False start play, p.1
False Start Play, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Parker Finch
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
ONE
LAINE
I need a miracle.
And a pig. Or two.
Twenty-eight tons of sand, a bajillion coconuts, four smoking-hot life guards, one frozen shave-ice food truck, and two sixteen foot tall tiki gods…and only half the expected pigs. The Phi Iota Pi annual Spring Fling is only two hours away, and I believe in miracles. And pigs.
By pig, I mean actual pig as in Kālua pig, or Kālua pork, which is the headliner of the buffet tonight, or was the headliner. But a world-class event planner doesn’t panic. She innovates.
I mean, who hasn’t experienced a pig shortage before, right?
“Hey, Cass, it’s Laine. No sign of Leilani?” I ask into my headset.
“Out front getting Kane and Kanaloa vertical and sweating off any trace of cuteness I may have once possessed. Wait. A catering van just pulled around the block, so you might want to check the garage,” Cassidy replies with an uncharacteristic fluff of huff.
“Great. Thanks, Cass. And don’t discount your cuteness. It’s Captain Marvel level cuteness—totally unstoppable—and your costume is going to be epic. And if I haven’t said it already, thanks for overseeing the tiki god installation.”
“You’ve said it a million times.”
“Then thanks for being my best friend. Your selfless acts will soon be rewarded with a frozen, fruity drink.”
“You know my weak spot, Laine, but are you sure you’re okay? You sound like a fortune cookie.”
Am I that transparent? “Just a pesky pig predicament. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“You sure that’s it?”
“Positive. Everything non-pig related is on track and going to plan.”
“If you say so, Laine. Come check out the tiki gods when you get a chance, they’re so cool you’ll forget the word pig.”
“Roger that. Good to have the God of Light and Life on our side tonight.”
“And the God of the Sea. We can’t offend Kanaloa, unless you want a typhoon. And honestly, Laine, I don’t think I could’ve handled sewing up another one of these things. So glad you stopped at two tikis.”
“Leaving the Gods of War and Fertility off the guest list wasn‘t an easy decision. But seriously, Cass, I appreciate you giving me your whole day to help with setup…” I consider literally biting my tongue, but I can’t help myself. “You haven’t seen Penn, have you?”
Cassidy chuckles, “Penn Mitchell, helping with setup? Girl, you’d have an easier time pulling a broody hen off a nest. Unless you made some sort of blood sacrifice.”
Her voice is gentle. She knows how disappointed I was when Penn refused to help. Of course he said no—football above all else—but a little part of me was hoping he would show up anyway. I shake it off. “Yeah, looks like I left blood sacrifice off my check list.”
“If you want to make a sacrificial offering, we could give them Tessa…”
As always, Cassidy knows how to get me laughing. “We need to keep Tessa around. She makes us all look like nicer people.”
“We don’t just look nicer, Laine, we are all nicer. But good point. Tessa lives to party another day.”
“Thanks for reining in your bloodlust, Cass. Signing off—I’ve gotta go deal with our pig problem.” I dash through the house and do a little shimmy. The tiki facade looks amazing. I wheel around the back door and encounter another problem altogether…the dark demon herself. Tessa Bellacosa.
“Oh hey, Laine,” she purrs, looking over the decorations. “It’s looking good. I can’t believe how elaborate the décor is. Do you think you’ll be ready in time?”
Double-edged compliments are Tessa’s signature move. “Hey, Tess. Thanks, I sure hope so.” I air kiss each of her newly sculpted, buccal-fat-barren cheeks, in the Italian style. “Got to go find the caterer, see you later.”
“Laine, before you go, please tell me Penn’s coming. I could swear I saw him and Brandon heading toward the Sigma Chi House, and you know the Sigs pre-party hardy. It’d be a shame if he missed out on all our Phi Pi fun.”
My fingers clamp down on my pen like a dart. “Don’t worry about Penn, Tessa. He’ll be here.”
“Of course, Laine. It’s just that the girls are looking forward to seeing the football team. Wouldn’t want to start the party without our Wildcats.”
I suppress the urge to throttle her. “Wouldn’t want that. Can’t wait to see your costume. Gotta run.”
I wave my clipboard at her and move away before she can say anything else. I’ll give Tessa this—she does know how to dress for a party. Her costume for our Phi Pi February Frosted Fantasy party could’ve been straight out of RuPaul’s Drag Race—all fully feathered and glitzy glamour. But I don’t have time to unpack Tessa’s backhanded compliments. I’ve got a food crisis to handle.
Then again, maybe it isn’t too late to sacrifice her to the tikis.
I high-tail it to the garage, where the caterers have staged their remote kitchen. Amid a flurry of activity and bowls of fruit salad, Leilani stands as the eye of the storm, pointing and directing, her mobile phone squeezed between her ear and shoulder.
I don’t want to interrupt, but I need to know how we are going to feed half the Buckley University student body. I catch her eye and wait. She holds up a finger, asking for a minute, so I step out of the way and and take a breath.
