by Cassie Mae
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also by the Authors
Stage Kissed
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
About Kelley Lynn
About Cassie Mae
Also by Kelley Lynn
Also by Cassie Mae
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.
Stage Kissed
First Edition: Tulip Romance 2017
Second Edition: CookieLynn Publishing Services
Cassie Mae and Kelley Lynn
cassiemaeauthor.com
kger215.wixsite.com/kelley-lynn
Cover Design: Makeready Designs
Interior Design: CookieLynn Publishing Services
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2017 Cassie Mae
All rights reserved.
Copyrights/Trademarks for Stage Kissed
Toyota, Jamba Juice, Converse, PlayStation, Pop-Tart, Etch a Sketch, SOLO, The Big Bang Theory, Jell-O, Honda, Sharpie, Gatorade, National Honor Society, Academic Decathlon, The Bachelor, Google, Lifetime, Ford, Netflix, Robot Wars
Also by Kelley Lynn
The Princess and the Thief
Rainbows and Raindrops
Half Truths and Absolutes
Fraction of Stone
Fraction of Hope
Fraction of Earth
Fraction of Faith
One Wish Away
Road to Somewhere
Also by Cassie Mae
Reasons I Fell for the Funny Fat Friend
You Can’t Catch Me
How to Date a Nerd
How to Seduce a Band Geek
How to Hook a Bookworm
Friday Night Alibi
Switched
Pillowtalk
Flirty Thirty
The Princess and the Pizza Man
Make Lemonade
Unexpectedly You
Doing It for Love
No Interest in Love
Crazy About Love
To everyone who finds time for those they love.
“She’s out cold.”
The words float around my ears. I can already feel the lump forming over my right eye where that chick intentionally elbowed me. She’ll get hers. Just not when a referee is watching, and I might get called for a foul.
“Kate? Kate!” There’s a short pause and my teammate yells away from me. “Coach!”
Pounding of feet, and then the low monotone which belongs to none other than the person whose voice I hear every morning at six AM practice.
“Ryan? You there, Ryan?” He gently shakes my shoulder and all the pieces fall into place.
First basketball tournament of junior year.
Championship game.
Tied with less than a minute to go.
“I’m here. I’m here,” I mumble as I open my eyes. The lights of the gym are brighter than they were before I hit the ground. Speaking of… I rub the back of my head and wince as I sit up. I’ll have a knob the size of the one forming over my eye in no time.
While my eyes adjust I find Vanessa, the tiny terror always charged with defending me when we play Central. Actually, she’s been assigned to guard me since we were ten and in club ball. She often plays dirty—pulling my jersey, punching my kidney—but elbowing me in the face is a new one.
“Ryan, look at me.” Coach turns my shoulders so I face him. “You hit your head?”
I nod. “But I’m okay.”
Coach calls the personal trainer over who runs through the concussion protocol even though I’m fine. After she does her thing and tells the coach I’m good to go, Brit helps me up.
The whistle blows and the ref walks out with the ball on his hip. “If everyone is okay here, let’s get going.” His gaze lingers on me for a few seconds until I give him a slight nod. “All right then. Two shots, Ryan—for the technical foul.”
I wipe the sweat from my hands onto my shorts and follow Jerry to the line. He’s been reffing the Varsity games since I was a freshman. A real nice guy, though sometimes I wonder how long it’s been since he got the prescription on his glasses checked.
Hard exhale. Deep inhale. Tied with twenty seconds to go. These two shots are huge.
I again look at Vanessa, standing with her hip jutting out, watching my every move as I approach the free-throw line. Behind her in the stands are my parents and two younger sisters. Dad gives me a fist pump while Mom mouths, “Are you okay?”
I’ll let her know in twenty seconds.
Jerry hands me the ball, which fits so perfectly in my hands. A few dribbles on the hardwood. Spin in my hands. Few more firm bounces. The same pattern for every free throw I’ve taken. I know how to do this.
I will make these.
A hush falls on the gym as I bend my knees and release. There’s almost no sound when it swooshes through the net.
The crowd on the right side of the gym springs to its feet, cheering echoing off the walls, my teammates the loudest.
“Yeah, Ryan! One more, Ryan! Come on, girl! You’ve got this!”
Jerry bounces the ball back to me. Same set up. Some dribbles, a spin, and a few more. Don’t think about what this means. Don’t think about everyone watching. It’s just another free throw.
The gym explodes with action once the second shot falls through the hoop.
Coach yells over the commotion, “Play four! Run play four! Brit, inbound the ball! Move those feet! Move those feet!”
Shoes screech against the floor as we put the play into motion. Vanessa’s got the back of my shirt, not anything noticeable. I step left, sprint right, and receive the ball from Brit.
