Page 1 of The Game
Chapter 1
Cinnamon Apple Fail
Jazz
The insistent trill ofthe store phone sends my already pounding heart into overdrive, but the pasted-on smile is still plastered to my face. I can’t even imagine what I look like to the blonde woman staring at the menu behind my head. My eyes flick from her to the phone on repeat until I finally give in and reach for the damn thing. No one else is going to answer it. A sick flutter twists my stomach when I see the name on the call display. Sam.
Please let him be running a few minutes late. I’ve already fielded one sick call that was impossible to fill the first week of school. Everyone is reconnecting with their friends and spending too many late nights drinking and partying. Work is not a top priority if you’ve got a lot of parental help in the money department.
“Hello.”
The customer gives me a dirty look as I answer the store phone. Even though she’s the one who just spent five minutes staring at the menu while the line built up behind her. My eyes are wide, heart racing at the sight.
“Hey, Jazz. I’ve come down with some flu thing and I can’t come in for my shift this afternoon.”
“Ok, Sam. Let me know if you’ll be able to make it in tomorrow.”
“I will.”
The edges of the phone dig into my palm as I give it a squeeze after punching the button to end the call.
I shut my eyes, dragging a deep breath into my lungs before I can look back up at the customer in front of me. I’m doing my very best to ignore the fact that the line is now spilling out the glass door into the university center.
The girl doesn’t look so pretty now with her face scrunched up in a sour pout, disdain clear in her expression.
“That was rude. Taking a call when there’s a customer in front of you.”
“I’m sorry. It was a work-related call.”
She scoffs. “I’d like a Cinnamon Apple Latte made with oat milk, and no cinnamon powder on top. Oh, and only one shot of expresso and double syrup. And extra whipped topping.”
My fingers dance across the computer on autopilot, typing in her order, as I inwardly cringe at her mispronunciation of the word espresso. “Would you like anything else to go with that? A cinnamon scone perhaps?”
The look of disgust she gives me twists her bright coral lips. “I don’t eat dessert.”
It’s so hard to squeeze my lips together and keep the biting retort back, but I do. It’s one of my specialties after all. Eight pumps of syrup, sweetened oat milk, and whipped cream. How dare I assume she might want a treat to go with it?
“Of course. And your name?” I’ve got the pink marker poised over the side of the cup to catch her name when she taps her card and walks away without a reply.
So, I guess I get to pick her name? Spicy Bitch, Slowpoke, and Cinnamon Apple Fail all come to mind, but I settle for a smiley face. Kill them with kindness, right?
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. That’s one benefit of busy shifts. The minutes disappear faster than a bag of buttered popcorn at the movies. Sure my heart is pounding, my legs are aching, and my messy bun has escalated from minor incident to catastrophic disaster levels of chaos. But I’m still standing and still smiling as I pump out drinks. My entire body lightened when I got to hand the keys over to Joe, the evening supervisor, but I stayed on to help cover some of Sam’s shift. Am I a chronic people pleaser who struggles to say no? Yes. But more important, I have rent to pay and new textbooks to buy. My accounting professor this year just had to pick a brand-new edition that costs the equivalent of a semester’s worth of groceries, but who’s counting? Oh right, him. Accounting professor and all.
My eyes keep straying to the clock on the wall opposite the cold drink station, where I’m blending and shaking until myright arm is wobbly. Five minutes left and I’m out of here. Thank goodness. It’s been a brutal day. Most of the time, I love being here. I love the energy of the students. The buzz of conversation and getting to know my customers. But some days, like today, take their toll.
As the whir of the blender stops, an angry voice catches my attention. “You screwed up my drink.”
I snap the lid closed on the mocha shake, and spin around to spot a guy leaning over the counter, getting up in Val’s face as she works the espresso machine. There’s an ugly sneer twisting his lips, and her eyes are wide as she leans away from him.
“I’m sorry about that.” She smiles, picking up the drink, and glancing at the writing on the side of the cup. “What exactly was wrong?”
“I don’t fucking know. Isn’t that your job? It tastes like shit.”
Her bright smile is wobbling as he leans farther over the counter. “I just want to make it right for you. It says here it’s a mocha with three shots of espresso. Is that right?”
He mutters something incoherent before speaking up. “Yes, but it tastes like water. You must have forgotten to put the coffee in it or something. Can’t you do anything right?”
I place the shake down on the smooth surface of the pickup counter, calling out the drink and using my body to shield Val. Technically, I’m not the supervisor on duty anymore, but I can spot the telltale glisten of tears at the corner of Val’s eyes, and I don’t let anyone talk to my employees like that. Unacceptable.