Lover's Game (South Bay Soundtracks Book 3)

by Amelia Stone

  LOVER’S GAME

  Copyright © 2018 Amelia Stone

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: Amy Hoye

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or advertisement.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, brands, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. (Especially the North Babylon Little League team. Sorry for what I fictionally put you through. Except you, Tim. Fuck you.) Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Piracy is wrong. You might think, oh, I’m such a badass over here with my eyepatch and stolen copy of this awesome book. You’re not. Paying for books is badass. Stealing them from hardworking authors who are just trying to fund their Milk Duds habits? That’s what bilge rats do. Don’t be a bilge rat. Don’t pirate other people’s art.

  For Amy Lyn, my first reader and fan. You never gave up on Krista and Seth.

  Or me.

  I will be forever grateful for that.

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  A Message from Mal

  Opening Act

  Track One

  Track Two

  Interlude

  Track Three

  Track Four

  Interlude

  Track Five

  Track Six

  Interlude

  Track Seven

  Track Eight

  Track Nine

  Track Ten

  Interlude

  Track Eleven

  Track Twelve

  Track Thirteen

  Track Fourteen

  Track Fifteen

  Track Sixteen

  Interlude

  Track Seventeen

  Track Eighteen

  Track Nineteen

  Track Twenty

  Encore

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Social Media Links

  Also by Amelia Stone

  The South Bay Soundtracks series is based on a simple premise: that the music we love provides the soundtrack to our lives. Each book in the series features a themed playlist drawn from the characters and the story, and listening to it will enhance the reading experience.

  Lover’s Game is the story of Krista and Seth, two childhood friends who battle through years of miscommunications and heartache to become everything to each other. The story travels through time, and the soundtrack follows along. To listen along with the book, check out this playlist on Spotify.

  My name is Captain Malcolm Reynolds, AKA Mal. I am mostly a really good kitty, but sometimes I like to help my mom write. And by help my mom write, I mean I like to walk all over her keyboard and fuck up her manuscript.

  She’s done her best to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be in this book. But if something looks funny, it’s probably my fault. #sorrynotsorry

  Please let my mom know if something seems amiss by messaging her on social media using the links in the back of the book, or by emailing her at writeameliastone@gmail.com.

  The first day of kindergarten was going to be the absolute worst day of my life, if my big sisters were right. And unfortunately for me, they usually were.

  Lindsay, who was fifteen and obviously knew everything, had told me the teacher locked the undersized kids in closets and made them eat nothing but broccoli until they got bigger. Since I’d been told for nearly all of my five-and-three-quarters years that I was “small for my age” – by my parents, my Nana, my doctor, my cousins, and especially my baby sister Jessica, who was three whole inches taller than me, even though she was younger! – I was terrified.

  Also, broccoli was gross.

  Phoebe, who was ten and knew a little bit less than Lindsay, but still definitely more than me, told me that anyone who liked Rugrats would get held back. Twice. Since my favorite thing to wear was my blue shirt that looked just like Chuckie Finster’s – it had the red collar and the planet and everything! – I was nervous.

  Would they look at me, even when I was in my school uniform, and just, like, know?

  As for Jess, well, she was thrilled to be going to kindergarten. She would get to see her friends all day instead of only half the day, like we did in pre-k. And she would make new friends, too, because in kindergarten we would get to sit in the cafeteria at lunch, so she’d get to hang out with all the older kids.

  Still, I was torn. On the one hand, I would probably be forced to eat icky broccoli and have to repeat the whole year over again, if my sisters were telling the truth. And I would be in the same class as Jess, which was totally unfair. It wasn’t my fault we’d been born in the same year, ten months apart. She was the baby.

  On the other hand, there might be new books. I loved to read, since no one could limit how many books I read but me. I actually loved to play video games the most, because they were colorful and fun and I could make up stories about them, like that King K. Rool was secretly in love with Donkey Kong the whole time, and only stole his bananas to get his attention. He always looked so sad when he was finally beaten, and I figured that was because Donkey Kong didn’t love him back.

  But I couldn’t play video games as much as I wanted to, because they belonged to my big sisters, who didn’t like that I beat Donkey Kong Country or Tekken faster than they did, and told me I couldn’t play anymore. I sometimes did it anyway when they weren’t home, but I couldn’t save my games ever, because then I’d get caught.

  Books were the next best thing. I could read, and imagine the scenes in my mind, and it was almost as good as a video game. I was hoping they’d have new books in kindergarten, ones I’d never even heard of. I’d read all the ones we had at home, and all the ones in the picture book section in the library, and even some of the chapter books like Amelia Bedelia and Ramona and Beezus. Something new to read would be awesome.

  And there might be new kids in my class, too, kids I hadn’t already met at pre-k or at my swimming lessons at the beach last summer. Maybe I’d even make a friend this year. Most of the other kids I’d met had teased me because I was short and chubby and wore glasses and had crazy hair. They liked Jess, who was tall and pretty and funny. Her hair was all shiny and wavy, too. I was just Jess’s weird sister.

