Ten
The rooftop is full of chattering Emergent employees clustered in groups, most of them juggling bottles of local microbrews and slices of pizza. The hot Colorado sun beats down on us, but a few canopies are set up to provide shade.
I hang back until everyone else grabs food and drinks. Most of the pizza is picked over, but I don’t care. I grab a slice of veggie and a soda and make my way to a far corner of the rooftop. My camera dangles from my neck strap. I can always hide behind it if no one wants to talk to me.
Ms. Romero spots me and purposefully heads my way. It’s sweet of her, but also slightly pathetic that the only person willing to talk to me is my dad’s assistant.
“How’s the pizza?” She smiles, and I notice the lines around her eyes and her lips. Her eyes are always so full of warmth. I decide to take a photo of her later, preferably when she’s laughing.
“It’s great.” I take a swig of soda from my warm can and try to look enthusiastic.
Ms. Romero glances around the rooftop, then turns back to me. “Why aren’t you with the interns?”
The interns cluster in a group, wearing sunglasses, no shade umbrellas for them. They laugh together like besties, making me feel like the unwanted guest invited by the popular kid’s mom. I try to ignore Carlos and Ashley standing close together, his head tilted toward her as she flashes her pearly whites.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. It’s not like I can do anything about my stupid crush.
“Have you met many other employees yet?” Ms. Romero asks, jarring me back to the rooftop. She takes my arm and steers me toward the group closest to us. Their faces light up for Ms. Romero, no doubt because of her role as Dad’s lieutenant. No way will I remember all of these names, but it’s clear they’re all making mental notes that I’m Mr. K’s daughter.
We continue around the rooftop, me in her shadow as she makes introductions. I glance toward the interns and see Trish squinting, her sunglasses on her head as she tracks me with dagger eyes. I think Carlos might be watching me, too, but I can’t tell because he’s still wearing his shades.
Finally, we complete the circuit, ending at a small group consisting of my dad, the Manicotti, and Ms. Simmons. I want to run the other direction.
“Hi.” I snatch a cookie off my dad’s plate and shove half of it in my mouth so I don’t have to say anything else. He cocks a disapproving eyebrow, but I don’t care. It’s self-preservation.
“We were just talking about you,” Ms. Simmons says. She reminds me of a cat, regal and proud. Dread fills me as I wonder what they were saying.
I choke on the last bit of cookie, crumbs flying out of my mouth. I cover my mouth and do that awful choke-breathing where you can’t get your breath and feel like you’re going to die. Dad pounds me on the back while Ms. Romero runs off for a water bottle. I’m dimly aware that I’m causing a scene and most people in our vicinity have stopped talking to stare at me.
“Should someone do the Heimlich?” Ms. Simmons asks, her feline features contorted with worry. I shake my head and grab the water bottle Ms. Romero thrusts in my face. I take a few swigs and finally stop the desperate gasping for air. Now I’m sweaty and mortified. I wonder if Dad would care if I snuck out, but before I can try it, copier dude Brian clangs two beer bottles together to get everyone’s attention.
“Yo! It’s time for the tournament! We’ve got two tables. First up on table one is Todd vs. Amy!” A smattering of cheers and applause echoes across the rooftop. “Table two is Malik and Carlos the intern!” More cheers and applause.
Everyone gathers around the two tables that have been wheeled to the center of the rooftop under shade canopies. I sneak a peek at Carlos. He’s removed his sunglasses and his dress shirt, revealing a form-fitting black T-shirt. It’s a good look on him.
Who am I kidding? Everything’s a good look on him.
I scan the crowd and spot the other interns huddled together. Elijah removes his shades and meets my gaze, motioning me over, but I shake my head. Since my choking attack, I want to draw as little attention as possible.
A raucous crowd surrounds Todd and Amy, drowning out the clatter of their spinning foosball rods. A smaller group watches Carlos and Malik. Carlos moves quickly, brow furrowed in concentration, then his face splits with a grin and a few cheers sound, so I assume he scored. Miss Emmaline clinks her beer bottle with another Carlos fan, making me smile.
