Curvy Girls Can't Date Quarterbacks - Kelsie Stelting Page 0,32

and Beckett’s voices sounded so close.

“I’m freaking out,” I whispered.

Callie shoved my shoulder. “Go.” At the sound of the garage door closing, I high-tailed it out of there, thundering down the stairs and past the kitchen onto the patio. I didn’t stop running until we’d crossed Callie’s sloping yard and were safely inside the ground level of their home.

My chest heaved from exertion, barely taking in the room we’d entered through.

The guys sitting in front of the TV, video game controllers in their hands, noticed though.

“What’re you doing?” a guy who looked like an older, buffer version of Callie asked.

The five of us looked at each other; even Zara’s dark cheeks were red. Between the embarrassment and exertion, we’d probably be flushed until homecoming.

“Um,” I managed, then mentally kicked myself. Was that the only word I knew? “We, um—” There it was again.

“These are my friends,” Callie said, blushing just as hard.

Something told me it had to do with the hottie sitting by her brother. Because...um...wow.

“And we’re going upstairs,” she said, stiffly walking toward the stairs.

Ginger pushed off the sliding glass door and followed Callie. The rest of us walked behind them, all the way up the stairs until we got to Callie’s room. She opened up a mini fridge and started handing out drinks and sugar cookies. Thank God because my throat was parched. I guzzled down the orange soda until the ache went away.

Ginger was busy with her electronics, setting up two laptops and several speakers. From one screen, we could see a general view of Carson’s room from one of his bookshelves, and on the other, we saw wobbling video of the stairs rising. It kind of made me dizzy, honestly.

I focused my attention on the cookie Callie had handed me. It was decorated like a hot dog. I held it up and said, “What’s the deal with the franks?”

Callie shook her head at the cookie in her hand. “My mom’s gotten super into cookie decorating.” She shuddered.

I laughed. “They’re not that bad.”

Ginger hurriedly shushed us. “They’re talking!”

The speakers crackled, and on the screen, I could see them back in Carson’s room. The TV there came into view, then switched on. A football field crossed the screen.

Ginger groaned. “Is that all guys can talk about is football?”

Carson’s voice came through the speakers. “Think the Badgers are gonna win?”

“No way,” Beckett said, coming into view of the camera. He sat on Carson’s futon, leaning back with his drink in his hand. The video wasn’t HD by any means, but it was still clear enough to see the strength in his core, the slope of the muscles in his shoulders. The ease of his smile...

I might not be Beckett’s type, but there was no doubt that he was mine. Just ask the speeding rate of my heart or the drool dripping down my chin.

Okay, that last one might have been an exaggeration, but man, look at him.

They were quiet a while as we listened to the garbled voices of the announcers discussing the game. Which was alright, for a few minutes, but a complete quarter into the game? This was starting to get boring.

Zara groaned. “When are they getting to the good stuff? We’re not just going to pirate the football game, are we?”

“Patience,” Callie said. “Talking about feelings during a football game is like...knocking someone’s books down, then not picking them up. All the good stuff will be during halftime.”

I sighed and excused myself to go to the bathroom. Away from Callie’s room, I could only faintly hear the game. As I stepped into the bathroom down the hall, I took a deep breath and spread my arms wide, hoping some stretching would relieve this tension in my chest.

Everything hinged on what Beckett would say to Carson. Everything. My odds of getting him to fall for me. The chance of me going to my senior homecoming.

My heart.

This may have started out as a bet, but I was starting to get deeper feelings for Beckett than a simple crush. The superficial things I liked about him in the beginning were still there, but now I knew more lay beneath the surface than good looks and a generally decent personality. I’d never spoken with anyone who looked so deeply at simple things like digital photos or paintings. Who would stand up to someone like Merritt—for me. That meant something to me.

But did it to him?

“Ror!” Callie yelled. “They’re talking!”

I hurriedly washed my hands and ran back to the room, getting