OCEAN EYES ☾ { TROY BOLTON }

17 ~ 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜 & 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜

". . . 𝐴𝑁𝐷 before you all go, remember, the SkillsUSA competition is hot on our tails—being just this Friday—so it truly is vital now more than ever to really look over and study those notes pertaining to your workplace readiness skills. I know how insignificant it may seem to preparing the actual cuisine itself, but keep in mind that the food isn't the only thing you'll be ranked on. The execution, appearance, and taste are, so the tiniest mistake, no matter it accidental, can weigh a huge factor in your final rankings falling into the passing sector or the failing one. Got it?"

Synchronously peeved, yet regardful murmurs of 'yes, Chef' were quick to flood the margin of the Culinary Art's classroom in a debilitated spirit. Sorely exhausted participants affiliated with the forthcoming competition right away beginning to gather their belongings to leave for the evening.

Practice had gone a little over the set ending time and the irritation exuded from that was relatively high provided that the angry mumbles and occasional heavy placings of items into bags showed any indication.

Hayden, however, contrary to her frenzied peers, took her time packing up her belongings. While the girl's desire to leave the building she'd been captive to for over the past nine hours had undoubtedly matched her fellow contestants', the current state of her muscles prevented her the fortunate capability of moving at the same rapid pace.

Though with the competition being only three days away, nearing gravely closer with each to pass by, the Zara long surmised the soreness to materialize within the core of her spent muscles.

Under the circumstance of that proximity and the contest being held of great importance to Chef, however, everyone and thing needed to be as best as could possibly be in the man's eyes. No slip-ups or missteps were tolerated—something he made sure to drill into the heads of his students at every gathering.

Every practice was to be treated as the real deal, essentially. As though the judges were standing behind each participant's shoulder observing like a hawk, waiting to press that elimination buzzer on behalf of the tiniest mistake made.

It was stressful but understandable.

Hayden couldn't recall what exactly it'd been to cause the tingling ache in her arms and wrists—whether it from the interminable cutting of pound after pound of russet potatoes, or the constant stirring of the seven rouxs' she'd been assigned to via Chef's input of the girl desperately needing to improve the precision of her cuts and executing the perfect thickness of a roux seeing as one of great complexity was to be assigned for the competition—but regardless, she had a gut-feeling for the discomfort to stick around during the next few days to come.

Reaching from the table to her bag to pack away her notebook jotted messily with notes she was certain herself to not even be able to decipher later on, the teen inhaled a sharp breath through her teeth, fighting back a wince as another cutting sting took her by surprise. She paused in place, arm still awkwardly stretched across the wide length of the table as she waited for the discomfort to pass. Her eyelids soon after pressed themselves tightly together as a slow breath traveled past her lips. If the way she felt then was any indication of what'd it be like at the end of the next couple of grueling practices that were to come, the thought of possibly skipping one hadn't immediately been banished when creeping way into the back of the girl's mind.

Fully aware that she was setting herself up, Hayden continued the scenario in her mind by visualizing herself lying in bed. She saw herself listening to one of the CDs from her collection she had yet to break out—or in a more realistic sense, finish unpacking—in the midst of doing so, happily munching on a bag of sour gummy worms, a can of Dr. pepper not too far from her reach, perched atop her nightstand. It could almost compare to spending an evening in heaven. Blithely relishing in the comfort and solace the music and toxic junk would bring her as opposed to hearing Chef bark orders in her ear time and time again about whatever redundant thing his strung-out brain could devise.