As soon as all the passengers are boarded and the cabin doors are closed and armed, Indy and I lock up the galley, ensuring everything is secure for takeoff. And as we do, the most magical, beautiful thing that has ever happened in my four years of flying occurs.
Simultaneously, every one of the suited-up hockey players stands from their seats and begins to strip down until the only thing that’s covered is their junk.
“Sweet mother of—” I drift off, unable to speak, my eyes bugged out of my head.
“What. Is. Happening?” Indy asks in the same daze, her mouth gaped.
The entire back half of the airplane is filled with naked men, toned asses, and tattoos everywhere I look. Indy and I don’t even pretend to act like we aren’t staring. We are staring, and you couldn’t pay us to look away.
The players all carefully lay their suits flat in the overhead bins, being sure not to wrinkle them on the flight to Denver before they re-dress in more comfortable and casual clothing.
“Like the show, ladies?” one of the players playfully asks, breaking me out of my daze. His dark waves dance in front of his deep emerald eyes.
“Yes,” Indy answers without hesitation.
“Well, enjoy. Happens every time we take off and land. We have to wear suits on and off the plane for the media, but whenever we’re on board, we get to do whatever the fuck we want.”
That wasn’t the case when I flew a basketball team. They walked on and off the plane as casually as they could be, so this is new.
“I can come back there and give you guys a better view next flight.”
“Rio, stop being so damn thirsty all the time!” another player calls out.
“This is the best job,” Indy adds, her stare still locked on the half-naked men.
“I love hockey,” I decide without a second thought.
3
STEVIE
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.