Page 28 of Game Point (Game, Set, and Match #2)

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 you cook ?’

‘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. ‘Can you cook?’

‘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.’

I turned my attention to the chicken, trying to remember the basic food hygiene I knew I had been taught at some point.

It wasn’t our fault directly that we couldn’t cook.

A lot of this had been covered for us, our strict diets maintained with pre-made ready meals that were prepared by private chefs.

If we couldn’t stick it in the oven or microwave, then it was officially out of our depth.

I washed my hands and transferred the meat to a hot pan, checking on Dylan’s onion-cutting skills as she muttered under her breath, ‘Damn, these really go for your eyes.’

Once the onion was chopped, each slice a different size from the last, and added to the pan, she quickly turned to the chilli.

‘Have you seen how many seeds there are in here? How am I supposed to get rid of these?’ She started to press at the seeds with her fingers, removing them one by one.

‘Here, let me do it,’ I offered, switching sides with her as I passed her my spatula. ‘You need to move the chicken and onion around to keep them from burning.’

‘Oh, okay.’ She sounded a little uncertain as she took the spatula from me, but after a moment of pushing the ingredients around the pan, she said, ‘This isn’t that difficult.’

I grinned at her, ‘Look at us, cheffing.’

‘Who needs cooking lessons?’ she grinned back, my heart stuttering at the sight of her. Her hair was pushed back behind her ears, face clear. She was beautiful. My friend Dylan was beautiful.

I looked away from her, my own reminder twisting my gut. What was wrong with seeing it? Acknowledging it?

I swallowed, attempting to refocus on the chilli in front of me when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a terrible, terrible mistake happening.

‘Dylan, no!’ I cried, smacking her hands away from her eyes.

‘What?’ She stared at me with the fury of a thousand storms. After a second, the fury melted away to confusion, her eyes blinking as if to wash out an irritant. The chilli.

‘Wait, oh my god. Why is it stinging?’ Dylan flapped about, tears streaming out of her eyes.

All the while, I tried my best not to laugh and instead help. ‘Come here. I’ll wash your eyes out. Don’t –’ I cut off, pulling her hand away from her face again. ‘Don’t touch your face. Assume you are completely contaminated.’

Carefully, I guided her out of the kitchen, my hands on both of her arms as I took her through to the downstairs bathroom, sitting her down on the closed toilet. While she waited, I grabbed a clean towel, running it under the tap.

‘Do not touch your face,’ I ordered over my shoulder at her, watching her as she lowered her hands again, tucking them under her thighs as if to restrain herself. I turned back, kneeling down in front of her, my legs spread, her in between them.

Had we ever been this close?

I swallowed involuntarily at the realization, trying to ignore the little things I couldn’t help but notice at this proximity. Instead, I reached towards her, hesitating in mid-air.

‘Can I touch you?’ I asked, frozen, as I made sure she was okay with the contact.

‘Fuck. Yes,’ she immediately replied, sounding more and more distressed. ‘Anything. Just make it stop.’

I slid one hand against her soft cheek, tilting her head to the side to give me a better view of her left eye. Carefully, I used the wet cloth to clean it out, wiping at her closed eyelid.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ I said softly. ‘Let me know if I hurt you.’

I switched sides, making sure to use a different side of the cloth to wipe her other eye. She opened her left as if I did, squinting at me, the white of her eye tinged red. ‘I know our chef skills are limited,’ I began, ‘but who doesn’t know not to touch their eyes after chopping chillies?’

‘I thought it wouldn’t matter,’ she cried. ‘Or hurt that much. Are you sure you don’t want to order take-out?’

I smirked, shaking my head. ‘No, we are adults. We can absolutely do this.’

‘We aren’t adults. We are professional athletes who’ve never had to cook a meal in their entire lives,’ she argued back. ‘And now I’m a retired athlete with one eye.’

‘You’re going to be fine,’ I replied, finishing up my wiping, making sure to clean up the residual dampness.

Slowly, her other eye opened, and the deep brown of her eyes swallowed me whole.

My gaze searched her face, at first for any sign of discomfort, but when they found none, instead I took her in.

Her rosy cheeks, full eyebrows, plump full lips.

My hand, still touching her, pushed up along her jaw, tucking her long hair that had escaped back behind her ear.

‘Does it still hurt?’ I whispered, my eyes back to hers. They were still a little red, but she was wincing less.

I wasn’t sure if she was aware she did it, but she pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth before shaking her head softly. Instead of pulling away, like I thought she would, she leaned into my touch, her face completely held in my hands delicately.

I could … The thought bubbled up inside of me, growing bigger and more uncontrolled with every passing moment.

I could kiss her. Not moving closer to her was like fighting gravity, the strain on my body pulling all of my energy and self-control.

Kiss her, see if it feels like I’ve imagined these last few nights. I swallowed, my legs shifting under my weight, pulling me closer. Her hand slipped around my waist, the touch so warm, so soft and gentle in a way I’d never imagined Dylan could be.

Neither of us dared to talk, the silent exchange enough as I closed my eyes and dared to lean forward, using the last small tendrils of my self-control to rest my forehead on hers. I felt weak, reduced to this one need, this one thought. This one want.

My heart thumped in my chest, my fingers almost shaking.

When did this happen? This feeling that felt far too big.

Was it the last few days, hanging out on her sofa, laughing at each other’s jokes, staying more still than I had in years?

Was it the moment she stepped out of my text messages and back in front of me?

Was it that night at the party, when I watched her strike out with one of my mates?

When exactly did I start wanting to touch Dylan like this?

An alarm erupted in the hallway behind us, the connection instantly shattered as we pulled away.

‘Fuck!’ I swore, jumping up, away from her. I ran through to the kitchen, the room full of smoke. I found a towel, using it to insulate my hand from the smoking pan, moving it off the hot hob, practically throwing it into the sink.

Dylan ran after me, pausing to take in the scene before coughing from the smoke.

She turned, the alarm still blaring at us, and slid open the back door to let the smoke escape.

I opened another window to create a breeze to push the smoke out.

The blaring of the alarm stopped, and I turned around to see Dylan standing on top of a stool, pressing the button to silence it.

I headed over to her, offering her a hand as she climbed down, her descent a little wobbly. She grinned widely as her eyes caught mine, watery from the chilli and the smoke.

‘How do you feel about take-out now?’ she joked.

‘Yeah,’ I said, still trying to align the confusing feelings I had towards her, the tug to pull her close to me again, to tangle my fingers in her flowing hair, to feel her against me. She was supposed to be a friend, my healed heart shuttered away, safe from more damage.

But if that was true, why did it hurt to look at her and pretend it could stay this way?

‘We might not be cut out for this after all.’ I forced a small temporary smile to my lips, realizing I might need to book a plane ticket back to the UK before it was too late.