Across the pool, two lifeguards, both Bay Watch bronzed and toned, are in their own world. Completely at ease with each other, their laughter ringing out across the water as they splash and flirt. I can’t help but watch their playful touches and lingering glances. They’re so connected, so into one another. As I stare, a little cloud races across my heart. It pinches, like it’s been zipped into jeans that are two sizes too small.
“Laine, I’m sorry about the pig fiasco.” Leilani interrupts my reverie, looking miserable.
“Completely not your fault, Leilani, accidents happen. Is your team okay?
“Just minor damage to the van but look at this. It’s like a luau exploded all over Le Conte Avenue.”
She hands me her phone. The photo is almost comical—the Polynesian Paradise Catering van’s rear door hanging off its hinges like a loose tooth—the car that hit it plastered in pork and pineapple. I stifle a laugh, not wanting to upset her further. “I’m so sorry about your van, Leilani. Are you insured?”
“Fully,” she nods.
“Then let’s keep it simple. Could you sub in some Huli Huli chicken? Spam Musubi? We could even order Hawaiian pizzas if we need to. Whatever it takes to get everyone fed.”
“Great minds do think alike,” Leilani grins, leading me back into the garage. I steal one last glance at the lifeguards, now sitting quietly by the pool, still lost in one another. Back in the garage, chefs are busy preparing trays of Spam Musubi and feverishly cutting up racks of sticky pork ribs.
“I rerouted some of the dishes meant for an event tomorrow when I heard about the van. We don’t have Huli Huli chicken, but we do have plenty of pork ribs, and Musubi for days.” Leilani beams with pride at her staff.
Impulsively, I give her a quick hug. “You’re a miracle worker, Leilani. Thank you.” She seems startled, briefly allowing the hug, then pulling back like she touched a hot pan. I think the hug flustered her more than losing the two roasted pigs.
“Thank you for being understanding. Not all clients are this flexible,” she says, patting my shoulder.
I thank her for her proactive approach and make a mental note to tell Cassidy that someone actually called me flexible.
With the food problem sorted, I revisit my checklist. The photographer has my curated shot list to document my growing and gorgeous portfolio of work—check.
The bars are well stocked, the door greeters have heaps of leis to welcome guests, and the DJ is already spinning soft Hawaiian music. The dance floor looks inviting, with hula dancers swaying rhythmically to the music, doing their beguiling hula moves—check, check, and check.
I light the final tiki torch as the sun dips into the Pacific, casting the Phi Iota Pi sorority house in a golden glow. This party could be the launchpad for my event planning career, and right now, everything feels rosy.
“Welcome to party paradise, Laine Summers. You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” I whisper the words like a spell and a warm gust of evening air answers, wrapping me in an approving hug as I admire my handiwork. It’s grass-skirted, pin-spotted perfection. I see Cassidy by the front door, head tilted back, snapping pics of our imposing tiki god statues.
“Cass, doesn’t it look like a jungle sprouted up in t he middle of campus overnight?” I exclaim, rushing over to her.
“Laine, you scared me,” she squeaks, her surprise shifting quickly to delight. “But your timing’s perfect—let’s get some selfies with Kanaloa.”
Wielding her phone like a pro, Cassidy snaps a slew of selfies from varying and sometimes ridiculous angles. The moment doesn’t last long, as she suddenly turns, pointing her phone at a boisterous group of fraternity boys disembarking from a vintage Volkwagen Vanagon. They pile out like it’s a clown car, but instead of wigs and red noses, they’re adorned with hula skirts and coconut bras. “The Sigma Chis went all out. Those coconuts look like they’d chafe,” she chuckles.
“Hey, they’re fully embracing the theme, and you know how much I love a good theme.” Our fellow Greeks are a riot. They form an impromptu hula line, their movements hilariously out of sync. Their act ends as quickly as it started, and they file past us and into the party, leaving a trail of laughter in their wake.
Guests continue to flood in, and although I knew they would, it’s still a relief. Next comes a group of surfer dudes decked out in board shorts and Ray-Bans. They surround Cassidy and me, and break into song.
They begin crooning the lyrics to “Kokomo” in perfect harmony, which is no surprise for Theta Alpha Phis—the theater Greeks never shy away from a chance to harmonize.
Cassidy responds with a joyful little shimmy, big pineapple leaves fluttering atop her head as she sways in a pineapple-printed tunic. She cheers and sings along“”.
The group encircles Cass, continuing to sing the song sweetly to her.
“You guys should take this act on the road,” Cassidy gushes, clearly enjoying the attention.
“If this whole college thing doesn’t work out, we might just do that,” one of the surfer dudes replies with a wink.
“Alright, guys. Thanks for the magnificent serenade, but we’ve got a party to run,” I say, shooing them toward the bustling backyard. “Enjoy the party.”
Cupping her hands around her mouth, Cassidy calls after them, “And try not to break too many hearts.”
“Our hearts belong to you, Chiquitita,” a surfer yells back, donning a lei before disappearing into the crowd.
The moment he’s gone, Cass tugs on my arm. “We have to find out who that was. So cute. He could sing to me all night long.”
I hesitate, glancing down the street one more time.
