Chapter 11 Rivalry
rivalry
. . .
Miles
This was it. The Coffee Throwdown. Everything Lila and I had worked for, condensed into one chaotic twenty-minute performance in front of half the town.
No pressure at all.
My hands were shaking. Not obviously, but enough that I shoved them in my pockets to hide it. The festival grounds felt both too big and too small, like the whole world had shrunk down to this one stage, this one moment.
“You look like you're about to bolt.”
I turned to find Derek standing beside me, adjusting his apron. His was minimalist and sleek, all clean lines. Mine had a pumpkin with googly eyes that Lila had insisted would be “good luck.” It looked ridiculous next to his.
“I'm not going to bolt.” I pulled my hands out of my pockets, flexing my fingers. They were still shaking. “I'm just... taking in the moment.”
“You're panicking.”
“I'm strategically concerned about the multiple ways this could implode.” I glanced at his station, then mine, then at Gavin's chrome-and-glass setup that looked like a science lab. “There's a difference.”
Derek's shoulder brushed mine. The contact was grounding, solid. “For what it's worth, I'm terrified too. I've just had more practice hiding it.”
“The smug thing, you mean.”
“I prefer confident.” He bumped his shoulder against mine again. “But yeah, I'm scared we're going to fuck this up spectacularly. That Gavin's going to win because he's got corporate backing and unlimited resources and we're just—” He gestured vaguely at our jury-rigged equipment. “This.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was slightly mussed from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he probably didn't realize he had. His eyes were bright with adrenaline and fear and something warm that made my chest feel too tight.
Even now, after everything, we were still technically rivals. Competing against each other. But somewhere along the way, the rivalry had shifted into something else. Something I wasn't ready to name but couldn't ignore.
“May the best man win?” I offered.
Derek's mouth quirked. “Yeah. May the best man win.”
Before either of us could say more, the crowd erupted. The emcee bounded onto the stage, witch hat askew, carrying enough energy to power a small city.
“Welcome, welcome, everyone, to the Harvest Festival Coffee Throwdown!” Her voice boomed across the grounds, and the crowd roared back.
“We've got three incredibly talented competitors today.
Miles Carter from Lila's Pumpkin Patch Café, Derek Walsh from Walsh's Coffeehouse, and Gavin Hale from Corporate Coffee Solutions!”
Polite applause for Gavin. Enthusiastic cheering for me and Derek.
The emcee continued, grinning. “Our contestants will have exactly twenty minutes to create the ultimate Halloween latte. Judges will score based on taste, visual presentation, and creativity. This is a friendly competition, folks!” She paused. “Well, mostly friendly. We'll see how it goes.”
I caught Derek's eye, and we both shook our heads.
“Alright, contestants, take your stations!”
I made my way to my booth, which sat between Derek's and Gavin's.
Lila had packed it with everything we needed: espresso machine, milk, syrups, spices, and approximately three million decorations.
Pumpkin-shaped sprinkles. Orange sugar crystals.
Edible glitter. A small plastic skeleton that I was pretty sure was supposed to go on a cake.
Derek's station was clean and organized, everything in its place. Gavin's looked like a surgical suite.
And mine looked like organized chaos had exploded.
Perfect.
The emcee raised her hand. “Contestants ready?”
I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake off the nerves. Beside me, Derek was stretching his fingers, centering himself. Our eyes met for a brief second, and something passed between us. Not quite a truce. Not quite a challenge. Something in between.
“On your mark...”
My heart pounded.
“Get set...”
Deep breath.
“Brew!”
The timer started, and the rest of the world fell away.
I grabbed the espresso grounds, firing up my machine. The familiar hiss and gurgle settled my nerves, and I fell into the rhythm I knew by heart. This part made sense. This part I could control.
From the corner of my eye, I could see Derek working with that focused grace of his, movements precise and controlled. Gavin was all efficiency, no wasted motion, checking his thermometer every few seconds.
I pulled my first shot, checked the crema, nodded.
Good. The espresso was rich and dark, exactly what I needed as a base.
I reached for the pumpkin spice blend Lila and I had perfected over weeks of testing—cinnamon, nutmeg, a hint of ginger, just enough to capture autumn without overwhelming the coffee.
“Fifteen minutes!” the emcee called.
