Blitzed

by Alexa Martin

  “Aren’t you from Colorado?” Jacqueline asks. “Shouldn’t you be used to this weather?”

  “Yes, I am from Colorado, but unless I’m flying down a mountain, adrenaline heating my veins, I seek shelter, take my ass inside, and look at the snow through a window.” I know it doesn’t make sense because I really am not a fan of the cold, but I really do love skiing.

  Jacqueline holds her Burberry-gloved hands up in front of her. “Geez. Sorry. The cold makes you sassy.”

  I have a solid comeback on the tip of my tongue when a young boy, bundled in a North Face jacket and a Mustangs hat and scarf, walks up to me with a paper grocery bag filled with cans.

  “Thank you so much.” I crouch into as deep of a squat as my layered legs can go. My voice shifts into my peppy customer service voice. “This is so nice of you. Are you so excited for the game today?”

  “Yeah! We’re gonna kick Arizona’s butt!” he yells, giving me an unsolicited high five that stings some of the feeling back into my numb limbs.

  “Heck yes they are! Those other guys aren’t even going to know what to do in this cold weather, buncha warm-weather babies.” Note to self, check prices for Arizona trip. “Who’s your favorite Mustang?”

  He unzips his jacket despite his dad’s protest and the snowflakes that are beginning to fall. “Maxwell Lewis!” He bounces up and down on his toes, color rising in his already rosy cheeks. “All the kids in my class all wanna be the quarterback, but not me. Well, my mom and dad will only let me play flag football, but even in flag, I always love defense. I got eight interceptions last season.”

  Holy cow. I thought Aviana talked fast.

  “Eight?” I force my eyes wide like I have any clue what I’m talking about. “That’s incredible, dude!” I raise my hand and he gives me another glove-padded high five.

  “Thanks! It was the most on my team and—” He starts to tell me more, but his dad steps in.

  “All right, bud, I think we better get inside and find some of that cocoa before kickoff, don’t you think?”

  The kid was starting to pout until he heard “cocoa,” and then I was nothing but a long-forgotten memory.

  “Yes! Cocoa!” He turns on his boot and speed walks away.

  “I wish I could say that was the first time hot chocolate has been more appealing than me, but it’s not,” I say to Vince, who, even though it’s freezing, is still wearing his usual uniform of jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball hat.

  He doesn’t pull his face away from the camera to respond. “Same, Brynn. Same.”

  Because Love the Player was so successful, they decided to film during the entire season. They aren’t allowed inside of the stadium, that’s the only hard line the Mustangs drew. All of the footage they use on the show from the games comes from the flip cameras they gave all the cast members—so filming right outside of the doors while the women were all dolled up in their gear and talking with fans is—I assume—the production equivalent of an orgasm.

  “See, I knew you’d be great at this,” Vonnie chimes in after sliding a twenty-dollar bill into the giant white bucket for cash donations. “You were so focused on the little boy, you didn’t even notice the dad drop cash in here while you were talking.”

  She’s right, I didn’t see that. But she’s also right because I also knew I’d be pretty good at this. Again, I own a bar. Interacting with strangers is literally my livelihood. Being able to give back is just the icing on the cake. I’m not lying about hating the cold though. I really hate the freaking cold.

  “I mean, I only agreed because I knew you guys needed me.” I gesture to Jacqueline in her (faux) fur-lined earmuffs and navy peacoat, her cable-knit socks sticking out of her boots—a look that only a real-life supermodel could wear and not look ridiculous. “Without me, your approachability level is a negative fifty-two. I even the score.”

  Just as I say that, two guys with no shirts and a blood alcohol level that has to be nearing deadly levels run straight to Jac. “Can we take a picture with you?” the future pneumonia victim with an orange-painted face asks.

  “Please,” his equally idiotic friend with the blue face—hopefully from paint and not because he’s turning into an icicle—says. “We’re your biggest fans.”

  Ew.

  Gross.

  I can only imagine the things they have done to Jac’s pictures. Suddenly, I feel a little bad for how beautiful she is.