“You gonna show ’em how it’s done?”
Surprised, I face my dad, who’s leaned in close. There’s a hint of emotion in his eyes. Is that worry?
“I don’t think so.” My earlier desire to crush someone faded after my choking attack and being ignored by the interns.
He frowns. “Why not? I’d put my money on you.”
“Just because I can beat all my friends doesn’t mean I can take on these guys.”
Dad sips from his beer bottle. “The fear of loss is a path to the dark side.”
I narrow my eyes. “You did not just quote Yoda.”
“Quote him I did.”
“You need to stop, Vader.”
“You need to compete, Padawan.”
Another whoop from Carlos’s table draws our attention. Elijah high-fives him. So does Ashley. Whatever. Dad and I watch the next few rounds. Brian updates the brackets poster after each game, and every time Carlos moves up a round, Dad nudges me.
“Bet you could beat another intern,” he says.
“Not. An. Intern,” I growl. “Just an assistant.”
Dad’s eyes widen, then he laughs. “I keep forgetting that.”
Someone taps him on the shoulder, so I wander away to snap a few photos of employees at the dessert table and of a guy leaning over the rooftop yelling “Go Rockies!” to the baseball fans on the street below. I snag a Rice Krispies Treat and when I turn around, Dad’s talking to Brian, who glances my way and points to the poster.
Uh-oh.
“You in, Laurel? I can slot you in for the next round, since Victor dropped out. He had to go pick up his kid from school.” Brian smiles encouragingly while my dad tries to use Jedi mind control on me. I can feel it wafting across the rooftop.
“Uh, I don’t know.”
Brian uncaps his marker and crosses out Victor’s name. His hand hovers over the paper as he glances between Dad and me.
“There is no try—” Dad begins.
“I’ll do it.” Dad grins as Brian scribbles my name, clearly pleased with himself.
I’m going in cold against a big guy named Lewis. He looks like a defensive back, complete with sleeve tattoos. He glances at my dad, then me, as I take my place at the table.
“You’re Mr. K’s kid?”
Just call me Special K. “Yup. You’re Lewis?”
He frowns. “I guess I’ll go easy on you. Don’t wanna upset your dad.”
Just like that, my competitive streak is activated. “Don’t go easy on me. I can handle it. My dad wouldn’t want you to cheat.”
Lewis looks like he’s torn. “I dunno, kid.”
“If you call me kid again, I’ll have no choice but to destroy you.” I smile sweetly.
A few people in our audience laugh and somebody slaps me on the back.
“Your funeral, kid,” Lewis growls, getting into position on his side of the table. He crouches down in a horse stance and grasps two rods, glaring at me menacingly across the table.
Adrenaline rockets through me as I grasp my own rods. I can’t believe I talked smack to this giant, but it’s too late to take it back. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, pretending I’m Qa’hr, Leia, and Rey all rolled into one fierce foosball competitor.
“Everybody give a hand to Lewis and Laurel! Ready?” Brian calls out. Lewis and I nod, our eyes fixed on the table.
“Go!”
The next few minutes are a frenzy as I acclimate to the table, the pace, the yelling and smack-talking surrounding me. I score first and hear a cheer, which surprises me, but I ignore it, focusing on defending Lewis’s attempts to score. I steal a glance at him and see sweat beading on his brow. Guess he’s not taking it easy on me after all. Good.
My palms get sweaty, and my left hand slips off the goalie rod at the exact wrong time, allowing Lewis to score. He yells like he just won the freaking Super Bowl. I wipe my hands on my jeans.
“Go Laurel! Go Laurel!” The chant echoes behind me and I wonder who it is, but I can’t focus on that. I pretend I’m channeling the Force. And it works. I feel myself leap into the zone, blocking all of Lewis’s shots and scoring two more times. It’s three to one, and we’re playing to five for the win. Lewis thumps the table in frustration, jarring the ball loose from where my three-rod has trapped it.
