Page 52 of Right Up His Alley

“Is everything okay?” It’s a dumb question to ask because clearly something isn’t okay. “I mean…do you want to talk about it?”

Truett tears his gaze away from the Glasgows and sighs. “Nothing bad. I just got a text this morning from my dad. He registered me for another tournament for tomorrow.”

“Another one? I thought you⁠—”

“It’s in Dallas.”

“But I thought that’s where the qualifier for the championship is being held? You said you weren’t going to compete⁠—”

“I’m not,” Truett speaks up. “Well, I have to compete in Dallas, but⁠—”

“You don’t have to compete at all.” The words come out fierier than I intended. “You getting closer and closer to the championship puts us closer and closer to being found out. They might disqualify Spare Time if they realize you helped me fix it up. Especially with your name attached to this big furniture delivery.”

“Look, I’m sorry. He apparently registered me a while ago, and I had no clue. Even if I win, I don’t have to register for the National Championship. The good news is, registration for that doesn’t start until there is a clear winner of the qualifier, so my dad can’t go behind my back and register me for the Nationals without me knowing.” He looks at me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “I promise. I won’t let this happen again. I won’t compete in the Nationals. I’m not going to let Spare Time get disqualified.”

“I appreciate that.” I give myself a moment to take it all in. I don’t know Mr. Thorne personally, but I don’t like what I’ve heard about him and the expectations he places on his son. That kind of pressure would crack anyone, and yet he has been under his father’s magnifying glass his entire life. “Are you at least excited about the match?”

He shrugs. “I guess? I mean it’s definitely going to be a tough match. The matches before the final championship are always extra challenging because of what's at stake. But my father makes it feel like life or death. Like if I don’t win, I may as well dig my own grave.”

“That sounds intense.”

“Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t be too bad if he actually encouraged me once in a while. But he just watches me to pick apart everything I do because it’s not how he’d do it. Winning isn’t enough for him. I have to be perfect in every aspect. But again, even if I win, I will turn down Nationals and let the runner-up take the spot.”

It’s strange so quickly after meeting him, but I believe every word he says.

Although I can’t fully grasp the immense pressure Truett is under, I do understand what it feels like to live according to someone else’s dream. It’s just as daunting as carrying a weight that was never meant for you. There’s a deep sense of obligation, an unspoken duty to uphold our fathers’ legacies, even when they conflict with our own desires. No matter how much we might long to break free, that responsibility lingers, refusing to be ignored. Guilt is the price we pay for trying to walk our own path. Sometimes it’s so heavy it feels easier to just do what others expect of us.

A contemplative silence falls between us as we watch Harvey’s crew carry in new round tables and sturdy chairs. Admittedly, these are way better than what we had before and will give the arcade a fresh, sleek look it desperately needs.

Harvey’s crew doesn’t stop there. Once the arcade furniture is in place, they move on to the kitchen, swapping out the worn-out appliances for top-of-the-line upgrades. I’m most excited for the new deep fryer that doesn’t look like a fire hazard and isn’t at risk of blowing up each time I use it.

“Sorry to burden you with it all. I just wish my dad would be there to cheer me on, you know? I feel like I’d do better with a little bit of encouragement. Who wouldn’t, right?”

Before I can respond, Truett pushes himself off the counter and plasters a forced smile on his face. I’ve noticed he does this when he wants to avoid hard feelings.

“Enough woe is me, though. Let’s take a walk and see what projects we can realistically get done before the USBC guys come back.”

I let Truett pull me off to a part of the alley he thinks we should spruce up, but I barely register what he’s saying. Because a new thought has taken form in my mind. Something that will either make me look like the world’s best boyfriend—not that Truett and I are dating—or a complete loser. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take.

I just hope it doesn’t blow up in my face.

The rap on my hotel door jerks me out of sleep so hard that, for a second, I forget where I am. The heavy blackout curtains keep it a mystery as to whether or not the Dallas sun has risen, and the velvety comforter swallows me whole, a perfect trap of warmth. I groan and roll over, hoping whoever it is will get the hint and go away.

More pounding vibrates the surrounding walls.

No such luck.

“Truett! Let’s go; the sun will be up soon.” The voice is unmistakable. With its firm, commanding, and completely impolite tone, it’s for sure my father.

I rub my eyes and squint at the glowing red digits on the nightstand. 4:15 a.m.

Jesus.

Not a minute later, the sound of the automatic lock clicks and beeps twice. The door swings open, and my father makes his way into my suite uninvited. He thanks the hotel staff before shooing him away.

He growls, “Do you not hear me out there, son? I’m having a key to your room made as soon as we get up and get going.”

“Dad, I don’t need to be at check-in until eleven,” I grumble, slurred from exhaustion. “How did you even get in here? Boundaries, Dad. Boundaries.” My irritation spikes as I push myself up onto my elbows.