one in charge here.”
“Of course,” I respond without a second thought. I know these types of girls. I’ve worked with them before. They want to be seen, they want to be known by the clients, and I’m not one for a power struggle. I couldn’t care less who’s in charge on the airplane. I’m just here to do my job. Get in, get out, and get paid. That’s all this is to me—a job.
“I’ll be up in the front with the coaching staff all season while you and Indy run the back of the plane with the players. But I want to reiterate. There will be no fraternizing with any of our clients—players, coaches, or staff. If you do, you’ll be fired. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I confidently state. She’s trying to intimidate me, but that’s not going to work.
“I’m in charge here,” she continues. “Anything the team needs goes through me.”
“Sounds good.”
“I don’t know how your last job worked, and I don’t care. Anything goes down with you and someone on board, especially a player, you’re fired.”
Does she not realize she already said that? Also, why is she so worried about me? They’re not my type, and I’m not theirs.
“Got it.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.” She stands from the desk and begins to head towards my door. “Oh, and Stevie.” She turns back to face me, her expression filled with the most faux concern I’ve ever seen. “Maybe think about getting a bigger uniform. The one you wore today was awfully tight, and I don’t want the guys on board getting the wrong idea.”
A lump in my throat forms as she exits my room. I know it was tighter than I wanted it to be, but that’s just because my weight fluctuates all the time. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I wasn’t trying to wear a body-hugging outfit in an attempt to lure in some attention. But my body isn’t a size two, and everywhere you could possibly find a curve, I’ve got some.
On the other hand, Tara’s uniform was tailored to hug her narrow frame, and the top couple buttons were unnecessarily undone, causing the cleavage from her pushup bra to be front and center. It was especially noticeable when she would bend forward in front of someone’s seat to ask what they wanted to eat or drink, but you don’t see me saying anything to her.
Regardless, Tara throwing my biggest insecurity in my face puts a damper on my night, and I suddenly have no desire for anyone to see my naked body, regardless of the fact I’ll never have to see them again.
An alert pings on my phone. A message from that guy on Tinder asking what my plans are for the night, but I don’t respond. I delete the app entirely, over the whole idea.
Instead, I change into a pair of leggings, an oversized thrifted tee, and a flannel, finishing my outfit off with my Air Force Ones. I grab my purse, sling the strap across my body, and head out the door to the bar I found a few blocks away so I can watch my brother’s home opener of the season. All while I am scarfing down on a burger and a beer.
Two beers.
Probably three beers.
Fuck it, let’s not put a limit on it. However many beers it’ll take to make me forget about how shitty I feel.
The walk is nice with Denver’s October breeze blowing my curls away from my face. This bar is unexpectedly packed tonight. It’s a Monday night, and none of Denver’s teams are playing, so I didn’t expect a sports bar with wall-to-wall TVs to be as crowded as it is. But I thankfully find a solo seat at the bar and sidle up, making myself comfortable to spend the next three or so hours watching my brother’s game.
“What can I get you?” The bartender leans forward a little more than necessary. But he’s easy on the eyes, so I let it slide.
“Do you have an IPA on draft?”
He gives me an impressed glance. “Sanitas’ Black IPA. Twelve or sixteen ounces?”
What kind of question is that? “Sixteen, please.”
As he comes back with my perfectly poured beer, he places it on a coaster and leans over the bar once again. “Where are you from?” A flirtatious smile plays on his lips.
I look over my shoulder, not entirely convinced the hot bartender is talking to me.
Finding no one behind me, I turn back to him, his blue eyes locked on mine. “Chicago currently. Just in town for work.”
“Oh yeah? How long are you in town for?”
“Only the night.”
His shy smile is now a full-on devilish grin. “Glad you found my bar top for your one night in town. Anything you need, I’m your guy. I’m Jax, by the way.” He puts his hand over the wooden countertop to shake mine.
“Stevie.” I place my hand in his, noting the veins and muscles of his forearms that continue up under the sleeve of his black button-down shirt.
Suddenly my original plan for the night doesn’t sound all that bad.
“Actually, I do need something from you, Jax.”
“Anything.” His eyes twinkle with mischief.
I lean forward, crossing my arms on the bar top and bringing my most flirtatious grin, wearing my mask of confidence once again. “Can you put that TV”—I gesture to the large screen directly behind him—“on the Devils and Bucks game? It’s on ESPN.”
His eyes narrow, but his lips tilt even more. “Beer and basketball girl, huh, Stevie? What do I have to do to keep you at my bar top all night?”
“Depends how many beers you pour me.”
He lets out a deep, sexy laugh. “Your glass will never be left empty.”
The skin around my eyes crinkles with satisfaction. This is what I needed—a little attention from a cute guy, my brother’s game on the screen, and a beer in my hand. I feel better already.
“And I’ll take a burger when you get a chance.”
“Damn, Stevie,” Jax exhales. “Stop making me fall in love with you.”
He shoots me a wink over his shoulder before redirecting his attention to the computer where he places my food order.
My food has taken a little longer than I thought it would, but I don’t mind. The bartender’s attention and the first quarter of the basketball game keep me plenty occupied. Not to mention my second beer.
Tara’s little remark about my uniform is less so at the forefront of my mind, though I realize now why it bothered me as much as it did. It’s not just because that’s an insecurity of my own, but how she said it was very similar to how my mother talks about my body.
