Page 160 of What We Burn

Eli’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t say a word. He draws his arm back and hurls the bowl.

He forgets the bias entirely. He forgets the delicate, sweeping curve required for the sport. The heavy resin sphere leaves his hand like a cannonball, entirely airborne for the first ten feet. It hits the green hard enough to tear an ugly divot in the pristine grass, bounces twice, and obliterates the remaining Pen-15 bowl, sending it rocketing into the concrete ditch with a loud crack.

The jack is caught in the crossfire, skittering wildly off into rink three.

The entire Glenview Lawn Bowls Club seems to hold its collective breath.

Eli stands on the mat, his chest heaving, staring at the destruction.

“Well,” I say, breaking the silence and tapping a new line into my phone. “I’m counting that as a strike. Exceptional kinetic energy, Eli. Zero finesse, but maximum psychological damage.”

“The jack is out of bounds,” Headband squeaks, pointing a trembling finger. “That’s a dead end! You killed the end!”

Holden stands up, smoothing the front of his team shirt. He fixes Headband with a stare so perfectly devoid of human empathy that the guy actually takes a half-step backward.

“We killed the end,” Holden agrees, his voice a low, terrifying purr. “Set it up again.”

I look at the five of them. My family. My pack. Five lethal disasters on a sunlit lawn, pretending to be people.

Yeah. We’re definitely winning this game.

Headband scurries off to retrieve the jack from rink three, practically tripping over his own bright white sneakers. He mumbles a frantic apology to an elderly man in a beige cardigan who is currently staring at the divot Eli left in the turf like it’s an unexploded landmine.

Eli steps off the mat. He’s breathing hard, his hands flexing at his sides.

Sage shuffles over to him. Squeak, squeak, squeak. The shoes completely ruin the gravitas of the moment, but neither of them cares. She stops right next to him and bumps her shoulder against his arm and stays there. Eli’s jaw ticks, but he leans into the contact, his breathing slowing by a fraction.

I make a mental note, filing it away under Critical Operational Updates: Do not use the name Stephen as a motivational tool.

“My bad,” I say, keeping my tone light even as guilt pinches the back of my neck. “I clearly miscalculated the optimal level of rage for a turf-based recreational sport.”

Eli doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t answer at all.

Micah smoothly steps into the space, clapping a hand on Eli’s shoulder before handing him a water bottle. “Take five, man. I’ll throw the next one.”

When Headband finally resets the end, his hands are visibly shaking. The entire Pen-15 Club has lost their middle-school swagger.

We start the final end again.

They replay it with the nervous, hurried energy of prey animals realizing they’ve wandered into a lion enclosure. Two of their bowls end up in the ditch. One barely makes it halfway down the green.

By the time we reach the final deliveries, Knox, Sage, and Micah have all tucked bowls inside Pen-15’s closest. We’re holding three shots. Just enough to turn a two-shot deficit into our first win, as long as nobody touches the jack.

“My turn,” I announce, slipping my phone into my pocket and cracking my knuckles with the exaggerated flair of a concert pianist about to tackle Beethoven.

The Pen-15 guys actually flinch. It’s glorious.

I step onto the mat, pulling one of my teal woods from my bag. My set beside Sage’s pink ones is the closest this team has come to professional branding. “All right, Balls of Fury. Prepare to witness peak athletic performance combined with impeccable geometric calculation.”

“Throw the damn bowl, Milo,” Holden says.

I weigh the bowl in my hand.

I fucked up. The others might let me hide inside the bit, but Eli deserves better than that.

First, I get us through the game. Then I apologize without a punchline. Because underneath this sunny afternoon, the manicured grass, and Sage’s ridiculous shoes, we’re all vibrating with the need to commit extreme violence against thirty-seven anonymous usernames. This stupid game is the only thing keeping us from driving into the city and starting a body count.

“Applying a precise thirty-degree bias,” I narrate loudly, pointing toward the jack. “Factoring in wind resistance, the historic grading of the rink, and the residual panic radiating from Headband’s general direction.”