  But kindergarten would be better.

  Maybe.

  It had to be better.

  I mean, I was only an hour in, but so far, things were okay. I hadn’t even seen any vegetables, and no one had made fun of me yet. We made name tags for our desks with glue and glitter and crayons, and the teacher smiled when she said how even my letters were. My S was even facing the right way! All in all, kindergarten was much better than I’d expected.

  And then, finally, it was time for story circle.

  I sat criss-cross-apple-sauce on the bright blue carpet. My skirt puddled on the floor because it was too long on me, but I didn’t care about that. My whole body bounced in excitement as I watched the teacher turn and pull a book from the shelf behind her. I held my breath as I waited to see which book she would read us.

/>   Oh. It was Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. I’d read that one already. We had an old beat-up copy at home. It used to be Phoebe’s, and then she gave it to me, and then I gave it to Jess, who forgot about it five seconds later, when she ran outside to play in Mom’s garden like always. But I’d read it a million or so times before I gave it to my baby sister, and I knew it by heart by now.

  But you know what? That was okay. Tomorrow the teacher might have another book, one I didn’t know. I would just wait and see.

  Just as we got to the part about O going alley-oop, I felt someone pulling on my hair. Hard.

  “Ow,” I hissed. Then I turned around to see who had done it, because I was going to tell whoever it was that it wasn’t okay to touch people without asking, just like my daddy had told me to.

  But then I froze.

  Oh. Oh.

  There was a boy sitting behind me, a boy I was absolutely positive I’d never seen before. I would remember him. He had messy black hair and reddish-brown skin like the clay pots my mom grew herbs in. Oh, and he had the prettiest dark brown eyes I’d ever seen! They looked warm, and friendly, like he was really happy to see me.

  And he was smiling at me, too. I noticed that his two front teeth were missing, which was weird, because my mom said I wouldn’t start getting my big girl teeth until next year, probably. But even with the missing teeth, he was pretty.

  He was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.

  “Your hair is cool,” he said, leaning forward and taking one of my dark red curls between his fingers. He smelled like pickles.

  I loved pickles.

  I stared at him for a moment, because I couldn’t talk right then. What would I even say, anyway? A beautiful boy said my hair was cool. Not weird, or ugly, or crazy. He said it was cool.

  “Wanna be my friend?” he asked, giving me another toothless smile.

  Slowly, I nodded, still not able to speak. A friend. A friend who was a boy. A friend who thought I was cool. All new things, to me.

  He blinked, and I noticed that his eyelashes were really long and dark. Mine were so pale that you couldn’t even see them unless the light was just right. But his were pretty, standing out against his cheeks all dark and thick. It was the first time I’d ever noticed a boy’s eyelashes, and I wondered if they all looked like that. Something told me they didn’t, that this boy’s eyelashes were the prettiest.

  Something told me this boy was special.

  “What’s your name?” His brown eyes widened as he waited for me to answer.

  I swallowed. “Krista.” I blinked a few more times. “I’m Krista.”

  “Eyes front, everyone,” the teacher called out, and my head whipped back around. She was giving me a stern look as she closed the book. Oh wow. I hadn’t even noticed she’d finished reading to us. I hung my head as she led us through the ABC song.

  But behind me, I heard the boy giggle, and I snuck another look at him. He was still smiling at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “My name’s Seth,” he whispered. He winked at me, reaching forward and pulling on my hair again, softer this time. Then he watched as it bounced back into place.

  The teacher called for attention again, and I turned back to watch her, but I wasn’t listening now. I felt like bees were buzzing around in my tummy, flitting up to my heart and then my head and making me feel dizzy, like I did when I would spin and spin and spin, around and around and around again until I fell.

  I had a friend.

  Seth. I had a friend named Seth.

  “I can’t believe you don’t want to go.”

  Ellie Morris’s green eyes were widened in reproach, a frown firmly etched on her normally smiling face as she sat across my desk from me. When I didn’t immediately relent, she laid the last bite of her sandwich down, crossed her arms, and leaned back in her chair like she was digging in for a fight.

  Probably because she knew she’d get one from me on this particular topic.

  I shook my head firmly. “How many times do I have to say it before you’ll believe me?”

  “Krista,” she began, in that reasonable, persuasive tone she always took when she was trying to convince me to stop being a crazy person. “It’s your ten year high school reunion. You have to go!”

  I frowned at her. “I do not have to go, Ell. Not to this.”

  Especially not when the thought of attending a reunion of St. Erasmus High School’s Class of 2008 made my stomach cramp like I’d just eaten half a dozen marshmallow Peeps in the span of about ninety seconds.

  “But it would be so much fun!”

  It wouldn’t, my internal Ron Howard voiceover warned me.

  “Yeah, no. I made my decision years ago.”