“No hitting the table!” I shoot Lewis a glare, then glance around for Brian, our de facto referee. He’s busy slugging a beer, so I turn back to the table, deciding not to raise a stink. I can beat this guy whether he follows the rules or not.
My hair is hot on my neck; I wish I’d tied it back in a ponytail. My eyes track the ball, my hands anticipating Lewis’s every move as I twist my five-rod, timing it perfectly so the ball zooms between his plastic players and into the goal.
“Four to one. Hot damn, Laurel!” Brian yells, clinking a beer bottle with my dad. I grin at my dad and nod at Lewis, whose face is beet red. He looks like he wants to kill me.
We pause for a water break. “Kick his ass,” a voice mutters close behind me as I swig from my water bottle. Trish is next to me, her eyes dark slits aimed at Lewis. She leans in closer. “I hate that guy. Rip off his nuts.”
It takes me a second to process that she’s on my side, for once. She shoulder-bumps me. “You’re doing great, kid. Keep it up.”
I wince when she calls me “kid” but she disarms me with a grin, the first one I’ve ever received from her.
Jason and Ashley lean against the roof ledge, watching the street action below, but Elijah and Carlos focus on me, giving me matching thumbs-ups. Then Carlos does that “eyes on you” thing, pointing two fingers at his eyes, then at me. I look down, because if anything’s going to rattle my composure it’s the thought of Carlos’s eyes. On me.
“Don’t let her win just cuz she’s the boss’s kid, dude,” says another big guy, who’s lumbered way too close to the table.
“He’s not,” Trish snaps from behind me. “She’s legit kicking his ass!”
“Hey. Knock it off, Cruz,” Brian commands. “And back off. You’re too close to the table.” He points to Lewis. “Your serve.”
Lewis grunts as he drops the ball onto the table with excessive force. Not cool, but I don’t care. Just one more point and he’s done. Except this time he surprises me, sneaking in a goal when I least expect it. Four to two. Crud. The obnoxious guy, Cruz, starts to yell in my face until Trish jumps between us, poking him in the chest.
“Penalty!” she yells. “Get off the field!”
Brian laughs as he drags both of them away from us. “Everybody simmer down.”
Now everyone has gathered around our table. My hands grow sweaty again, especially when I notice Carlos has moved so he’s standing behind Lewis. I make the mistake of eye contact, and his lips ease into a sexy grin, flashing the deadly dimple. He points at Lewis, then twists his hands like he’s crushing a can. I bite back a nervous laugh and refocus on the table. You can do it, I tell myself.
“Laurel! Laurel!” A chant goes up and increases in volume, freaking me out. I make myself tune it out, determined to crush Lewis. He’s putting his full weight on the table, which is not okay, but there’s no time to argue rules. Crush him.
He takes a shot, sending the ball sliding under my players, but I rotate my goalie rod just in time to send the ball flying back the other direction. He fires back but I stop the ball with my five-rod and line up my shot, then take it. He tries to defend it, but his timing is off and the ball slides into his goal pocket.
“Yes!” I raise my hands in victory. Trish grabs me around the waist and screams in my ear. Elijah and Carlos move in with high-fives. I don’t even have time to enjoy the slam of Carlos’s skin on mine before Ashley smothers me with an overly affectionate hug.
Jason tilts his chin. “Way to work it, Laurel.”
I’m swarmed by a huge group of people who want to congratulate me. I look around to shake Lewis’s hand or fist-bump him in a good sport gesture, but he’s stormed off to grab a beer with his obnoxious friend.
Giddy with victory, I accept everyone’s congratulations, including Miss Emmaline, who shocks me by acknowledging me with a lip twitch that almost looks like a smile. Dad waits until everyone else drifts off before he moves in. He glances around, then slips me a low-five.
