AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Brooklyn is sharing the details of her posting, which was a given from the time she started at Welles. Her father is a big name in politics, and she’ll be working in the mayor’s office downtown. The business is in her nature and her blood.
She’s reciting her interview questions and practically putting Lily to sleep when I feel a vibration against my knee. I reach down for my phone, sliding it up but keeping the screen hidden so Brooklyn doesn’t see my attention being divided. I expect a calendar reminder on my screen, but instead it’s a new follow request for my secret personal Instagram profile, the one I keep private and hidden, and only post on rarely and for close friends and the cousins.
I note the profile name: JimmyNo1. I’m biting my lip as I accept and follow back, tapping the side of my device with nervous fingers while I wait for JimmyNo1 to accept in return.
“Are you listening to me?” Brooklyn cuts in.
“Totally. You were telling them about a difficult situation you faced recently and how you problem solved.” My listening skills are adept. Almost superhero-like. I think it’s from having to multi-task at such a young age, making posts while people wanted me to mingle.
“Right, so . . .” Brooklyn continues.
My hand buzzes and I sink lower into my pillow fort, blocking her view of my phone as I tap on JimmyNo1’s profile icon and take in the many, many workout photos of the newest Welles quarterback.
My heart kicks, and that steady drum keeps me awake until well past midnight stalking every post he’s ever made and hoping he’s doing the same to mine.
Chapter2
James Fuentes
Of course I know who Morgan Bentley is. I’m an eighteen-year-old male who has been on social media since I was eleven. I may have grown up on the south side, but Morgan Bentley was the hot girl on TikTok down there too.
I figured I would run into her at some point, but I didn’t think it would be in a social situation. I thought maybe a class, or from across the gym, or at a game or whatever. My friends from my old school have been asking. That’s the only thing they knew about Welles Academy—this is the school the hot TikTok chick goes to. It’s also one of the toughest private schools on the east coast, and my public-school experience is going to show in the classroom pretty quick. I’m guessing there won’t be a girl here willing to let me copy her test answers over her shoulder.
I’m going to have to work, and that’s fine. I want that. My dad’s right. If I want to rescue my grandfather’s business, bringing it back from bankruptcy and turning it into something to be proud of, I need to focus. The people who took his business off the map knew the loopholes and had an edge. An Ivy League degree gives me equal footing and connections. Football is my way in.
Our apartment smells amazing as I step through the door. I went to dinner with the guys because I need them on my side. I need friends. But damn, my mom’s cooking is the only thing that comes remotely close to my grandfather’s. I draw in the scent, practically tasting the flavors without taking a bite.Ahhhh, home.
“Come. Try this,” my mom says while stirring a pot of simmering goodness on the stove. I drop my bag on the couch and head into the kitchen, obeying her request. I open my mouth and wait for her to hold up the spoon. It’s steaming a little, so I blow on the red sauce before tasting it. Once I do, my tastebuds instantly transport me around the world. A piece of Mexico, and maybe some Brazilian hints in the seasoning. It’s hot, but not in that way that burns the tongue. It's like the effects of a good whiskey, warming me from the inside out.
“You like?” She quirks a brow.
I lick my lips, making sure I get every spare taste into my mouth, and let my smile grow. “That’s phenomenal. You come up with that?”
She waggles her head modestly.
“It’s a version of Papa’s, with my own little kick.”
I reach in front of her and dip a finger in, then suck the sauce off of it.
“It’s really good,” I say as she smacks my elbow for touching her creation.
“Your dad is in our room working on practice plans. Check in with him,” she says, waving me away.
I attempt to take one more taste before I go, but she shoves me away with a push of her hip. I hold up my hands and laugh.
“Fine, I’m going. But that better reheat.” I point to the pot. She waves me off.
My mom is insanely talented. My papa, her dad, owned a small bodega-style shop on the street level of an older southside building. It was popular with the locals, but never big enough to really break through that bubble and draw in serious customers. But Papa had a plan. Unfortunately, the building owners had their own. Down came the building and up went the fancy new condo high rise. Papa’s five-year plan turned into a decade-long one, and that deadline passed two years ago.
I was six when he lost the store, and sometimes I wonder if it made such a huge mark on me because I was so young. If it had happened later, when I started at Public High for example, I might not have been so invested in a small business dream. But that store—and the stool I sat on in the back by the chalkboard he let me draw whatever I wanted on—was everything to me. It was this magical little hole in the wall where everyone in the neighborhood was nice and where my grandfather whistled while he cut strips of meat in the back. And it always smelled like my kitchen does right now.
My mom doesn’t belong keeping the books for other people’s business dreams. She belongs learning and creating from her roots. She’s happiest with a spoon in her hand and steam streaming from her pots. It’s what Papa would want. All I need out of the deal is a stool to sit on from time to time.
I knock on the open door as I step into my parents’ bedroom and my dad merely glances up over the golden rims of his glasses, the glow of the laptop screen covering most of the lenses.
“Studyingus? Or are you checking out competition?” I ask, flopping into the leather chair in the corner of their room. My dad has turned their bed into a mini-office with notes strewn around along with his enormous whiteboard that he keeps both the team schedule on as well as his thoughts on each week’s strengths and weaknesses.
“Both,” he grunts, flitting his eyes up at me briefly.
