Two rivals, one scoop. This festival just got bitter.
Hands off my beans, hotshot. I saw it first.
Your beans? You can't even pull a clean shot without burning it.
The queue groans. A spilled latte pools between us like battlefield oil.
Oh, that's rich coming from the one who curdled my cream at the regional finals.
That was fair play. You're just bitter you lost the throwdown.
She grips the scoop, knuckles white. The cart wobbles. A sigh escapes her.