The Backup Star
The first time Jasmine adjusted Ricky Lane’s collar, the world barely noticed him.
It was spring audition season, in one of those cavernous rehearsal halls on campus where fluorescent lights hummed overhead and every hopeful voice was swallowed by bad acoustics. Ricky wasn’t meant to stand out that day—he had been invited as a filler, a warm body for the back row, maybe a spare harmony if someone else dropped out.
He strolled in late, shirt wrinkled, shoes untied, hair wild from the rain. Handsome, yes, but in a careless way that suggested he didn’t know—or didn’t care—how to make the most of it.
Jasmine cared. She always cared.
They had grown up together, orbiting the same circles because their families were close. Not siblings, but something near to it—a childhood familiarity that gave them a shorthand no one else shared. For Ricky, it was easy; she was just Jasmine. For Jasmine, the years had shifted things into something heavier. She liked that Ricky was handsome but didn’t take himself too seriously. She liked that he treated her as normal while every other guy circled her like a conquest.
So on this breezy spring day, watching Ricky look like a walking train wreck going to an audition was just not going to happen on her watch.
“Hold still,” she said, sliding in front of him before he could step onto the floor. A comb appeared from her tote, nimble fingers tugging his hair into place. She smoothed the lines of his shirt, tugged at a button, tilted his chin until the shadows hit differently.
Ricky gave a half-smirk. “What are you, my mom?”
“No,” Jasmine replied, her voice even, her gaze sharper than the comb in her hand. “I’m the reason you don’t look like you rolled out of bed.”
When he finally took the stage, Jasmine leaned against the wall, arms folded. She wasn’t prepared for what came out of him. The first note sliced through the stale air like a blade—rich, unshakable—pulling the heads of the producers up from their clipboards. By the time he hit the chorus, the room was his.
But Jasmine knew better.
Ricky’s voice caught their attention. Her touch made them believe in the package.
She saw one producer scribble frontman potential into the margin of his sheet. And just like that, Ricky Lane was no longer backup material. He was being moved into the light.
What no one else knew was that moment did something for Jasmine too. It gave her the courage to chase fashion design seriously. But with the constant chorus of critiques—She’s nothing but a pretty face. She’ll make the perfect trophy wife—Jasmine decided to build in secret. If she failed, the fall would be hers alone. If she rose, it would be on her terms.
So, she stayed where she always had been—just beyond the edge of the spotlight.