“Knew you could do it, hotshot.” He grins like a little kid, then quickly composes himself. “But I can’t show favoritism.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s the only thing I’ve got going for me here, Dad.” I nod to the corner where Lewis is still pouting, a beer in each hand. “That guy’s kind of a jerk.”
Dad’s grin fades. “We’ll discuss that later.” He motions Brian over. “Who’s in the final bracket?”
“Your daughter,” Brian says with a grin, “and Carlos. It’s an intern showdown.”
I start to remind him I’m not an intern, but what’s the point?
“Knock ’em dead, kid,” Dad says with an evil grin.
Carlos ambles over and my mouth goes dry at the sight of him. His T-shirt reveals tanned and sculpted arms. I wish I had someone to share my ogling with, but I don’t. Even though Trish was my champion for a few minutes, I can’t trust her with secret lust data.
“Ready to throw down, Special K?” There’s a teasing challenge in his eyes and it sparks a fire inside of me, heating me from head to toe.
“Did you put that cereal box on my desk?”
He shrugs and flashes his dimple. I feel like a middle-school girl who dug through a shoebox of identical, store-bought valentines only to discover a gaudy homemade valentine from her secret crush.
Instead of swooning, I square my shoulders and put on my Qa’hr face, because I want that cheesy trophy. Winning first, then swooning. But in secret, because he can’t know.
“I’m always ready to throw down,” I say. “What about you? You’re not going to let me win because of my dad, are you?”
Carlos looks across the rooftop toward my dad and I notice a hint of stubble on his jaw. I’ve never crushed on someone who stubbled before. It’s…exhilarating. His gaze slides back to me and I become painfully aware of my sweaty armpits. Could I be more gross right now?
“I play to win.” He steps close, his dark eyes brimming with…something. “Don’t hold back, Laurel,” he says, his voice low and urgent, “show me your best game.”
Where’s a bucket of ice when I need one? Do his words hold a double meaning or am I delusional? Though I know I shouldn’t, I eyeball our potential kissing logistics. Depending on what shoes I wore, he might not have to bend down too much, but I—
“Deal?”
“Huh?” I blink, forcing myself to stop fantasizing. “I mean, yeah, deal. I won’t hold back.”
“Good.” He smiles, like he guessed exactly what I was daydreaming about.
I need to get a grip. Qa’hr doesn’t zone out about kissing the pilot of the supply spaceship. Leia didn’t get all gooey about Han, at least not until he was about to be frozen in carbonite. And Rey has no time for romance. Not yet, anyway.
“We’ve got five minutes before our game starts.” His gaze sweeps me up and down. “You want a water or something? You look hot.”
My stomach does a backflip and he takes a step back, wincing.
“I mean hot like it’s a hundred degrees up here, not hot like…I mean, I don’t…”
Ugh. I should save us from this mutual mortification but I don’t know how. Fortunately, Elijah chooses that moment to crash our party.
“Yo, foosball fanatics. Who should I put my money on?” He strokes his chin. “I’m leaning toward Laurel, since she took down that monster.” He punches Carlos on the shoulder. “You only had to beat that tiny Asian chick in the last round.”
Carlos recovers quickly from his embarrassment. “Are you being a racist?”
Elijah rolls his eyes. “I’m just comparing the competition.”
“Just because she was, uh, petite doesn’t mean she wasn’t good. And what does being Asian have to do with it? Do you call me the Mexican?”
“Dude. Are you colorblind?” Elijah gestures to himself. “You really think I’m gonna do that?”
Carlos huffs out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m just…I’m grabbing waters. You want anything?”
Elijah shakes his head, then turns to me as Carlos practically sprints away.
“What’d you say to freak him out, Special K?”
“Did you put that cereal box on my desk?”
“Me? Nah. But the nickname fits you.” He tilts his head as he studies me. “Seriously, what’d you say to send him running off?”
My heartbeat is still racing, but I try to pull off casual. “We were just smack-talking each other. Maybe he has the pregame jitters.”
