Curvy Girls Can't Date Quarterbacks - Kelsie Stelting Page 0,1


I walked through the sliding doors and gave Betty, the receptionist, a pained smile.

“Mom sent you in again?” she asked.

“Yup,” I said, switching my paper bag to the other hand so I could sign in.

“An eight-a-m-er, no less. Nice.” She pushed some curly hair over her shoulder and typed in my name and date of birth without having to ask for it. “Sign this, and the nurse will be out to grab ya soon.”

I scribbled my name on the scuffed digital pad and sat down in one of the plush leather chairs. Hints of breakfast wafted from the paper bag in my hand, making my mouth water. The only other thing that made me drool this much was Beckett’s perfectly messy hair and his muscled shoulders. How he managed to look like a prep-school god in his uniform while I looked like an overweight Mia Thermopolis—pre-princess makeover—I had no idea.

I got the breakfast sandwich out of my bag and took a bite, savoring the sausage. My eyes slid closed. So much better than a grapefruit.

So much better.

“Hey, Rory,” a voice said beside me.

A sexy voice.

I gulped down my bite and, brushing biscuit crumbs from my lips, turned to see the deepest hazel eyes.

Beckett Langley knew my name?

“Beckett,” I breathed, then coughed and said his name at a normal tone like I wasn’t a complete lovestruck psychopath. “Beckett. What—um, what are you doing here?”

Okay, not a perfect second attempt, but closer.

He sank back in the leather chair next to mine and held up his arm sporting a black wrist brace. “Fell wrong in practice. Coach wants an x-ray before he’ll let me play again.”

“Oh,” I said, completely distracted by him. Now that I had looked away from his eyes, I couldn’t stop taking in the rest of him. The tight Emerson Academy t-shirt and mesh shorts that hung on his muscular legs. The dampness of his hair that made it look almost black.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Oh, um.” God, could I stop saying um? But then again, it was better than the whole pregnancy-test-missing-periods-virgin conversation we could be having...

“Rory?” Chloe said by the door. She was wearing Winnie the Pooh scrubs today, and I’d never been more grateful to see Pooh.

“That’s me,” I said, half to her and half to Beckett.

He gave me a two-finger salute. “See you in math tomorrow, Rory.”

I nearly choked on my saliva. He knew my name and that we were in math together? “I—um—yeah.”

I bunched up the paper bag with my food and stood up, straightening my shirt—and checking for stray crumbs.

As I walked to meet Chloe and go back for my appointment, I felt Beckett’s eyes on my back... and my heart in my throat.


Between the blood test, an ultrasound (that went where no man had ever gone before), and a massive list of probing—er—intrusive questions, I was done. More than done. And, for the first time in my life, I was glad to be wearing my school uniform again.

A knock sounded on the door. “Decent?”

“Yes,” I managed, and Dr. Edmonson came in.

I got a great view of his bald patch as he walked through the door, flipping through my charts.

“It’s what I expected.” He sighed, every bit as dramatic but nowhere near as sigh-worthy as McDreamy.

“What is it?” I asked. “Because I’d love to get my mom to stop bombarding me with pregnancy tests.”

He chuckled, but quickly sobered. “Usually, we’d wait for the readings to come back, but as a favor to your mom, I took a peek myself. You have PCOS.” At my confused look, he added, “Polycystic ovarian syndrome.”

For the next fifteen minutes, he explained this thing I had no idea existed but had somehow taken over my body, my weight, and apparently my fertility. He explained why I’d packed on the pounds so quickly since middle school and had to go to weekly waxing appointments with my mother. That I’d have a harder time conceiving, when the time came, if I was able to at all.

All of it seemed overwhelming. And unfair. I mean, yeah, I ate fast food, but so did half the kids at Emerson Academy. Why was I the one ballooning out and they could still stay in single-digit uniforms and procreate like monkeys? “So, how do we get rid of it?”

“You could try to lose weight.”

I rested back in my chair and rolled my eyes. “My mom’s on that one.” Everyone acted like if you were fat, all your medical problems were fat. They never wanted to