Vanessa is on top of me so I take a few hard dribbles to her right, her weaker side. It gives me a step or two of space, but in a moment she’s on top of me again. She wants me to pass the ball so someone else will take the free throws when they’re fouled.
Vanessa reaches to steal. I spin around, the ball flying with me, and pass it to Brit down in the key, near the hoop. She boxes out her defender and takes the easy shot. The whistle blows due to the blatant over-the-back foul.
After Brit makes her two free throws, there’s little Central can do to overcome the five point gap in ten seconds. The buzzer so
unds, and our team jumps up from the bench to swarm the five of us on the court.
One tournament down. First place finish. So far our team is living up to the hype.
“Great job, Ryan.” Coach slaps my back and moves on to do the same for everyone on our team.
“How’s the eye, lady?” Brit runs her sweaty hand over my skin, and I jerk away.
“It’s fine. Get your gross hands off my face.”
Her mouth opens into her fake hurt expression. She runs her hand through her highlighted hair and tries to wipe it on my face.
“Oh! Brit! No, no, no!” I try to run away, but the girl is six feet with long arms. My five-foot-ten self doesn’t get out of her arm’s reach. She wraps me up, with my back against her front, and rubs her dripping forehead all over my back and neck.
The whole team stands around us laughing. Brit’s form of torture doesn’t stop until Coach brings the trophy over, our parents close behind.
“Hey there, Egg Head. Great game.” Brit’s dad hands me a bag of ice. I place it over my eye as I shake his hand.
“Thanks, Mr. Wales.”
Dad taps my shoulder, keeping his distance, as if my sweat could contaminate him. “That Vanessa always is a pistol. Great job, honey.”
Mom’s not afraid of sweat. She swoops in for the hug and talks into my ear. “Maybe you could be a little less aggressive. You worry me.”
She has that “I’m trying to sound like I’m teasing but I’m really serious” voice. I pull away. “Vanessa was the one who elbowed me, Mom.”
“Come now,” Dad says, “you two were going at it all game.”
Brit and I share a look because we know it’s true.
“Bye, Ryan! Bye, Wales!” Several of the girls wave to us as they exit the gym.
“Great job, guys. Good tournament.” I wave back and turn to the two smaller girls next to me. Ginny, my middle sister, isn’t really so small anymore. At thirteen years old and five-foot-six, she might surpass me some day.
All I can see of Rebecca is the top of her head, since her eyes are glued to her phone. It’s amazing how much ten-year-olds have to say to friends they see at least five days a week. I ruffle her hair, which causes her to peel her eyes away for a mere second to glare at me.
“What’d you think, Ginny?” I ask the sister who’s not conversing with technology.
Her soft brown eyes get mischievous. “I think you’re going to have a third eye tomorrow morning.”
I take the ice off the bump and wince. “I meant about the game, dork,” I say, gingerly touching my battle wound.
Ginny shrugs. “It was a good game. Your shot was off in the first half but came on in the second. You did okay.”
My eyebrows rise; pain shoots through my head. I’m about to make a comment about not being very kind to her sister, but then I realize she’s right. The game wasn’t my best.
Dad steps forward and gestures with his head to the exit. “Well, Ginny, we have to get you to your game. Let’s move, slugger.”
My body goes numb. “Ginny’s game?” Ginny’s game isn’t till four. “What time is it?”
“It’s three fifteen and we’ve got a ways to go—”
“Three fifteen!” I shout, my head jerking to find the nearest clock. “Shit!”
“Kate. Language.” Mom scolds, her brown eyes hard.
“Sorry, but I’m late for work!” I yell as I sprint across the gym and shout over my shoulder. “Good luck at your games, girls! See you at home!”
In one jumbled movement I scoop my bag off the ground while waving goodbye to the few girls left from our team. I run to the parking lot, launch my bag into the passenger seat, and hit the gas on my super-old Toyota Corolla.
My eyes watch the usual spots where cops hide. The clock shows 3:22, and I put just a little more gas into the engine. Harry is going to be so mad.
The game was supposed to be done at 2:15. I knew we were running late, since that always happens at tournaments, but an hour late? How long was my injury break?
At a red light, I pull my disgustingly sweaty shorts off, checking to make sure the road is deserted. I slide my uniform pants on, get one shoe on, and tie the left one as the light turns green. I press the gas pedal, make a turn and, when I hit a straight road, flip my jersey off and pull the Jamba Juice shirt over my head.
The windows are open for the last five minutes of the drive. I shake out my hair and try to fluff it with my fingers. A few squirts of body spray and a look in the review mirror almost reveal a girl who didn’t just play two basketball games.
There’s the typical tha-thunk when I speed into the Jamba Juice parking lot, catching the bottom of my car on a bump in the pavement. I fly out of my vehicle and rush through the entry door.
