Page 26 of Right Up His Alley

Truett gives me one last glance before turning and heading toward the counter. The teenager “greeting” him barely looks up as he hands over his credit card, her attention already drifting elsewhere. So maybe this place isn’t as perfect as it seems—not when the staff can’t even be bothered to care. Strangely, that realization eases something in me.

When the bored teenager hands Truett back his card and two pairs of shoes, he heads my way. “I think you’d like Ms. Friendly over there. She’s about as welcoming as you were when I came to Spare Time.”

I flip him off, and he just laughs.

“I grabbed you a size thirteen.” He smirks and dangles a pair of rentals in front of me with two fingers. “Which reminds me of something else Spare Time needs to stock.”

Standing up, I reach for them. “And what’s that?”

“Shoe sizes for giants. I noticed you’re lacking bigger sizes. God forbid a sea of big-footed people come to Spare Time and all have to share a pair of bowling shoes.”

“Seems to me you’re jealous of my size.”

“Jealous?” he snorts. “I’m the size of a normal person. I’m not jealous.”

“Well, nothing about me is average, True.” I smirk. “Everything about me is big.”

For a brief second, Truett’s gaze lowers to my crotch. My damn dick twitches in interest, and Truett’s gaze snaps up. “Just take your damn shoes,” he mumbles. “We’re Lane 5.”

I take the shoes from him, and we settle on Lane 5, the one where the overhead light functions as a disco ball. While I get my shoes on, Truett grabs us bowling balls—mine blue and his neon green. “Looks like I’m up first. I’ll go easy on you.” He winks. “Maybe you’ll win.”

There’s no universe in which I win, and we both know it.

Truett lines up, making it look so effortless. His form is perfect—no surprise there, but it’s amazing to see up close. As soon as the ball flicks from his wrist—smooth and calculated—the crash at the end of the lane thunders loudly. This strike sends an LED choreographed light routine down the middle of the lane. Blue, green, and pink lights embedded in the wooden floorboards celebrate his successful roll. I hate it, but I suppose it’s better than the silly animations our screens play when someone gets a strike.

“I thought you were going easy on me,” I say as he passes me.

Truett laughs, shrugging. “I changed my mind. I’d think I’d rather go hard on you.”

Ignoring that loaded statement, and knowing I’m about to make a fool of myself in front of a major bowling star, I line up stiffly—no warmup, no practice swings, just gritted teeth and a sharp stride to the line. Everything about my form is awkward and uncomfortable. The ball lobs unceremoniously from my grip, rolling wildly down the lane. I manage to knock down a total of one pin. I guess at least it’s not a gutter bowl.

“Relax,” Truett murmurs from behind me. I hadn’t even heard him move. “Let it flow. You’re too tense.”

His hands find my biceps, one sliding down to adjust my elbow. My body tenses even more, and it takes everything in me not to lean back into his touch. I shouldn’t feel this way for Truett. Hell, I shouldn’t even let him touch me and blur our working relationship.

But I like it too much to care.

For a second, I don’t move, just stand here short-circuiting because a cute guy is touching me. Fuck, I’m pathetic. Clearly, I need to get out more, preferably not to another bowling alley.

I exhale, trying to loosen my grip, adjusting like he’s directed me. His hands linger a little too long before he steps back. “You got this, Ezzie,” he says, his voice quieter now.

I’m so surprised at the nickname that my aim leans more to the right than I anticipate. It’s a good throw—much better than my last one—but still doesn’t get me a spare. I manage to knock down all but two pins.

“Ah, man, you almost had it!” Truett sighs.

“My dad called me Ezzie when he started teaching me how to bowl,” I blurt. “No one else has called me that since he died. It took me off guard.”

His eyes widen in horror as if he just committed a blasphemous sin. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I… don’t even know what possessed me to say it. Maybe I heard your dad call you Ezzie once, and it kinda just stuck in my brain?”

“No, it’s okay,” I assure before he can work himself up. We’ve already had one bowling alley freak out; we don’t need another. “It was surprising to hear, that’s all. I don’t mind though.”

My words seem to calm him, and his shoulders slump, relaxing.

“Your turn.” I gesture to his bright neon ball before taking a seat to watch him. We fall into an easy rhythm, both throwing jabs at the other. I’m losing terribly, but I’m still a shit talker. Truett takes everything in stride, though. He’s probably heard it all before from opponents. Maybe even his father.

The crashing and the clattering from other bowlers knocking down pins blur, mixing in with the other sounds of the alley. It’s my last frame, and I manage to get a spare before following it up with a rather embarrassing gutter ball.

“I win,” he sings, looking far too smug for a man who already knew he was going to win. “I get to pick a prize now.”