Page 55 of Right Up His Alley

It’s not like Fisher knows exactly what I’ve been doing with my time since I’ve been back from tour. It’s impossible for him to know how much I’ve been at Spare Time.

With Ezra.

But he seems to know just how easy it is to get inside a bowler’s head when their entire career is built on pressure. It’s not just him; the whole bowling community knows. The Thorne legacy is ingrained in the sport.

“You ready, Thorne?” Fisher steps onto the approach. He’s first up in our rotation. “Let’s see if that release holds up under all this pressure.”

I nod, signaling I’m not interested in trading any trash talk.

But a few rotations in, his words start to stick. I start to struggle. My ball hooks too much on one shot, not enough on the next. Some bad releases keep creeping in. I’m leaving several difficult split formations, forcing spares to slip away. I even caught myself lofting a ball too high, making it bounce into the gutter.

Blake takes advantage of every mistake, too. By the time we reach the eighth frame, I’m close to losing. The pressure is wrapping tight around my chest, squeezing the air out of me.

And then I hear my father shout from the audience, “Focus, boy. C’mon.”

I don’t see him at first. Only hear him. His voice cuts through the noise, low and firm, like he’s standing right next to me even though I know he’s a few rows back in the crowd. I glance over my shoulder, and there he is, arms crossed, gaze locked on me like a drill sergeant about to rip into a cadet.

My mother stands beside him, a cocktail in one hand, her cellphone in the other. She talks into her screen, presumably to a thousand or so @ThorneyPins followers via a live feed. She peeks above her phone and sees me, blowing a kiss. I give her a wink before my eyes jerk to the left of her, locking back on my father.

“Take it seriously.” His voice is piercing. “You keep hesitating. Commit to the shot. You’re going to lose.”

The words go in one ear and out the other. I’ve heard it all before. Winning or losing doesn’t make a difference. He will always have the same critiques to give, with the same disappointed coldness in his voice. It’s nothing new. It doesn’t help. I don’t know why I look for him in these crowds. If anything, it makes me want to just let Blake take this win so I can walk away from all of it. Walk away from the tournament, the expectations, the whole damn sport.

Wouldn’t it be easier? Wouldn’t it be better if I just dropped the ball now? Literally, just drop the bowling ball and leave. I could put all my energy into helping Ezra with the alley, making sure it doesn’t fall apart while he’s off chasing his dream of being a tattoo artist. I could help him get to where he wants to be in his life. There’s got to be a way we can keep the alley going for his family, get chosen for the season’s final championship, and give Ezra the chance to truly be… happy.

At least one of us should find our happiness. Find what makes us feel most accomplished.

Plus, I wouldn’t have to deal with my father’s voice in my head or the pressure of being his protégé. Maybe it’s time. Maybe this is where I let go of it all.

I let myself imagine what that would feel like—quiet, warmth, the steady ease I only ever feel with one person. Ezra’s face comes to me instinctively. The curve of his mouth when he’s trying not to smile. The way his presence alone seems to soften any sharp corner of my world. For a second, I almost feel him beside me, like I could turn and⁠—

And then I see Ezra.

What the…

There he is. Standing slightly apart from the crowd, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s not sure he belongs. For one dizzy moment, I think I’ve conjured him up, that wanting him badly enough has turned him into a mirage.

The noise around me dulls as our eyes meet, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of us. Ezra freezes, shoulders going stiff when he realizes I’ve seen him. Then, slowly, a shy smile tugs at his lips. It’s endearingly awkward—so very him—and that’s when it hits me.

He’s not a mirage.

He’s actually here.

Has he been here this entire time? Did this stubborn, grumpy man really just travel three hours to watch me play—to, I don’t know, cheer me on?

Or is something wrong with the alley?

No, but he’s smiling. He’s giving me one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen on him. I return his affection out of pure shock and excitement, barely believing he’s here rooting for me, watching me. Watching me in a way that freezes my entire world.

He’s not looking at me like I’m about to fail. He’s not waiting for me to mess up. He’s not here just so he can make sure I’m going to bring back a golden trophy. He’s just there… in support. Like he truly believes I can turn this game around and win the whole thing.

For me.

Something in this moment changes. It’s not accompanied by a thunder strike, and it doesn’t come with some dramatic revelation. There’s just a quiet, subtle reminder that there’s more to winning this tournament than exceeding my father’s expectations. I came here for a reason, and that reason is allowed to be selfish. This choice to compete is for me.

Not for him.

Not even for the sport.