  “Did you bring any cans?” She changes in front of my eyes from the shy, quiet woman I’ve grown to love into her sexy, runway-ready alter ego.

  “No, but . . .” The blue face guy’s head moves back and forth between Jac and his friend with a look of sheer panic peeking out behind his drunk eyes.

  “There’s a bucket for cash donations.” She points to the bucket and Vonnie models it like she’s on The Price Is Right. “If you make a donation, I’ll take a picture with you.”

  She barely manages to finish the sentence before the guys almost bowl me over to throw their money in.

  “See,” I say to Vonnie once I’ve regained my balance. “What would you do without me?”

  “I’d have to find a side hustle to pay for my martini habit, that’s for damn sure.” She winks and then plasters on a smile when more fans start to approach with bags and boxes of canned goods.

  “Thank you,” I say between clenched teeth, grabbing a box that I did not expect to be this heavy. “Holy crap.” I grunt and hope that nobody’s filming me because I’m pretty sure I just pulled a muscle or two.

  “Brynnnnn!” I hear called in the distance and use that as an excuse to give up on this box.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Vonnie narrows her eyes at Eloise’s incoming form, but she does it without letting her smile falter. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the tiniest bit terrifying. In that moment, I see her serial killer quality. “I thought she went away.”

  “I told you I was with her a few weeks ago. Just give her a chance, I think you’ll actually really like her.” I rush the words out before Eloise makes it to us.

  “I’ll try.”

  “I don’t think I believe you.” I want to say more, but before I can, Eloise is standing in front of me, looking her normal polished and gorgeous self. “Hey! How’ve you been?”

  “I’m good.” She smiles, but I can see a hint of concern lingering on her face. Not surprising since the last time we saw each other I was drowning my sorrows in margaritas. “How are you? Are you an official Lady Mustang now?”

  “No,” I say, but I don’t think she can hear it over Jac and Vonnie shouting, “Yes!” in perfect synchronization and scaring the group of drunk twentysomethings in the middle of a rousing rendition of a song that I’m not hip enough to know the name of.

  The concern is pushed off her face as her smile grows. “I knew it! I couldn’t tell you the night we were together because . . . well, you know. But you guys look so good together and every time you hear his name, your eyes go all soft.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “They do not.”

  “They so do!” Eloise’s voice rises about three decibels.

  “Soft,” Jacqueline repeats, like she’s testing the word. “That’s exactly it.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” I look between the two gorgeous blondes in front of me. “I look at him the same way I look at you.”

  “She’s right,” Vonnie says like it physically pains her. “Your eyes turn to liquid every time you see him.”

  Eloise nods her head rapidly, her long blond hair bouncy beneath her Mustangs beanie, and holds up an expectant hand toward Vonnie. I can’t tell if she’s just powering through Vonnie’s cold shoulder or if she really just doesn’t notice that Vonnie isn’t running for president of her fan club anytime soon.

  Vonnie doesn’t hesitate at all as she slaps her wool glove against Eloise’
s. “Who’d you come to the game with?” she asks Eloise.

  Wait . . . what?

  “My dad and Paul.” Eloise rolls her eyes and points to the surly old men checking their watches. “I don’t think they even like football, I’m pretty sure they just like telling people they have tickets.”

  “My boys stayed home because of this . . .” Vonnie points to the pile of cans and the money bucket. “So I have plenty of extra room in the box if you want to join us.”

  Okay? Has hell frozen over along with the Denver metro area?

  “Really?” Eloise voices the question I’m thinking.

  “Yeah, really.” Vonnie shrugs. “Plus, it’s been like pulling teeth getting this one”—she points her thumb at me—“to tell us about Max’s fine-ass, handcuff-wielding brother. Promise you won’t be stingy on the details?”

  Something that I can’t read crosses Eloise’s face and her smile fades. But by the time I blink, it’s gone and she’s walking away to tell her dad to enjoy the game without her.

