“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 wild 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.