Page 28 of Right Up His Alley

I smile and lower my head. Now, it’s my turn to blush. I don’t know what magic Truett Thorne has over me, but the moment I get into the car, I can’t help but think of ways we can do this again.

The last time I felt this happy was when I won the 2019 Junior Gold Championship in Minneapolis. My dad was away, competing in a USBC Championship match where he took first, and my mom traveled with me to Minnesota.

I remember the yellow-and-white confetti falling from the ceiling after my final strike. Along with winning the trophy, the USBC gifted me a single bowling pin patch that I’ve stitched and restitched into every updated jersey I’ve had since then. It became my lucky patch, and I always give it two pats before a match starts.

Winning was the cherry on top of a weekend spent with Mom. There was no pressure from her. No voice in my ear telling me to do better or get my head in the game. Just space to bowl.

It was the last time I felt actual peace on the lane.

Tonight?

Tonight felt like that confetti wasn't just falling on me. This time, it was holding my hand, and I didn’t want to let go.

It’s 7:35 a.m., and I haven’t slept a wink all night. Not because I couldn’t, but because I haven’t wanted to stop thinking about those damn dark curls framing that perfectly shaped face.

Am I twelve years old?

No. More like twenty-three going on never-have-I-ever-been-able-to-enjoy-a-crush-before.

I’ve dated. Slept around. Never anything serious. There’ve been plenty of lonely nights on the road these past two years, though it’s not exactly hard to find attention when I want it. Fans, players—take your pick. It used to be easy.

But the easy has never been good. It’s been fun, but never meaningful.

It’s never been… like this.

This is insane. Every time I close my eyes, I see Ezra and me dancing under the strobe lights, everything around us a blur because of how fast we’re circling around each other. I wish I could stay in the moment forever, even though I know something this good can’t last.

“Truett,” my father’s shouting shakes me from my reverie, vibrating my room. “Check your email. They just sent out the list of qualifier tournaments. The Southern Regional qualifier is in Dallas this year. It’s your lucky day.” He’s completely ignoring the fact I already told him I wasn’t sure about competing in any major tournaments this season.

“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, knowing he can’t hear me.

I roll over, reach for my laptop under my bed and prop myself against the headboard. The plastic casing around my computer is chilly against my bare stomach as I pull the screen up. My eyes refocus on the email icon, which has a little red number positioned at the top.

One hundred and seventy-three unread emails.

Yikes.

I knew there was a reason why I never use my computer.

I start going through the spam emails. No, I don’t care about silver-haired singles in the area. No, I definitely didn’t just win a new iPhone. And, no, I don’t need breast implants. No matter how many times I report this shit as spam, it still finds its way into my inbox. I get so into the groove of deleting emails that I nearly delete another until I see a coupon for a new paint shop in Austin flash across my screen. Forty percent off. I bet we could use that for Spare Time.

I skip to the next email.

Dad was right. The USBC sent out a list of all the bowling alleys they’ve chosen to host each regional championship. The fact they chose Frame 1 Bowling Center in Dallas for the Southern Regional competition gives me an inkling of hope Spare Time has even better odds at getting picked for the national match. They’d never hold a regional championship in the same alley as the national championship.

The urge to call or text Ezra and tell him we won’t have to worry about Frame 1 taking the hosting location comes faster than the realization that I don’t even have his number.

There’s no point in calling Spare Time directly, knowing they aren’t open this early, so the next thing I can think of is… sending an email? I could just wait to talk to him in person, but I simply don’t want to. Any communication with him, knowing he’s on the other end of it, scratches an itch I’ve had since I got home last night from our… not a date.

Knowing alleys need to be informed of tournament locations, I scroll through the USBC listserv—all 793 addresses—and find Spare Time’s email address.

I highlight it and paste it into a new message. The subject line stumps me for a moment. I have no idea what to put. I don’t think I can’t stop thinking about those three little freckles above your left eyelid will read well. At least not so soon into whatever budding relationship we’re developing here.

Right?

Ugh. Keep it simple, Truett.

Subject: It’s Truett