Promise Me by Monica Alexander Page B

insane.
    Kirby, who’d trained me my first few shifts at Ray’s, had told me what to expect once football season started, but I guess I hadn’t believed her. But she’d been great the few times I’d gotten in the weeds, and she’d even made me stop to take a few bites of a pulled pork sandwich around one, since she could tell I was getting light-headed. I’d have to remember to eat a bigger breakfast when I worked on Sundays in the future.
    “You got the jocks,” she repeated.
    “Is that some restaurant term I’m not familiar with?” I questioned. “Because it sounds kind of like a disease. Is my section infected?”
    She laughed. “I knew I liked you, and yes, you can sort of think of it like being infected. The jocks are the worst, and we all hate when we have to wait on them.”
    “Oh, jocks,” I said in realization, finally getting that she was talking about people. “Like guys who play sports. That doesn’t sound so bad.”
    I started to make my way to my section, all the way at the back of the restaurant, sidestepping other servers and customers who were passing by. The place was seriously packed.
    “Well, I’m not sure they play sports,” Kirby said as she followed along behind me, “but they look like they do. And these six remind me of the jerks from my high school who thought they ruled the world because they played football.”
    “Ah, got it,” I said, remembering Kirby laughing at me when I’d commented on how big of a deal football seemed to our customers.
    She’d told me it wasn’t just our customers. It was everyone in the state of Texas. She said football was like a religion. Then she told me to watch Friday Night Lights. Apparently I’d understand it then.
    I’d told her I’d watch it, but I hadn’t exactly had much time to binge-watch any shows since I’d gotten to UT. Between work and school, I didn’t have a lot of free time. And Sara loved reality TV, so that was what was usually on when she was home.
    “So what’s the deal with these guys?” I asked Kirby.
    “They’re just loud and obnoxious, and they’ll totally flirt with you the whole time you’re serving them. They come in every Sunday. We all pretty much hope and pray they won’t get sat in our section. I’m assuming you got stuck with them because you’re new. And I actually feel kind of sorry for you, but at the same time I’m glad it’s you and not me. One of them has a thing for redheads, and he always makes a point to let me know it – again and again and again.”
    “I’ll be fine,” I assured her, because what she was describing didn’t sound all that bad.
    I’d handled worse more than a few times, and dealing with flirting had sort of come with the territory when I’d been bartending at Chili’s. I knew how to handle guys who’d had a few drinks and wanted to tell me I was hot. Most of the time they were harmless and just wanted attention.
    “I’m not sure you’ll be saying that after you’re done with them ,” Kirby warned me.
    “Do they tip well?”
    “Yeah, they do. They’re rich boys, so they all have their parents’ money to play with.”
    “Well, I won’t say no to a good tip.”
    “You might,” she warned me as I reached the table I’d gotten the drinks for.
    They were two couples, and all four of them were wearing Cowboy jerseys. The guys seemed to be glued to the TV closest to them.
    “I’ll be fine,” I told Kirby as I set the drinks down in front of each person and smiled at them. “Have you all decided what you want?”
    “I think we’re ready,” one of the women told me as I heard someone call out, “Hey sweetie?”
    I didn’t think it was directed at me, so I didn’t turn around, and focused my attention on the woman who was ordering.
    “Hey blondie?” I heard a few minutes later as I was taking the order of the last man at the table.
    “Told you,” Kirby said as she passed by me.
    I turned to look at her in confusion.
    “The jocks don’t like to