Every person in the place turns to watch me enter through the front of the store and walk to the back. As nonchalantly as I can, I finish putting my hair into a ponytail, give a few waves to my fellow coworkers, and make my way to the time clock. Hopefully, I can avoid the lecture from Harry and just get started with my shift.
“Kate, I’d say you’re late, but that would be an understatement.”
I finish punching in, and then turn to face Harry. He’s about two inches shorter than me, balding on the top of his head, and wears glasses from a few generations ago. I think we would get along, if I wasn’t always late.
“I’m sorry, Harry. The tournament went a lot longer than I thought. I swear I would have called if I knew—”
Harry holds his hand up, and then runs it under his glasses and down his face. He knows it, too. He knows I’m a great employee. When I’m here.
“I’m not sure why you’re so adamant about squeezing a job into your life. It seems pretty busy the way it is—”
“I don’t want my parents paying for everything. All my sports, and gas, and hotels for when we have away tournaments. They have two other kids, so—”
Harry sighs his “that’s enough” sigh, so I stop talking.
“We’ll talk about this later, but for now I have a job for you.” He gestures to a guy with shaggy brown hair who’s standing behind him. “This is Seth. He starts work today, and it’s your job to train him.”
I take a step forward and hold out my hand. “I’m Kate. It’s nice to meet you.” As I say this, I get the feeling I’m not really meeting Seth—not for the first time, at least. I’m pretty sure he goes to my school; he might even have been in my math class once. East is such a large school that it’s hard to remember.
Seth is probably only an inch or two shorter than me, but the way he’s standing makes him feel a whole foot shorter. His shoulders hunch, eyes skirting the room. He’s nervous, or out of place, or something. But it’s really cute. Once he peels his gaze off the ground, his gray eyes meet mine, and I show him the biggest smile I can.
“H-Hi, Kate. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
The first words out of my mouth to the famous Kate Ryan tremble as our sweaty fingers slide around each other in an awkward handshake. I’m sure she has a perfectly good reason for being sweaty—I know she just came from a game—but me? Yeah, I don’t deal with people real well.
Especially someone like Kate, who is a tier above Prom Queen on the social hierarchy. Acting like I don’t know her when, in fact, everyone knows her makes my body go, “Have a good dose of sweat! That’ll help!”
Once our hands drop, Harry slaps a folder into Kate’s open palm. “Make sure he knows the recipes, then train him on the register.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Kate says, her voice somewhat breathless, but confident. Always confident, from what I know of her. She puts on a wide smile as Harry goes into his office. I shift my weight to my other foot, then yank on my Jamba Juice visor.
“Well, best way to learn these suckers is to dive right in.” She waves me over to the blenders, setting the folder down on the counter and opening it up. “Let’s start with our most popular one, Caribbean Passion.”
I nod, not knowing if sh
e’s talking to me or herself. She doesn’t seem to notice me floating behind her as she rambles off instructions and points at ingredients. She’s fast. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t trained anyone before, though, because she’s telling me things out of order. But I don’t ask any questions, just perk up my ears and grab all the information she throws at me.
When she gets to measuring ingredients, my mental gears start working overtime. According to the fluid ounces in the blender she’s demonstrating with, if I were to put in the amount of fruit juice instructed, I’d have slightly less than a quarter-cup of product left in the blender after serving it to the customer, which would waste about 18 cents. Therefore, assuming that all of the smoothies have similar waste, after a week of serving an average of…say, 700 small smoothies a week, I’ll have wasted over $120 in profit. I won’t question her training, but I’m thinking maybe the instructions in the folder are wrong.
Once the algebraic expression forms itself in my mind, I can’t shut it off. Probably why I’m such a social pariah. I feel the “math expression” tug on my face, which my buddy Dylan says makes me look like I’ve eaten something sour.
Kate sets the blender down and starts it, smiling at me again and humming under her breath.
Well, maybe I did the math wrong. She probably knows what she’s doing.
After thirty seconds of blending, she lifts the lid and shakes the mixture into a sixteen-ounce cup, tapping the side of the blender to make sure there aren’t any spills. She’s well-practiced. Not a drop hits the counter.
But there is just under a quarter-cup left in the blender when she reaches the top of the cup.
“Okay, now you just put the lid on, unwrap half the straw, and stick it in. Make sure you call out the customer’s name really loud. It can get crazy in here.”
I nod, but my head is back on math, twisting the corners of my mouth. How much fruit juice should I add to make sure there isn’t any left over?
Kate waves a hand in front of my face. I blink a few times and snort out an unbelievably lame laugh.
“You still with me? Or do I need to show you again?”
I shake my head, but the look on my face must say something different than what I’m thinking. Really, I’m not confused about the process. It’s easy. But it’s the sludge hanging out in the blender that’s bothering me. What a waste of food and profit. I don’t understand how people can be so wasteful when there’s such an easy fix.