Page 1 of Offside Rules

Chapter One

Baylor

At 1:03 in the morning, I decide murder is probably worth the jail time.

The bass from the apartment above me comes through my kitchen ceiling, followed by three hard thumps. Either someone upstairs is moving furniture, or a small herd of rowdy elephants has moved in.

The pendant light above my kitchen island gives a little shake. I look up at it, then at the cupcakes lined up on my counter. It’s taken me hours to bake everything for tomorrow, and I still have frosting and cake pops to finish before I can sleep. If this party keeps going, I can cross sleep off the list altogether.

I pick up my phone and fire off a text to Ellie, my best friend since college and the owner of Serendipity’s Coffee Shop.

Me: If I get arrested tonight, will you bail me out?

Ellie answers before I can set it down.

Ellie: Depends. Who did you kill?

Ellie is the kind of friend who can convince you to move across the country, put your marketing degree aside, and finally start the bakery business you’ve wanted since you were a kid. She’s also the friend who would help you hide a body if this party goes on much longer.

Me: No one yet. But if they don’t turn the music down in the next five minutes, the apartment upstairs is going to be featured on a murder mystery show. The kind where a neighbor finally calls the cops two weeks later because of the smell of a decomposing body.

Ellie: You’ve lived there eight months. How have you not figured out who is throwing the parties?

Because I mind my own business. Most days, I’m up early to finish my delivery route. Then I park in my rented spot at the food truck lot. After that, I get my butt back to my apartment and start baking for the next day.

If I’m still awake after piping dozens of cupcakes with cramping hands, I make myself something to eat and collapse on the couch to watch some show about couples on an island looking for love. Usually with someone other than the person they arrived with.

Another thump comes from upstairs, and the large pendant swings again.

I text back…

Me: Working on it.

I leave my phone face down before I can start doomscrolling. Every extra sale this week goes toward the shop that just became vacant two doors down from Serendipity’s. I’ve wanted my own cakery since I started selling cupcakes and brownies at my brother Beau’s hockey games when I was six. At eight, I got the KitchenAid mixer I’d put on two Christmas lists in a row.

My parents thought baking could remain a hobby while I got a degree to fall back on. I studied marketing, spent nearly three years in a corporate office, then took Ellie up on her offer to stay with her while I figured out how to make baking my actual job. That was a year ago. Eight months ago, I moved into this apartment and got the kitchen approved.

For now, I bake here, stock a little cupcake counter at Serendipity’s, and sell the rest out of Sprinkles. Ellie gave me her old delivery truck when her cinnamon roll catering business took off, and she upgraded her delivery truck fleet.

I painted her baby pink and covered her in hand-painted sprinkles. She’s cute. She also coughs every time I start her on a rainy day, which is far too often for a truck in Seattle.

The shop has room for a glass display case, a few tables, and a tasting room in the back. Best of all, a commercial kitchen. Bigger ovens and refrigerators would let me take the wedding and corporate orders I have to turn down now. I just need one big event to help cover the deposit. Preferably before Sprinkles sputters and dies.

Beau offered to help, but this is his first season getting regular NHL ice time. After surgeries, rehab, and two years on the farm team, he’s finally getting his chance. I’m not making my truck or my shop deposit his problem.

My parents already dipped into their retirement savings to pay for my degree, and my savings from the corporate job went into this apartment and the business.

I can do this on my own.

I check the butter. Soft enough to make frosting, finally.

I set it beside the mixer and glance at the magnetic dry-erase board on my fridge. Seven dozen cupcakes for the truck tomorrow, two dozen for Serendipity’s, and five dozen cake pops. The cupcakes are baked and cooled. Half the cake pops are dipped and lined up in a foam block. The rest wait in a covered tray beside the chocolate.

Tomorrow, I’ll drop off Ellie’s order, make my regular Wednesday office stops, then park with the other food trucks for the lunch rush. I usually sell out. I’d like to keep it that way.

An empty space in the truck’s display case doesn’t come with a little sign explaining that my upstairs neighbor invited the entire neighborhood over to do the Macarena.

The bass changes, and another round of thumping starts.