A shy high school senior jock and a closed-off girl battling an immune disorder fake a relationship to win a social media contest.
Being shy isn't easy, especially when you're the new kid at school. Scotts Valley's football program is subpar compare...
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My panties were soaked.
Camera lenses captured every second of real-time existence. Every inch of me was exposed on display, but the lights were like heat lamps from hell. Tickles of sweat rolled down my lower back and between my ass cheeks. The junctions with my thighs pumped damp heat into the flimsy cotton, and I might've also peed myself a little.
I directed my most potent glare at the back of Morgan's head. "I shouldn't be here."
"Can't back out now," was her mouthed response. Given her stunt bringing us here, she deserved the incoming physical and emotional torture. The backstabber picked at her cuticles, nonchalant ease in her eyes like mine weren't trying to laser-incinerate her en flambé.
Forging my signature on the show's application was a new low. We weren't at just any show, but the same show that humiliated me before kicking me home empty-handed.
Like during her argumentative loop on the overnight bus ride, Morgan whispered her most compelling persuasions. A producer with a headset shushed us, but not before her lips twitched.
"Second loan."
I glared at the baby hairs on her neck as if I could burn them off. What was she thinking? She wasn't, as usual. America's Baking Challenge was the last place I needed to be. Thinking further ahead than right now and worrying about the future was me. Choosing which nonessential organ to sell—she could live with one kidney—to make bank payments and keep the bakery ovens on was my constant headache.
A vibrating bowling ball sat in my skull, and the pressure fatigue on my knees made me feel like I'd gained thirty pounds. And yet...This instant-cash crazy scheme made sense.
As much as I hated Morgan being right, we had to save the bakery. Losing last time meant public humiliation, but losing the bakery meant more than failing our family legacy. It was all I had.
My evil sister's tiny ass propped against a marble counter that made ours look like rejects from a stone graveyard. Open shelves were stocked with more ingredients than our bakery went through in a year. Labels more exotic than we could afford front-faced the sponsor's labels. Common household names dominating the food market were aligned in a perfect display.
I swallowed the lump drying my throat. Being here–contractually, thanks, Morgan–I needed to strategize. Not speaking to my partner was the least of my worries. Irrationally, South American crickets crept their way to the top concern spot.
Yes, crickets.
Mortification and embarrassment burned hot under my skin. As much energy as I exerted to not recall the most humiliating moment of my life—nearly impossible given how eighteen months of reruns—I couldn't fight back this kitchen's memories.
I was fucked before Guilherme Empanado's gleaming eyes and flourished hand revealed the ingredient that Deb, the other finale competitor, prayed I would get. It went down the cricket hill from there, and the firing squad was brutal.