“Laine, he’ll show up. You know he will. Let’s track down my cute surfer before he vanishes.”
“Wow, Laine, it looks as good inside as it does outside,” Cassidy eyes gleam as she scans the room for her mystery crooner. “It’s like I walked onto Waikiki Beach. I can’t even feel the floor through the sand.”
“Thanks, Cass. Need any landscaping supplies, you know who to call,” I quip.
“Hey, Cassidy, love your fronds. Hey, Laine, you nailed the beach theme,” Tessa drawls as she breezes up. She pauses and sips from a coconut full of punch and paper umbrellas.
Tessa never disappoints—classic tepid Tessa compliments and an outlandish costume, both of which make my eyes ache. She’s living out her Kylie Jenner mermaid costume fantasy. A sequined green tail trusses her legs tightly together like a Thanksgiving turkey, and two precariously placed seashells leave my mouth gaping wide and worried about imminent wardrobe washout.
Cassidy’s fingers grip my arm. “Tessa, how? How are those shells holding on? Those shells are a shoo-in for best supporting role. Those shells are shucking amazing.”
Tessa flashes Cassidy a pinched and pained look, before turning it on me.
“Hope the DJ livens things up tonight. I’m dying to dance. Bye.” She lifts her coconut, snaps a quick selfie with us, and saunters off.
“Did she just—?”
“Yup, she did,” I sigh, cutting Cassidy off. “Tessa, in all her Little Mermaid glory.”
Cassidy snorts, “She’s way more burlesque-show Ursula than angelic Ariel, but I guess every party needs a villain.”
“I just wish she could play nice for once,” I sigh, watching Tessa tip-toe-tiny-step through the crowd.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Cassidy says, giving me an affectionate squeeze. “This is your party, Laine. She’s just jealous. You have the perfect event, the perfect grades, the perfect boyfriend.”
“Thanks, Cass,” I manage a thin smile. People in colorful costumes conga past, laughing and dancing. I glance around, tallying my wins—pork problem solved, the house and yard transformed, the DJ spinning an awesome soundtrack. I’ve achieved peak party planner status, full bossiosity. And yet…
“Besides,” Cassidy chimes in, interrupting my introspection, “Everyone’s too busy partying by the poolside to notice Tessa’s attempts to hog the spotlight.”
“I hope so. It’s just event jitters. I’ll relax once we’re past the party’s halfway point.”
“Oh, Chiquitita...”
Cassidy’s surfing suitor has found her. He takes her hand, placing it over his heart like a true Romeo. “My little piñita, where have you been all of my life?”
“Waiting right here for you,” Cassidy demurs, blushing to the tip of her pineapple headpiece.
Her surfer flushes too, in a unexpected and endearing display of shyness. “Care to dance, my querida Cassidy?”
“Do the Beach Boys give off good vibrations?”
With that, Cassidy and her surfer friend join the throng on the dance floor, leaving me alone amidst the partygoers, clutching my clip board like a life preserver.
Then, like Captain America emerging victorious from the midst of a battle, cutting confidently through the crowd, he arrives.
TWO
LAINE
Penn’s imposing figure parts the crowd, his purposeful stride bringing him closer and closer. He stands out effortlessly, towering over the crowd, broad shouldered and achingly handsome in red board shorts and a white tank top bearing the word “LIFEGUARD” in bold, red letters. His nose sports a stripe of white zinc oxide, a quirky touch he’d added himself. The whistle around his neck matches mine, tying our coordinated costumes together—cheesy, perhaps, but it’s a detail I secretly enjoy, a proclamation of our coupledom.
“Hey, babe,” he greets, gracing me with his devastatingly charming smile. “Incredible job with the party. Everyone’s loving it.”
With Penn by my side, I should be on cloud nine, but the second he speaks, I plummet down to thin, gray cloud three. He’s saying all the right things, but the tone’s just off. The words feel like a good-boyfriend script, lines from the playbook of Relationships 101.
“Thanks,” I answer, my voice infused with an enthusiasm I’m struggling to feel. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?
“Have you seen the crew, Lainy?” Penn asks, eyes already scanning the room for his football brethren.
No questions about my day, no celebratory hug. Not even a rundown of football practice. It irks me. But I simply point him toward the buffet where his Wildcats are gathered. He rewards me with a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing into the crowd, heading toward his friends. The whole exchange leaves me feeling deflated, like a balloon three days after the party.
I follow in his wake, bobbing and weaving around guests as if tethered to his wrist by a fragile ribbon. He stops so I stop, hidden behind his solid frame. I’m close enough to hear the back-slapping barrage of bro-hugs, catch snippets of his conversation with his teammates. They talk about the food, praise the party, and inevitably turn to—no surprise—football. Everyone congratulates Penn on becoming Buckley University’s Athlete of the Year.
So it’s official.
I’m dating The One. The campus star, the top jock destined to go pro—a first round NFL draft pick. Which is no surprise given Penn’s exceptional GPA, selfless leadership, and unconditional devotion. Not to mention the innate talent he possesses. No, I’m not surprised in the slightest.
