Page 62 of Game Point
I stood on the very tips of my toes, stretching up to place the box on the top shelf of my closet, certain it would be safe from prying eyes and nosy people. And with a deep inhale, I tucked away some better-left-unexplored feelings up there too.
21
Oliver
Keep Driving – Harry Styles
‘I’m going to starve to death if I don’t eat soon,’ Dylan complained as her stomach rumbled loudly in agreement. My eyes narrowed on her, wondering if she had such control over her own body that she could get it to grumble on command.
My eyes found the clock now hanging on the wall, which we’d put up together. It was maybe a little lopsided, but we’d tried our best.
‘It’s about dinner time,’ I said, ‘We could make something.’
‘We have nothing in,’ Dylan complained. If there was one thing I had learned living with her, it was that despite neither of us training, our bodies didn’t seem to realize they didn’t need as much fuel, meaning all the easy-to-grab food we had bought after our supermarket shop had very quickly disappeared.
‘We have that stir-fry,’ I suggested, looking over at the kitchen, my wary gaze landing on the fridge.
She hummed, ‘What about take-out?’
‘We have food in the house. We don’t want it to go to waste.’
‘But pizza,’ she countered, my own stomach rumbling at the idea. Dylan opened her phone, no doubt searching for the first pizza delivery she could find.
‘We had pizza last night,’ I said, but she only waved my words away.
‘That was frozen. This is vastly different.’ She kept her eyes on her phone, scrolling through the possible toppings. ‘Besides, I don’t want to cook.’
I noted what we’d had to eat since we’d arrived, realizing that it had all been foods you could throw in the oven or microwave. Absolutely nothing that hadn’t been a take-out was boiled or fried.
‘Don’t want to …’ I trailed off, raising a playful eyebrow at her, ‘or can’t?’
Her phone lowered. ‘I can cook,’ she argued, sitting up straight. ‘I know how to turn the oven on and off.’
‘But can youcook?’
‘Of course,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘it can’t be that hard.’
‘Then prove it. We can do it together.’
The slightest hint of a worried expression crept onto her face. ‘Canyoucook?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but like you said, it can’t be that hard. Especially with an experienced chef.’
She mumbled as I stood up from the sofa, the look of worry increasing with every moment, ‘I might have oversold my skills if you are labelling me as an experienced chef, unless there’s, like, a private chef that’s about to arrive and cook the stir-fry for us.’
I stepped beside her. ‘It will be fine.’
She remained unmoved, her legs crossed. ‘I’m unconvinced.’ But despite her words, her hands met mine mid-air, and I used them to help get her up off the sofa. We both made our way over to the kitchen.
I couldn’t remember whose idea a chicken stir-fry was,but as I looked down at the ingredients, I considered going back on my plan and telling her to order the pizza instead.
‘Do you want to chop the chicken or the vegetables?’ I offered, pointing at the raw ingredients.
Her head spun towards me. ‘I’m handling a knife?’ she asked, incredulous. ‘What if I lose a finger?’
I shook my head at her, passing her the onion and chilli. ‘You can cut the vegetables with the small knife.’
‘It’s all a sharp, pointed edge to me.’
