Dump and Chase (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 1)

I bite my lip as I pull off the highway and head downtown to the arena. I’m not sure what my mom has in store for me, but I’m hoping it’s not something boring. When I turn onto the road that holds the arena, my phone sounds again. I look down to see that it’s Posey.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I need some advice.”

“Okay?”

She hesitates, but then it’s like she’s speaking all her words at once. “Should I get something for Maxim for his birthday?”

My mouth quirks at the side. “Do you want to?”

“I do. I saw this amazing stick that I know he’d love but can’t afford, and I thought if I get it, he’d like it.”

I shrug. “I mean, if you want to, do it.”

“You don’t think that’s dumb?”

“Why would it be?”

“I don’t know. Like, it makes sense that Mom and Dad get him something, but I’m just me.”

I hate that she feels like that. She’s always so reserved. So self-conscious when she doesn’t need to be. She’s absolutely stunning and smart as a whip. Maxim would be lucky to be with her. “Yes. You’re the girl in love with him.”

“Shelli.”

“What? You know what I think. I think you should get the stick and write on the blade that you’re totally in love with—”

“Goodbye, Shelli.”

The line goes dead, and I laugh. That’s a first, being hung up on twice in one day. I follow the road through the parking garage up to the top where the players and employees park. I hope Posey takes my advice. She should tell him. They’d be cute together. As I get out of the truck, I’m excited I get to see Aiden soon. The guys had a great road trip, winning all three of their away games. They should be coming home today, but I haven’t heard from him yet.

Not that I’m watching my phone or anything.

When it sounds, I rush to look at it, but it’s only an email from a casting director up in New York. I open it as I walk toward the elevators. Before I can finish the email, though, my mom’s voice startles me.

“Jumpy much?” she teases as she hits the button. My mother is by far the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She’s so classy and powerful in her pencil skirt and flowy blouse. She wears heels that are sky high and make her seem way taller than she is. Her hair is down, matching mine in big, wide curls. I grin as she hugs me from the side. “What has your attention?”

She looks over my shoulder at the email as we ride down. “A casting director wants me to audition for Chicago.”

Her green eyes blaze back at me. “The one you always wanted to do.”

“Yeah,” I say softly.

“You should go.”

“You think?”

She nods as we ride down to the offices. “I do. I know you think you’re done, but maybe one more?”

I shrug as the doors open, and I tuck my phone into my pocket, deciding to write them back later. “I don’t know. I’m happy here.” But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I shouldn’t think like that. While I love being home, the main reason I don’t want to go back to New York is because Aiden wouldn’t be there. This could all go to hell, and I would have missed out on an opportunity to be in a show I have wanted to perform in since I saw it at thirteen.

“But it’s your favorite. At least go, try out, and then decide after they offer you the lead.”

I scoff at her confidence in me as she wraps an arm around my shoulders. She kisses my temple as we head to her office. When the door shuts behind me, I look around at my life on display. Photos of my mom and dad together from when they were dating to the day they got married tell their story in front of me. There are photos of my siblings and me growing up too, but my eyes fall on the photo right above her desk. It’s the one of my mom singing to my dad after a game, when she knew she had to win him over.

Her big gesture to get him back, after not singing live for so long. It’s one of my favorite pictures and, for sure, one of my favorite stories she retells. I fall back in a chair, and I point up at the photograph. “I wish I had a chance to do Funny Girl.”

My mom’s face fills with such admiration as she gazes up at the photo, my dad holding her face as she holds the mic at her side. She looks back at me and says, “Oh honey, I would love to see you do that.”

I grin. “Though I doubt I could ever sing ‘My Man’ the way the great Eleanor Fisher did,” I say, using her maiden name.