A Red Flag in Disguise

Chapter 4 Episode 4

“I love hockey,” I decide without a second thought.

T hrowing 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 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.”