  “What just happened?” Jac asks before me, and I know that I didn’t just imagine everything.

  “I like her.” Vonnie shrugs her shoulders and turns to greet more fans. “Thank you so much,” she says as she adds more cans to the pile/sad attempt of a pyramid we have going.

  “Since when?” I ask.

  “Would you mind taking a picture with us?” a woman who has to be a solid ten years younger than me with a bun and UGGs asks me.

  ME!

  “Ummm, I’m sorry.” I wave Jacqueline over. “I think you mean her?”

  Never in my life did I think I’d get mistaken for a supermodel, especially when my nose is most likely in serious competition with Rudolph for whose nose is brighter—even though I’ve got the frozen-snot title on lock. I might have complained for the last hour and a half, but now I will go home and write in my diary (that I will buy on the way home) that today is the best day of my entire life. You know, next to sex with Maxwell and opening day at HERS.

  “Ummm . . .” my style sister says as Jacqueline approaches. “I mean, we totally love Jacqueline, but you’re Brynn Sterling, right?”

  My head jerks back in surprise and welcome heat floods my freezing face. “Uh? Yeah. I am.”

  “Oh my god. I just love you.” She leans in and gives me a dreaded hug that suddenly, coming from a random young woman who knows who I am, doesn’t seem so dreadful. “I’m a senior at Metro. I’m a brewery operations major and you are my idol. What you have done for women in the Denver bar scene has literally been life changing for me.”

  “It’s true,” one of the people in her group says. “You’re like her LeBron James.”

  “Shut up!” she hisses beneath her breath. “I mean, she’s not wrong though. I was a nursing major. I hate blood and was probably going to fail, but my parents both convinced me it was the smartest option. But then I read the article on you in Westword and you talked about women wanting to have quality beer and a space to go where we were celebrated instead of used. It was my aha moment. I mean, my parents stopped paying for my school, but now I’m studying something I’m passionate about.”

  “I . . . um . . . I, wow.” I try to organize the millions of thoughts colliding in my head. “I don’t even know what to say. I mean, thank you.”

  I opened a bar.

  A cute bar that I love. But a bar. Yes, it’s given me the family and community I’ve always wanted, but I never thought of HERS doing anything besides giving women a night out with good drinks and a fun atmosphere. That’s it.

  Never. Not on a single vision board did I imagine this happening.

  “No, thank you,” she says.

  We both look at her friend aiming a phone in our direction and smile.

  “Do you have a pen?” I ask, silently cursing Vonnie for convincing me to leave my purse in her car.

  “Ummm . . .” She opens her small purse and starts digging around. “Sorry.” She aims an embarrassed smile my way. “I thought a small purse would help, but I still have the same amount of crap I had in my big purse, just shoved inside here. Ah!” She holds up her hand with the kind of dramatic flair that I really appreciate. “I knew I had one.”

  “Okay.” I start to write on the scrap of paper I had crumpled inside of my coat pocket, realizing that we all have smartphones and this entire scene was completely unnecessary. Oh well! Too late to turn back now. “I’m writing down my number and my email. If you need . . . Crap!” I cringe at how ridiculous I sound. “I didn’t even get your name!”

  “Dani.” She makes the face I’m sure I just made. “Well, Danielle, but everyone calls me Dani.”

  “Well, Dani, if you need a part-time job or internship or anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out.” I hand her the piece of paper. “There aren’t many of us in this industry, so we have to stick together.”

  Dani eyes the paper like I just handed her a bar of gold. “Thank you.” She stares at the paper until one of her friends not so subtly clears their throat. “Oh. Right! Um, my friend wants to know if you are . . . um . . . you know, if—”

  “Oh my god. Are you really dating Maxwell Lewis?” Dani’s friend asks.

  My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. I mean, I know Denver is small and all, but I didn’t realize we were already news. But I think the thing that surprises me most is how excited I am to squeal to the world that Maxwell Lewis is my man. “Yeah, I am.” My lips are so numb from the cold that I don’t even notice I’m biting it until Eloise reappears.