  If anything, I’d decided not to attend any and all class reunions long before I even graduated high school. Thirteen years in the academic equivalent of Tartarus had made one thing crystal freaking clear to me: I never wanted to see any of those people again.

  “You’re not going to change my mind,” I concluded.

  “But don’t you want all your old friends to see the hot new you?” She started bouncing in her seat at the idea, and her foot rhythmically tapped the leg of my desk in time with her body. “Well, the hot you that you’ve been for the last nine-and-a-half years, anyway.”

  “I didn’t have friends in high school.” My frown deepened as I wondered when her generally excellent memory had become so selective. “We talked about this.”

  Well, I had one friend. But he wasn’t my friend anymore, so it was hardly worth mentioning.

  “Okay, fine. Don’t you want all those assholes who made fun of you to see the hot new you? Take a W for the nerds-who-glowed-up team?” She grinned at me like it was the best idea ever.

  “‘Glowed up?’” I made a face. “That’s not even a word.”

  She ignored that. “Come on, Krista. I bet you’re secretly dying to go. Now’s your chance to make up for never being Homecoming Queen, or Spring Fling Princess, or cheerleading captain, or whatever.”

  I snorted. The idea of me being captain of my high school cheerleading team – a position that required both athletic prowess and popularity, two qualities I had never in my life possessed – was ludicrous.

  Almost as ludicrous as the idea I’d want to be cheerleading captain, or any of the other things the deluded woman sitting across from me had just mentioned.

  Ellie ignored my protest once again. “But this is your one chance to finally be the belle of the ball!”

  I huffed out a breath, but otherwise made no answer. I was quickly becoming annoyed by this conversation. Usually when I said no in this office, that was the end of it. Being the co-founder and head of design at Golden Goddess Creative, one of the most successful video game makers in the world, had that kind of cachet.

  But Ellie wasn’t one of my employees. She was my best friend, and she was here to have lunch with me, as we did every Tuesday afternoon. The dregs of our sandwiches, pickles, and chips from the corner deli were spread out over the desk between us.

  Okay, so I’d had a salad instead of my usual Reuben. And there were no pickle remains. I loved pickles. I always got extras, and I usually ate Ellie’s, too.

  The road to Elysium, if you want to know, is paved in delicious kosher dill pickles.

  Ellie took a sip of her water before continuing her campaign. “You’re going to be home that weekend anyway,” she pointed out.

  She had me there. I was planning to take a glorious ten days off from work to get ready for my younger sister Jess’s wedding, beginning the Friday before Memorial Day.

  “You might as well go to the reunion, too,” she added.

  “But there’s really no point in going. Aside from the fact that I hate that kind of thing on principle, I hate it a million times more in this instance.” I shook my head again. “Besides, I don’t want to see any of those people.”

  She gave me a shrewd look, and I couldn’t really blame her. We both knew that was a b
ig fat lie. There was one particular person I absolutely wanted to see – someone to whom I wouldn’t mind showing off the “hot new me,” if I were honest.

  But I hadn’t seen Seth Holt, former professional baseball player and best friend alike, since the day we graduated high school. Well, other than the rare times I would torture myself by watching his games on TV. I’d sit in the dark in my apartment, scarfing junk food, heckling the umpires, and hating myself.

  It was no more or less than I deserved, after what I’d done to him.

  “So don’t go for them,” Ellie continued, pulling me out of my self-loathing. “Go for you. Go to show off your rocking bod and killer wardrobe.”

  I let out another snort, looking down at my completely ordinary and unsexy outfit of jeans and a Golden Goddess tee shirt. Then I raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Well, not this, obviously.” She waved a hand over my ‘rocking bod,’ frowning in a disapproving kind of way.

  Which was unreasonable, if you ask me. I was totally presentable. The tee shirt was from our most recent Christmas party, so it was still relatively new and not-faded. And these jeans didn’t even have any holes in them, intentional or otherwise.

  “I mean all the amazing things I’ve picked out for you over the years,” she amended. “You know, the ones sitting at home in your closet, collecting moth balls.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes, somehow. I was Ellie’s favorite fashion doll, and she just loved to pick out new outfits for me for different hypothetical scenarios. Corporate Tycoon Krista. Beach Bunny Krista. Gamer Girl Krista. Ski Vacation Krista. Date Night Krista. I had an endless number of perfectly-accessorized personalities in my closet.

  I never wore any of them. I liked my jeans and tee shirts.

  But it seemed Ellie wanted to add Vindication for High School Injustices Krista to my repertoire. And I was not having it.

  “I am not going to that reunion just because you want to play dress up.” My tone was a little more petulant than I might have liked, but maybe that would help me get my point across.

  “I’m serious, Krista,” she said, shaking her head in exasperation at my mulishly unfashionable ways. “You are a major babe. You should march into that reunion and flaunt what your mama’s genes gave you.” She took another sip of her drink. “You know, like I’ve been trying to get you to do for nearly a decade.”