Page 80 of Quarterback Sneak
I look between him and Zane, feeling bad because I’m already causing a problem just by being here. I turn to Zane. “Maybe it would be better if I just went back to campus.” I barely get the words out of my mouth before he answers with a definitiveno. “Are you sure? I don’t want to cause problems.”
“You’re not a problem. If anything, Quint can leave.” Quint’s grin drops. “Hey, I live here.”
“Not for long if you don’t behave,” Zane growls at him.
Quint sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll be good.” He mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key.
Zane turns back to me. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Have you eaten anything since lunch?” Zane asks.
I stop to think. “No.”
“Then you’re hungry. Want to help me make dinner for the guys? It’s my night.” He points to my book. “Or you can just read for your class. No pressure either way.”
I follow Zane into the kitchen, ignoring the sounds coming from Quint behind me.Are those supposed to be kissing sounds?“What are we making?” I ask when I step into the kitchen.
“Ground turkey and sweet potato bowls,” he says as he looks into the refrigerator. When he glances over at me and catches my expression, he laughs. “Not a fan, I take it?”
“You do you,” I say, waving my hand at him.
“You’ll like them,” he says confidently. He starts pulling out all sorts of ingredients from the fridge. “What did you like to eat growing up? Besides orange chicken, that is,” he says with a smirk.
I think back on my years at home. “Honestly, my mom and I both worked a lot; we ate a lot of frozen and easy foods. Chicken nuggets, ramen, microwave bowls.”
He frowns. “How early did you start working?”
I shrug. “As soon as I was legally allowed.” At his questioning look, I tell him. “At fourteen.” At his look, I hurry to add, “But it was good for me.” Wanting the focus off me, I ask, “What about you? How old were you and what was your first job?”
“I worked for my dad from an early age.”
“See, that’s the same thing.” He looks over at me like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. “You helped take care of the land?” I ask, curious. He nods, even as he turns on the oven. “What can I do?”
“Want to prep the sweet potatoes?” He nods to the large orange potatoes on the counter. “You don’t have to,” he offers when I don’t respond right away.
Feeling my cheeks heat, I ask softly, “How do you prepare them? I’ve never made sweet potatoes before?”
“Oh, it’s easy. Just peel it like a regular potato.” I get started. “See?” he says with a smile. “You’re a natural.” I scoff and roll my eyes. When it comes time to chop the potatoes, I sink the knife into the potato. It gets stuck halfway. No matter what I do, I can’t get it to go all the way through. Zane turns from the stove and sees my predicament. “Sweet potatoes are hard to cut through.” But despite his words, the knife slides through the potato easily for him.
“Give me that.” I take it from him and try again. I stand on my tiptoes and push down. The knife finally cuts through the potato and hits the cutting board hard. “There we go,” I tell him triumphantly.
“Do you still have all your fingers?” I ignore him and go back to cutting. It takes forever, but I finally get the small chunks he was going for. “Perfect. Thanks.”
“What are we doing with them?” I ask.
“We’re going to sauté them in olive oil; it will take them a little bit to get tender.”
I look at the other skillet he’s got going with ground turkey in it. “Want to help me chop the rest of the vegetables?” I nod, and he grabs another knife and cutting board and comes over to work beside me. His body dwarfs mine. He’s so much taller and bigger than me, but he doesn’t make me nervous. He never has. I take in the assortment of veggies—carrots, celery, onions, and peppers and get to work. I’ll admit, it’s a little difficult to focus on the veggies when his biceps and the muscles in his forearm flex every time he cuts a veggie. Somehow, I make myself focus on the job at hand.
Honestly, we work pretty well together. I don’t know why it surprises me; Zane has a way of just making everything easy. When the veggies are almost done, Zane drops in a bunch of spinach. I frown, and Zane laughs. “It will be good; I promise.”
“I don’t know. You seem pretty confident in your cooking skills,” I tell him.
“Ourcooking skills,” he corrects. “And yes, I am.”
“That smells amazing,” Quint says, coming into the kitchen. He walks over to the stove and reaches right into the skillet, but Zane smacks his hand.
