I’m nearly out of bounds. One good shove by a linebacker and I’m done, but Olynyk is there blocking for me. Up ahead at the twenty yard line I see a Seahawk closing fast, cutting across the field to take me down. I tuck the ball in hard against my side as I prepare for the hit, but out of nowhere there’s our tight end, Matthews, throwing his body into the guy. They collide in a heap on the line. I’m boxed in by the sideline and Olynyk. I’ve got nowhere to go to get around them. Nowhere but up.
I dig deeper, drive harder, and when I’m two steps from the mound on the ground in front of me, I launch into the air over the top of them. Matthews ties the guy up so he can’t touch me, and I hit the ground running on the other side of them. I’ve lost my coverage from Olynyk, but it doesn’t matter. I’m fifteen yards out. Ten. Five.
Arms reach around my waist, stuttering my run. I trip and tumble, nearly going down.
Three yards. Two.
The lineman’s arms slide down my body. They lasso my legs. Fast as I am, even I can’t run without feet. I’m going down.
One.
I reach out as far as I can with the ball in my hand. I hit the ground hard, my sight going momentarily black as the air rushes out of my lungs in a hard whoosh. But I don’t have to see. I only have to hear.
Every Kodiak in the stadium is on their feet, their cries of victory muffled through my helmet, but I can still hear them. Even over the thunder of feet pounding toward me, I drink them in and taste the delicious sweet tang on my tongue.
Pure, unadulterated adoration.
This is my mana.
This is my drug.
This is the shit that gets me off.
CHAPTER TWO
LILLY
November 9th
Mad Batter Bakery
Los Angeles, CA
Cupcakes are heavy. You wouldn’t think so because when you’re holding one they feel light as air. You think the heaviest thing about them is their calorie count. But that’s one. Put thirty of them on a metal tray and suddenly they weigh a ton. Suddenly all that butter, flour, and egg starts to get real.
I live that reality while I carry another tray out the back of the bakery, the cold metal resting frigid on my naked forearms. Light flares like a flashbulb in my eyes as I leave the darkness inside and step blindly into the winter morning.
“Whoa, coming through!”
I sidestep to the right, away from Rona’s voice. My eyes find focus just in time to catch her body breezing by me, disappearing inside.
“Are we going to have time?!” she calls frantically.
“Yes!” I laugh. “We’re going to be fine! Stop freaking out about it!”
I walk carefully into the alley where our delivery van waits with open doors. The exterior gleams white in the morning sun, deep purple in the shadows, and a rich, grassy green everywhere else. The Mad Batter logo, a bone white teacup filled to bursting with a purple frosted cupcake, beams at me happily. The sight makes my stomach turn.
I’ve been in the kitchen since four thirty this morning decorating cakes and cupcakes that we left cooling overnight. I haven’t eaten anything but the stray finger full of frosting to check the taste, and all of that sugar is sitting sickly sweet in my gut. Normally I would snag a croissant off one of the racks to balance it, but none of our regular items are out of the oven yet. With the prep for this catering job taking center stage we’re opening late today, and everything else has fallen hours behind. As the cupcakes vanish into the back of the van the kitchen sits uncommonly empty and expectant.
Rona follows me out with the last tray on her arms. “Tell me again what the schedule is.”
“I told you four times already.”
“Tell me five.”
I gingerly lift my tray above my head. I insert it snuggly in one of the four slide out racks that are stacked to the ceiling in the back of the van. Up front on the floor there are purple and green boxes, each one full of cookies, candies, and cake. Everything is covered in white frosting, dipped in white chocolate, or coated in white fondant to conceal the vibrant color hidden inside, carefully keeping the secret only Rona and I know.
“The brunch caterers are getting there at seven,” I recite patiently, taking Rona’s tray from her. “Guests arrive at nine. I show up at nine twenty. Brunch begins at nine-thirty. The cake is getting cut at eleven. Drinks and dessert to follow. Clean up finished by two.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want my help?”
“It’s an easy set up. I’ll assemble everything on a cart in the pantry and roll it out when brunch is cleared. It’s all about timing, but nothing one person can’t handle.” I stare pointedly at the deep crease in her forehead. “Stop stressing it.”
Rona rubs her fingers over the crease, smoothing it forcefully. “When the camera crews get here tomorrow I swear to God I’ll have my shit together, but today I’m losing my mind.”
“I’m not judging.”
“You’re judging a little.”
“I think you’re more worked up than you need to be. That’s not judging. It’s my opinion. One you’re welcome to ignore.”
“Really? I’m supposed to ignore your opinion? When did this start?”
I bite my tongue because she’s right. If she starts ignoring my opinion, I’ll die.
“And I’m not too worked up,” she tells me ardently, filling my silence to the brim. “It’s the freaking Food Network. Do you know how good for business this spotlight is going to be?”