Page 29 of Right Up His Alley

Hi, Ezra!

It’s Truett, but you probably know that from the subject. I’m emailing you, but you also probably figured that out as well. You’re so smart.

Don’t put a heart emoji, Truett. Don’t put a heart emoji.

I keep going…

Anyway, you may have already seen by now, but I wanted to tell you that USBC selected Frame 1 Bowling Center in Dallas to host the Southern Regional tournament, which means Spare Time has a better chance at winning the bid for the National. The Southern Regional is a qualifier, so being at Frame 1 automatically puts it out of the running for the National. Isn’t that great?!

I was thinking, we should do last night again soon. Like today? If you’re up for it, of course. Maybe before the alley opens? I have an idea of another spot we could go…for some more…you know…inspiration.

Also, I hope you’re the one who is reading this because, if not, that’s embarrassing. Hi, Mrs. Jiménez. But if you are the one reading it, could you maybe reply to this archaic form of messaging so I know you got it? I’m eagerly awaiting your reply.

Sincerely, Truett

(Just in case you didn’t realize it was me from the subject and first line.)

It’s not until I press send and read it a second time—as if I can change anything now—that I realize I’m smiling. A winking emoji is definitely smoother than a heart emoji. And even though the message is giving desperate, I’m okay with that. It’s exhausting to always be perfect. I can settle for desperate every once in a while.

I glance at the time at the bottom right of my screen. It’s only been a whole minute since I pressed the send button, but is it too psycho of me to think he has already read it and is trying to figure out a way to call our next outing together a real date?

A guy can dream.

On the other hand, this guy shouldn’t be dreaming of getting mixed up with the owner of a bowling alley. Especially when I haven’t determined how to get out of competing in the National. Entangling myself deeper with Ezra in a romantic way could honestly make things way messier. Breaking an integrity rule could make me a laughingstock in the world of bowling. A scandal like that could ruin my reputation. I might not want to bowl anymore, but I also don’t want something I’ve worked so hard to build to come crashing down.

And I definitely don’t want to screw over Ezra and Spare Time’s chance either.

But being messy with Ezra sounds so good right now. Ugh. I tip my head back, rolling my neck until it cracks, trying to stretch out the stress of such a decision.

Another five minutes go by, a slew of emotions have run their course, and I’m sure I’ve overthought this entire online exchange. He probably doesn’t even read his emails, let alone respond to them. I need to put my computer down and actually start my day, because sitting here is not at all product⁠—

Ding.

Holy Meg Ryan.

I’ve got mail.

I click on the icon and see it’s from [email protected]. I double-click faster than you can say “ham-turkey dinner” before I read the subject line.

Subject: RE: It’s Ezra

Truett, it’s like eight o’clock in the morning. Why—how—are you awake? Hell. Why—how—am I awake? Also, there are way more efficient ways to contact me—even without my personal cell number. Of course, you, of all people, would scour the internet to find an email address for Spare Time. I’m impressed by the effort, though. You have my attention.

Tell me about where you want to take me. It better not be another bowling alley that clearly has its shit together more than Spare Time does right now. Wherever we go, let’s hope I don’t spiral into an anxious void again, only to have a professional athlete save me a third time. By the way, thanks for that.

Sincerely, Ezra

P.S. I changed the subject line because I’m not you. I’m Ezra. Just in case you didn’t know that already.

Not even a full two minutes later, I’ve sent a response.

Subject: RE: It’s Truett—OMG!

I seriously didn’t expect you to respond. Hi! Sorry for the late response. I couldn’t find the email tab. Uhm, yeah, I can tell you about it. But wouldn’t it be easier over text?

From the land of too many tabs,

Truett