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Loved like a friend.
Chapter 3
Sierra
Cullen scoffed downa plate of Mom’s spaghetti and meatballs like he was a man coming off a hunger strike. Fair to say, my brother did too, but it confirmed my hunch that he hadn’t managed his nutrition levels during the game. I guessed, in a way, it was my fault. Because of my leg, I hadn’t been able to be my active self, and twins Jimmy and Martha had been a big help, but they didn’t know the players like I did. I knew Skyler Knight only drank lemon-lime flavored sports drinks, I knew Redmond Phillips rarely came for water and that Sawyer preferred to drink from the red water bottles—yes, weird. And I knew Cullen shouted so much on the field that his hydration requirements were greater than anyone else’s, but he was often too busy worrying about his players.
Sawyer checked his watch several times, repeatedly musing over how Tennessee and Millie’s date might be going. In a rush to leave, he stacked his and Cullen’s plates and took them to the dishwasher.
Cullen, meanwhile, seemed to have developed a thirst and poured himself another glass of water.
“Do you want one Mrs. Huntington?” he asked, holding the jug high.
Mom shook her head. “No, thank you. Are you sure you’ve had enough, Cullen? There’s more if you want it.” She stood, ready to get the extra helping. Mom seemed to forget that there were only two kids at home these days and not four. Every day there were mountains of leftovers.
“More than enough, thanks. It was delicious.” Cullen was always polite around Mom and Dad. But, with Mom and Sawyer gone, he lowered his voice. “Sierra? More water?”
Something happened then—the way my name rolled off his tongue, the way he tilted his neck toward me and his eyes fixed on mine for a second longer than I expected—all of that stirred me, and my cheeks flooded with heat like I’d suddenly been exposed to a giant furnace. And even though we’d been talking all things football throughout dinner, somehow now I was struggling to breathe or speak coherently.
“Uh, um, I’m—,” I stuttered, reaching out to tap my finger to my glass that was already full.
Why would he ask if I wanted more water when my glass couldn’t hold another drop?
Picking up my fork, I twirled a string of spaghetti and shoved it into my mouth. Wrong move! Now I was frantically trying to slurp up the strand of spaghetti that was dangling from my mouth. How uncivilized could one look? And how much spaghetti sauce was on my chin?
In my peripheral vision, Cullen’s flick of his own chin answered that question. I scooped up my napkin and wiped my lower face. Heck, my nose too, just in case. I’d eaten in front of Cullen countless times before, not the least bit worried when food had gotten stuck in my braces (note to anyone with braces: avoid popcorn if you can.) It had always been a laughing point, something to joke about. But now, with my cheeks on fire, I couldn’t face him. I was mortified to think that Cullen would see me with food plastered over my chin or stuck between my teeth.
Gathering up my plate, fork and napkin, I rose from my chair. “Excuse me,” I mumbled, fleeing the scene like I was the prime suspect in a crime, forgetting my crutch. The pain didn’t hit me until I got to the stairs, even then I ignored it until I was in the sanctuary of my room, flopped down on my bed.
Gah! Could I have acted any weirder? And what was with turning bright red? Cullen was...Cullen, Sawyer’s friend, Homecoming King, Mr. Popular. So, why was my body betraying me, my hormones out of kilter? Getting excited by him, his touch, his voice, what was wrong with me?
It was all so outrageous.
Luckily, I had the whole weekend to get over whatever it was.
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