Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

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Abby

“And the contestants moving on to the final round are… Abby, Bryan, and

Daniel.”

The announcer’s voice sparks an explosion of cheers.

“Abby, you’ve done it!” Karl’s voice carries over to me through the noise, and I

turn to face him, my smile so wide it almost hurts.

“I know,” I breathe out, the words barely a whisper. I’ve made it to the next

round. I can’t believe it, especially after Logan’s negative comments about my

food.

Enter title…

The assistant holds up a sign indicating a fifteen-minute break, which is sorely

needed after spending the past hour under the hot stage lights. Karl nudges me

forward, steering us through the maze of equipment and fellow competitors,

past the spot where Frederick’s station now lies abandoned.

“Don’t let Logan get into your head. You’re in the top three for a reason,” Karl

murmurs into my ear as we push through the double doors into the breakroom,

a cool breeze from the AC blowing into our sweaty faces.

Karl walks over to the water cooler, grabbing a cup. He fills it and hands it to me,

his gaze holding mine.

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“Thanks,” I say, chugging the cool liquid in three swift gulps.

“Abby, you’ve done great so far,” he says, taking the cup from me and filling it

again. “Despite Logan’s comments. I could tell Vanessa really loved your dish,

too.”

“I know,” I say with a nod, taking the cup from him again. Our fingers brush, and

there’s a slight static shock that fills me with a combination of confidence and

bashfulness. “She really did love it. Logan, on the other hand…”



Karl shrugs. “He’s just one judge,” he says gently. “Just keep trying your best.

Remember, there may be fewer contestants with each round, but there will

always be three judges. His opinion only holds one third of the weight.”

I take another sip, my mind whirring with possibilities. “Yeah, but one third is still

a lot,” I murmur.

Karl pushes off the counter, his own plastic cup crunching in his hand. “Sure.

But you’ve handled a lot more than that.”

A glance at the clock tells me there’s still time before we have to head back to

stage. I need a moment to myself, a moment to breathe. Excusing myself to the

restroom, I step inside and let out a soft sigh of relief.

The cool sensation of the marble counter under my fingertips is grounding as I

stand in front of the mirror and breathe deeply. My face feels hot, partially from

the stage lights and partially from the physical and metaphorical heat of the

kitchen, but I feel invigorated.

Although, if it weren’t for this awful mask of makeup on my face, I’d like to

splash some cold water on myself. But I can’t. Makeup artist’s orders.

I take one more glance in the mirror, my determination resurfacing. Karl is right;

Logan’s comments couldn’t possibly be the deciding factor of the entire

competition. If anything, it should serve as motivation to make an even better

dish in the next round.

As I step out of the bathroom a few moments later, Karl is waiting for me, still

leaning against “Almost time to head back,” he says, glancing at his watch.

“Almost time to win the next round,” I correct him.

“Win?” an all-too familiar voice calls out.

Just then, the door swings open and Daniel steps into the room. There’s a sneer

on his face.



“Looks like Abby is the people’s favorite out there,” he drawls. “But popularity

isn’t a skill, is it?”

I freeze, every fiber of my being tightening. For a moment, it feels as though the

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room’s temperature drops a few degrees, and a chill runs down my spine.

Karl’s beside me in an instant. “Not that it matters,” Daniel continues, inspecting

his nails. “Once they see past the sweet facade, they’ll realize you’re just a girly

girl playing chef. We all know how you got your certification, don’t wE?”

“What are you implying?” I hiss, taking a step forward.

“Oh, as if you don’t know,” Daniel says with that signature smirk of his. “I’ve

known girls like you before. You probably slept your way through culinary

school, didn’t you? How many of your professors did you have to blow to pass

your classes, hm?”

The implication hits me like a punch to the gut. My mind races to Vanessa’s

words from yesterday, how women—even ones like her—face discrimination in

this male-dominated field. I want to repeat her words, to make Daniel see the

error of his views, but my tongue fails me, and I’m left silent.

“Cat got your tongue, Abby?” Daniel taunts, stepping closer. “Or is it too hard for

your little female brain to comprehend what I’m saying?”

I want to lash out, to defend not just my honor but that of every woman who’s

been reduced to such baseless, spiteful stereotypes. I want to shout about the

hours I’ve poured into perfecting my craft, the sacrifices, the relentless pursuit of

a passion that knows no gender.

But this isn’t the time or place. I won’t give him the satisfaction.



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