I steamed my milk, watching the foam build, listening for that perfect sound that meant the texture was right. Not too thick, not too thin. I started the pour, creating a simple heart design—nothing fancy, but clean and deliberate.
The crowd was losing their minds around me, shouting commentary and suggestions, but it all faded into background noise. All I could focus on was the work.
I was reaching for the whipped cream when the lights flickered.
Just once. But enough to make me pause.
“That's probably nothing,” I muttered, even though my gut said otherwise.
The lights flickered again. Longer this time, a full second of dimness before they came back.
And then my espresso machine made a sound I'd never heard before—a dying wheeze that turned into a sputter that turned into complete, devastating silence.
Dead. The machine was completely dead.
“No.” I slapped the side of it, which had never accomplished anything in the history of broken equipment but felt necessary. “No, no, no. Come on, you piece of shit, not now.”
I crouched down, checking the power cord. My stomach dropped.
Someone had unplugged it. Not loose. Not accidentally knocked free. Deliberately, intentionally removed from the generator.
I looked across the stage and found Gavin watching me. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were bright with satisfaction.
That absolute piece of shit.
The crowd was murmuring now, confused whispers building into concerned questions. The judges were huddled together, arguing in low voices. And I had twelve minutes left on the clock.
Twelve minutes to fix this and finish.
My hands were shaking again, but this time from rage, not fear. I grabbed the cord, tried to reconnect it, but something was wrong. The connection was fried, probably from the deliberate unplugging, and it wouldn't hold.
“Fuck.” I sat back on my heels, staring at the dead machine. All that work. All those weeks of preparation. Gone because someone decided to cheat.
“Miles.”
I looked up to find Derek standing beside my booth. He'd left his own station, abandoned his own competition, and he was looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
“Your machine,” I said stupidly. “You need to—”
“How bad is it?”
“The connection's fried. I'd need to rewire it directly to the generator, and I don't have time—”
“I can fix it.” He was already crouching beside me, examining the cord. “The connection's fried, but I can bypass it. Wire it directly. Give me five minutes.”
“Derek, you're in the middle of your own—”
“Five minutes, Miles.” He looked up at me, and his expression was serious. Determined. “Trust me.”
“But you'll lose time. You won't finish your own—”
“I don't care.” He was already pulling tools from his apron. “Let me help you.”
The crowd had gone quiet, watching this unfold. I could see people leaning in, phones out, capturing every moment. Lila was gripping her glitter sign so hard it was shedding everywhere. Even the judges had stopped arguing, watching with something like fascination.
“Why?” I asked quietly.
Derek's hands paused on the wires. He looked at me, really looked at me, and something shifted in his expression. Softened.
“Because fuck Gavin,” he said simply. “And because this matters more than winning.”
Before I could respond, he was working. Stripping wires with steady hands, connecting them directly to the generator, his movements quick but controlled.
I knelt beside him, holding things when he needed me to, handing him tools, watching him work with that focused intensity that had drawn me in from the start.
“Seven minutes!” the emcee called.
“Almost there,” Derek muttered. “Just need to—got it.”
He flipped the switch, and my machine hissed to life. Steam rising. Power flowing.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Derek stood, wiping his hands on his apron. “You've got about six minutes. Can you finish?”
“I—Derek, your station—”
“Is fine. I prepped everything before I came over. I just need to assemble.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Go. Make something amazing.”
So I did.
I flew through the remaining steps, re-pulling shots since the first ones had cooled, steaming fresh milk, my hands moving on autopilot. Derek had returned to his own station, working with controlled urgency, and I could see him glancing over every few seconds to check my progress.
“Three minutes!”
Final presentation. Whipped cream, piped with a slightly shaking hand. Cinnamon dusting. The smallest pumpkin garnish on top. I stepped back, looking at my finished drinks.
They weren't perfect. The foam design had smudged when I'd had to redo it. The whipped cream was a little lopsided. The layers weren't as clean as I'd wanted.
But they looked real. Honest. Like something made by an actual human who cared.
I glanced over at Derek's station. He'd finished too, just barely, his drinks gleaming under the lights. Perfect execution, as always.
And then I looked at Gavin's. Flawless. Sterile. Soulless.
“Time!” the emcee called.
The timer buzzed, sharp and final.