Page 33 of Right Up His Alley

My bluntness catches him for a second. “I mean… yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“And it’s just one tournament, right?” The question hangs there, heavier than I meant it to be. With a flood of worry, I can’t seem to push down this new idea of him choosing the USBC National Championship over helping me. Choosing the one thing he said he wouldn’t do because he wanted to be there for Spare Time.

For my dad.

For me.

When he doesn’t answer, I shake my head and cut in, “Don’t worry about the alley.” A shiver slips up my spine, stronger than my ability to believe the words coming out of my mouth. “You won’t need it, but good luck. Focus on your matches. You’ll do great.”

Regret toggles quietly between us. His, for telling me about the tournament at all. Mine, for saying something I know isn’t true.

His eyes meet mine, softening for a beat before he looks away. “Yeah. Thanks.”

We drift into a quieter rhythm as we step up to the counter, the earlier energy thinning into something more subdued. Truett hands over his coupon like he’s trying to grab on to that version of the morning again—like it still means something. He looks way too satisfied when the employee scans it without a second glance.

I should feel the same. I’m committing to midnight blue, to a long night of painting, to something that’s supposed to matter.

But my attention keeps slipping.

To him.

The way he leans against the counter, fingers tapping idly, like he belongs on the lanes and not here. Like this is temporary.

He still showed up, though.

For me? The alley?

Why do I want it to be for me? Does he really have this much control over me in such a short amount of time?

I try to push that line of thinking far out of my mind. Because the truth is he’s still competing even when he told me he wasn’t planning on it.

Just a couple of days, like that’s not long enough for him to realize he can’t stop bowling for what… to help save a rundown alley? No. Winning this torment will make him fall back into it completely. I just know it.

He’s a professional bowler, for Christ’s sake. This is what athletes do. They play to win. And if he wins, then there will be nothing here to hold him back. There will be nothing to keep him here.

God, what am I doing? I’m already risking enough just standing here with him, shopping for the alley, letting myself get pulled in when I know exactly how this is going to end.

And I hate myself for feeling this way. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve had hope for something. Allowing myself to be fucking happy. What a joke.

My grip tightens slightly against the counter before I force it to relax. I should want him to go. To win. But why does it feel like I’m rooting against something at the same time? Hoping he gives it all up. Does that make me an asshole?

“Hey.” His voice pulls me back, and I realize I’ve gone quiet. I glance over to find Truett watching me more closely than I’d like, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking without having to say it. He already knows the answer, but he asks anyway. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I push off the counter, giving him exactly what he knew I would. “Just thinking about how much work I signed myself up for, but I’ve got to get it done.”

That earns a small laugh, which momentarily eases the tension in my jaw. “This definitely will be an all-night project. I’m sorry I⁠—”

“Someone has to do it,” I interrupt.

Truett stiffens next to me. “Well, good thing you’ve got me to help you,” he nudges my shoulder, “when I get back, of course.” Both of us pretend we aren’t thinking of everything we’re risking.

I huff out a quiet breath and shake my head. “We can agree we don’t have much time, so I can’t wait a couple of days.” I force another shrug. “It’s fine. Thanks for helping me pick the paint.”

“I’m glad you appreciate my excellent taste—and, of course, my elite couponing abilities.” He tries to charm me, but even he knows the moment is gone.

“You do coupon well, but your taste remains to be seen.” A smile tugs at my mouth, knowing a part of me still very much wants him to choose me.

The employee calls out my name, and I step forward to finish the purchase, Truett stepping up beside me, each with two gallons of paint—the amount he promises is all I’ll need to cover the alley. By the time I turn back around, the moment feels like it’s already passed, like we’ve reached the end of something I didn’t realize may have a time limit.