It’s never direct. It’s always backhanded because how dare a Southern lady speak so directly. They don’t do that. I understand that my mother is a perfect Southern belle with an overactive metabolism, but that’s not me. And it’s never been me. I’ve got big tits, a big ass, and an even bigger desire never to become the kind of woman she is.
I love her, but she’s judgmental. I’ve never felt like enough in her eyes. I grew up playing with the boys because my twin brother was my best friend, and he was much more fun than any debutant ball or pageant my mother was so adamant about me participating in.
When I was in college, I refused to rush a sorority, which almost did her in. It’s big in the South, and my mother’s entire side of women have all attended the same University in Tennessee and rushed the same sorority. I’m a legacy. It would’ve been easy for me, but I don’t want to be anything like them.
And once she realized she lost the battle of me being a real proper Southern woman, her attitude towards me quickly shifted to disappointment. Her attention was no longer focused on how great I’d be in Southern society and instead, how different my body looked from hers.
Unfortunately, it’s become ingrained in me, making me believe some-thing is wrong with me. My shape became more womanly the older I got. But my mom, she’s not used to curves, and in her mind, I’m overweight, simply because we don’t share the same proportions. But I don’t know what she expected. Her husband, the other half of my DNA, looks nothing like the ginger hair, freckled, thin-framed side of my mom’s family.
My parents couldn’t be more different. Sure, there’s the physical disparities. My dad is a black man, and my mom is a white woman. But more than that, their personalities are polar opposites. My dad is funny and kind, nurturing. My mom is cold, distant, and outright mean sometimes.
I want to be proud that I’m half of a remarkable man, but it’s hard to be proud of anything when my own mother is disappointed in everything I do. And for some reason now, it seeps in more than it used to.
As the bartender places my burger down in front of me, a quick regret paces through my mind. The more I think about my mother, the less appealing this food sounds. Maybe I should’ve ordered a salad with the dressing on the side. Maybe my uniform will fit a little better tomorrow if I eat that instead.
“If you don’t start eating that burger, I’m gonna scarf it down myself,” Jax, the bartender says, pulling me out of my self-doubt trance.
“I don’t share food,” I tease, pulling my plate closer to me.
His chest heaves in a laugh as he pours me another IPA, placing it next to my previous one that’s still half full.
This guy is good. And there’s a good chance he’s going to get lucky tonight. If not from me, then by one of the beautiful women filling this bar and desperate for the attention of the hot bartender. But at this rate, I wouldn’t mind it being me.
My eyes stay glued to the game on the screen as Ryan starts the second quarter. He’s leading the team in assists tonight, as he should. He’s the point guard and the best playmaker in the league.
The Devils run a motion offense on their first time down the court as Ryan gets open for a three in the corner. His teammate kicks the ball to him, and he sinks the shot.
“Fuck yes, Ry,” I ring out, much louder than I intended.
“Devils fan, huh?” Jax asks, his eyes panning to the TV then back to me. “Stevie, I hate to break it to you, but this might be the end of our love affair.”
I laugh mid-chew. “You don’t have to be a Devils fan. Just a fan of number five.”
“Ryan Shay? Who isn’t a fan of Ryan Shay? Best point guard in the league.”
“Damn right he is.” I pop a fry in my mouth. “And he’s my brother.”
“Bullshit.”
I continue to eat, not needing to convince him one way or another.
“Are you for real?”
Before I can respond, someone in my peripheral view holds an empty glass in the air for a refill, drawing my attention.
My gaze immediately falls on two guys from the plane. The one holding his glass up is the player with dark curly hair who promised a peep show next time he changed on board. Rio, I think his name is. And the other one is the person I was happiest to see get off the plane.
Evan Zanders.
I unintentionally roll my eyes.
Fully dressed up to the nines, he probably took three times longer than I did getting ready as he brings his whiskey glass to his full lips, resting them on the rim before he takes a drink. He doesn’t see me, and he’s not doing it to be seductive to anyone in particular, but the guy naturally oozes sex.
It’s really fucking annoying.
I immediately turn back to the bartender. “I need my check and a box, please.”
“What?” he asks, confused, his eyes darting back to my full beer.
Tara’s warning of fraternization rings through my mind. The idea of finishing my food, beer, and ending my night with this hot bartender between my legs sounds fantastic. But not as fantastic as keeping my job.
If it were anyone else from the plane, I might stay and hide in the crowd while I finish watching the game, but the fact that it’s Evan Zanders, of all people, makes me want to leave even more. He was exhausting all flight, ringing the call light for absolutely anything he could think of, and if one of the other two girls went to see what he needed, he always sent them back for me.
He’s going to make my season on the plane a living hell. I don’t need him intruding on my time off too.
“I need to get going,” I tell Jax. “Can I get the bill?”
“Is everything okay?” He’s clearly confused, and I don’t blame him. I spent the whole time flirting with him, both of us having an unspoken hope of where our night would end once he’s off work.
But he’s an attractive guy with a bar full of women. He’ll be just fine finding a warm body for the night.
“Just gotta get going. Sorry,” I finish with an apologetic smile.
Jax brings me a box and my check, leaving off all my drinks from the bill. I quickly transfer my food and hand my credit card off to be swiped, but it’s too late.
Before my card makes it back to me, two large hands land on the bar top on either side of my body, caging me in. His fingers are long and slender, decorated with gold rings. Every knuckle is tatted, including the back of his hands, and his nails are cleanly manicured. I keep my eyes glued to the ridiculously expensive watch on his wrist as he leans down behind me with his lips close to my ear.
“Stevie,” Zanders says in his smooth velvety voice. “You following me?”
