MILE HIGH

7

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.