  “Soft eyes and a lip bite? She’s definitely thinking about Max.”

  Geez! All this crap from Eloise and she isn’t even a freaking Lady Mustang!

  Thirty-three

  “Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” Maxwell asks for the hundredth time.

  It’s the first round of playoffs this weekend. But because the Mustangs have Maxwell—and some other quality players, I guess—they won their division and were granted a bye game during the first week. Which is a thing and I totally knew it and Charli didn’t have to explain it to me at all. Because of the bye, Maxwell has the weekend off, and when I found that out, nothing could stop me from ditching my responsibilities and dragging Maxwell out of Denver.

  The food drive was a bit of a wakeup call for me, and suddenly, I didn’t feel comfortable talking about him behind the bar, or giving him a quick kiss on the sidewalk. The streets were watching and I got hit with a bad case of stage fright.

  “You know what?” I chance a quick glare at him as we hit the base of the foothills. “You’re worse than Ace. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” I jab a thumb to the back seat. “It’s not a superlong drive, but I brought snacks in case you get hungry.”

  He grabs the bag of baby carrots I packed as an afterthought for the hummus I stuck in the cooler and starts eating them . . . without the hummus.

  “What are you doing?” I have to beat back the urge to pull to the shoulder of the highway.

  His eyebrows scrunch together, the glare off the bright, snow-covered boulders lining the highway blinding him temporarily. “Uh . . . eating a carrot?”

  “Yeah, I know.” I roll my eyes, but he can’t see, because unlike him, I didn’t forget my sunglasses. “Put them back.”

  He starts to fold the top of the bag over, but doesn’t look any less confused. “You just told me I could eat the food you packed.”

  “Not the carrots.” I mean, what is he not understanding? “You can’t eat carrots in the car on a road trip. Eat the chips or candy. Oh! Or wait, there’s a store up a little bit that has fudge, so many different fudges. We can get a sampling of all the flavors. But if you don’t want sweets, we can stop at Coney Island and get a hot dog, the food’s just okay, but it’s shaped like a giant hot dog, so I feel like atmosphere makes up for everything else.”

  “What are you talking
about?” Maxwell interrupts my rambling just as I was starting to find my way back to the topic.

  “No carrots, junk only while we’re in the car.” I really should’ve printed out a list of rules. “But, I am willing to concede one major road trip law.” I pause for dramatic effect and to rev up suspense, but I think all it actually does is make Maxwell reconsider ever getting in the car with me again. “You may take charge of the radio.” He doesn’t even say thank-you before he’s reaching for the aux cord (because yes, my car is too old for you to do it wirelessly) and pulling out his phone. “Wait!” I shout and accidentally honk my horn. “You are in charge under the condition that if you turn on trash, it must be changed.”

  “So I’m only in charge if I pick music you like?”

  He sounds a little confused, which I don’t understand. It makes perfect sense to me.

  “Exactly.” I focus on the road in front of me as snow begins to fall a little faster and the heavy fog that comes with climbing altitudes thickens. Thank goodness I had my snow tires put on yesterday.

  “So essentially, you’re in charge of the radio still?”

  “As long as you don’t turn on some podcast about rocket science or heavy metal, I’m sure we’ll be fine.” I sit up a little straighter. I’m not afraid to drive in the snow. Denver native, here. But I do respect it and its dangers. Also, could you imagine if I got into a car accident with Maxwell Lewis in the car before the playoffs? It would be like Marlee and the ice skating multiplied by a million.

  “Well, damn, Boss.” He clucks his tongue. “Those were my first two choices.”

  “Smart-ass,” I say through laughter. “Now shut up. I need to focus. Killing us would ruin my entire weekend.”

  * * *

  —

  LIKE EVERYTHING WITH Maxwell, his taste in music is perfect. So much so that I’m almost a little disappointed when the mountains part and the valley holding Buena Vista comes into view.

  Almost.

  “Holy shit,” Maxwell breathes. “Now that’s a view.”