Page 161 of What We Burn

“Hey,” Headband protests weakly.

Knox slowly turns his head to look at him. Headband immediately shuts up and takes a step back.

I swing my arm back. I don’t actually know what a thirty-degree bias is, but I let the teal bowl fly with the confidence of a man who does. It glides across the grass, weaving smoothly past the divot Eli left behind. It curves beautifully at the last possible second, kissing the edge of Headband’s only decent bowl, knocking it neatly out of the way, and parking itself a mere inch from the jack.

I stand up straight, dusting off my hands. “I call that the ‘Data-Driven Dominance.’ Write that down, Holden.”

“I am not writing that down,” Holden replies, though the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I’ll write it down,” Sage says. She turns her head, giving me a small, approving nod.

“Thank you, kitten. See, some people appreciate genius.” I trot back to the bench, tapping my phone screen to add another five-star metric to my own column.

The Pen-15 Club sends up their final player, a guy who is visibly sweating through his shirt. His hand shakes so badly he drops his bowl halfway down the green. It dies several yards short, leaving us holding four shots.

We win by two.

“Game, set, match,” I declare, grabbing a pretzel from the bag and crunching down. “Who wants celebratory salt?”

Nobody takes a pretzel. I shrug and eat it myself. “More for me. Hydration and sodium are key to post-match recovery.”

The Pen-15 guys pack up their bags with the frantic, uncoordinated speed of a heist crew that just heard police sirens. Headband practically sprints into the clubhouse, actively avoiding eye contact with Knox. It’s a solid survival instinct. If he’d looked at Knox again, I’d probably be hacking the club’s security cameras to erase footage of a homicide on rink two.

We gather our equipment. Sage shuffles over, and I stare down at the ridiculous white leather boats encasing her feet.

“We need to get you proper footwear if you’re going to take this franchise to the nationals, kitten,” I say, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

“I am never playing this stupid game again,” she mutters. But she leans against Holden’s side as she says it, letting the tension bleed out of her spine. Holden immediately wraps a heavy arm around her waist, his thumb stroking the curve of her hip.

I step over to Eli. He’s standing over the divot he made, staring at the torn earth like he’s trying to memorize the exact dimensions of his own lost control. I bump my shoulder against his.

“Hey,” I say quietly, dropping the game show host persona. “Seriously. My bad.”

Eli keeps his eyes on the torn grass. “It’s fine, Milo.” His voice is still sandpaper. “Just . . . don’t use the name.”

“Deleted from the motivational database,” I promise. “Next time, I’ll invoke the guy who invented single-ply toilet paper. Universally hated. Zero trauma.”

A faint, genuine huff of amusement escapes Eli. It’s a small victory, but I mentally log it in the win column.

Micah claps his hands together, the eternal mediator officially closing the session. “All right, team. We came, we bowled, we committed minor property damage. But we finally won. I’d suggest grabbing a drink to celebrate, but I think the groundskeeper is about to call the cops. Let’s go home.”

We make it back to Holden’s after dark, quieter than we were on the green. Not the bad kind of quiet. Just the lull after throwing things, laughing too loudly, and almost getting banned from a suburban bowls club.

Sage spends the drive staring out the window, her fingers flexing against her thigh. Lawn bowls gave her something to hit. It didn’t give her what she wanted.

We pile out and head for the front door. As we walk up the path, Micah pulls me into a headlock. “You know, you really do have a gift for extracting discipline out of chaos. Today could have been a disaster, but you turned shit around and we won our first game.”

“Are you seducing me?” I squawk, then, when Sage and Holden both look over, “He’s seducing me. Someone make a record.”

Sage snorts. “I’ve seen Micah’s seduction face. He’s not making it.”

“Wow,” Micah says, letting me loose. “I have a seduction face?”

“It’s the eyes. Your pupils do this dilation thing. Also, your fingers twitch like you’re about to say something invasive but meaningful.”

“Could be worse,” I remark. “Mine’s just a serial killer stare and a bad pun.”

“Yours is an algorithmic mating dance,” Holden mutters, opening the front door. We all file inside, but Sage hesitates in the doorway.