Elijah’s eyes narrow. “Uh huh.” He glances toward the drink table, then back at me. “That guy doesn’t get the jitters.”
Of course Carlos hadn’t meant to say I was hot hot. He meant I was a sweaty mess. And his challenge to bring my best game only meant foosball. Why do I let myself get carried away? I reach into the back pocket of my jeans for a hair tie, then pull my hair into a ponytail. I can’t afford to be distracted by anything if I want to win.
And I want to win this whole thing. I want to take home that cheesy trophy Brian stuck on the dessert table. I want another low-five from my dad.
Carlos returns with water bottles but doesn’t make eye contact when he hands mine over. I take a long swig, wishing for a towel to wipe my face and neck, but that would only draw attention to my sweatiness.
“Final round!” Brian yells. “Everybody gather around!”
“May the best foosballer win.” Elijah reaches out to shake both of our hands with mock solemnity.
I follow Carlos to the table, pushing through the crowd, which has grown louder as the afternoon has worn on and more beers have been consumed. We take our places on either side of the table. I notice the other interns gathered in a tight knot, watching us, and I wonder who they’ll cheer for. Who am I kidding? Go Carlos go!
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first time we’ve had interns as our final competitors.” Brian pauses. “It’s also the first time Emergent has ever hired interns, so…” A few people laugh.
“Carlos and Laurel will play until one of them wins five points. Whoever wins gets the trophy, bragging rights, and their name added to the Foosball Hall of Fame plaque.”
There’s a plaque? For real?
“You guys ready?” Brian asks. We nod.
Carlos gives me the chin tilt, which I interpret to mean good luck. Or maybe, I’m going to crush you. I guess if I’m going to be crushed by anyone, I’d like it to be him. But that makes me think of bodies crushing together and—
“Go!” Brian yells, and I jerk my attention to the table.
Playing Carlos is way different than playing Lewis. Whereas Lewis was frenetic and impulsive, Carlos is deliberate and strategic. He lines up his shots carefully and figures out my style of play quickly. The scoring goes back and forth, and before I know it we’re tied at three.
A loud cheer goes up after he scores his third goal, and I notice the interns are especially raucous. Way more than they were when I scored. Except for Elijah, who shows the same enthusiasm for each of us. Lewis and his beefy friend stand off to the side, cheering loudly for Carlos. Their obvious sexism irritates me, so I channel my frustration into the game, scoring a fourth point quickly with a move that catches Carlos off guard.
He glances up, setting me off balance with a smirk. “Nice shot.”
I nod my thanks but don’t say anything. He serves and we’re back in the groove, shooting and blocking. We enter a rhythm, both of us predicting the other’s moves and responding accordingly. In any other circumstance I might say we’re compatible. Well-matched.
My cheeks heat at the direction my thoughts are going and I remind myself to focus, but in the few seconds I’m distracted, Carlos takes advantage and scores, tying us at four.
“Nice shot.”
“Loser buys donuts for the winner.” The skin around his eyes crinkles and the butterflies in my stomach swirl like a tornado.
“Deal.” It’s my turn to serve, so I do, intending to score quickly and end this. But Carlos surprises me, switching up his game and transforming into a whirling dervish instead of the measured competitor he’s been for the past four points. I try to match his play, but I’m a beat too slow, and he scores the game-winning point to a deafening roar of cheers.
Go, Carlos, go.
He’s swarmed by fans, and I step back from the table, stunned at how he tricked me. If I’d watched him to do it to someone else, I’d have been impressed. Sighing, I wipe a sheen of perspiration from my forehead. Why is it no one swarms the loser after a game?
Brian presents the trophy to Carlos, who grins and takes an exaggerated bow as the crowd applauds. I scan the clumps of people for my dad. I spot him, and he gives me a thumbs-up, but even from a distance I can tell he feels bad for me.
I’m anxious to get home, maybe join Lexi at the pool, but then I remember I don’t have a ride home thanks to Dad’s surprise date for Mom. Great. Now I have a long, hot train ride to look forward to. I sneak toward the exit.
“How about a round of applause for Laurel?” Carlos calls out, making me freeze mid-escape.
I flatten myself against the wall as everyone turns toward me, since Carlos has helpfully pointed me out. Ugh. The crowd claps and a few people whistle. I assume it’s pity cheering because I’m Mr. K’s daughter, which stings even worse than losing. I offer a pathetic half wave and refuse to make eye contact with the winner. Fortunately, my time in the spotlight is short-lived as everyone turns back to Carlos or grabs more beer and soda.
Ms. Romero, ever my champion, appears next to me and hands me a water bottle. “Great game, Laurel. You made him fight for it.”
Not really. I suspect he had me figured out from the beginning. I wonder if he let me score on purpose, waiting until the very end to destroy me. If he did, that sucks. I hate when people don’t play their best, reeling others in and then revealing their true skills. And he told me not to hold back?
“We leave early on pizza Fridays,” Ms. Romero says. “I need to clean up so I can get out of here. Enjoy your weekend, hon.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze and heads to a nearby table littered with empty beer bottles, gathering them up.
I frown, wondering why people don’t clean up after themselves, when Carlos swoops in, quickly gathering bottles and empty plates.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ms. Romero protests, but she looks grateful.
Carlos grins. “I’m a professional. Years of experience.” He moves quickly to the other tables, bussing like a pro because of his family restaurant, I assume. I head to the dessert table, stacking up empty platters, trying to make myself useful. A few other people join in and the mess is cleared quickly.
Ready to leave, I head for the stairs carrying empty dessert trays, but a hand on my shoulder stops me. I know who it is before I turn around.
“It was a great game, Laurel.” Carlos reaches for the platters. “I’d shake your hand but you’re making it tough. Let me help you carry that stuff.”
I shake my head like a stubborn child. “I’ve got it.” Then I remember what a sore loser Lewis was. I don’t want to be like that. I force a smile. “You played great. Congrats.” I want to brush the stray hairs from my face but can’t because my hands are full. “Uh, what kind of donuts do you like?” I know he likes chocolate, but it’s easier to ask that than ask if he let me score.
His expression shifts. “I was just kidding about that. Trying to, uh, stoke the competitive fires or whatever.”
“We made a deal. Loser buys donuts. So tell me what you like or I might show up with something awful, like plain donuts.”
“I’m a traditionalist. Plain is perfect,” Carlos jokes. When I don’t laugh, he frowns. “Are you upset about the game? You played great, Laurel. You almost beat me.”
Flustered, I shift my stance and the plates wobble. Carlos reaches out again, taking the stack from me. His fingers brush mine and launch another butterfly party in my stomach.
“I just…” I begin, then stare at the ground. Do I really want to know if he gave me the go-easy-on-Mr.-K’s-daughter treatment?
“What?” he prompts.
We stare at each other. It’s not one of those Hollywood omigod-we’re-going-to-kiss moments. Instead it’s awkward and uncomfortable. I glance around, noticing we’re the last ones on the rooftop. How did that happen?
“Did you let me almost win?”
He looks as shocked as I am at the words tumbling out of my mouth.
“Are you kidding me?” His grip tightens on the plates. “Why would you even ask that?”
“Because at the end you shifted to a whole new style of play. It was almost like you held back the rest of the game.” I take another breath and bite my lip. His gaze darts to my mouth, then he frowns and glances away. “Also,” I continue, “I’m the boss’s daughter. It’s hard to know who’s being…genuine…or whatever, and who’s not.”
He flinches like I’ve slapped him.
“I don’t cheat,” he says, his jaw tight. “And I don’t suck up to people because of their connections.” He shifts his stance and bites out the next words. “Sorry you thought I did.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing through the doorway, the sound of his footsteps rocketing down the stairs.
Way to go, Laurel.
Way. To. Go.