Page 86 of Right Up His Alley

“Oh, right,” I chime in. “I forgot to tell you. Apparently, my mom created a social media profile for Spare Time the day I was here practicing. The account has gained a lot of popularity. Everyone is really liking the new vibe you’re setting for the alley, Ez.”

“Oh,” his mouth forms the sound. “The whole guru thing makes sense now.”

“Not to mention, Mr. and Mrs. Thorne’s generous donation to Spare Time.”

“Donation?” Ezra raises his eyebrow and gestures toward his mother. “That was definitely not in the financial statement I sent. How did I not see or hear about this?” He turns to my mom. “Thank you, Rachel.”

Mom nods back.

“Okay, okay. I’m starting to see now that I may not be the best at communicating the important financial stuff with you. I’ll do better, Mijo.”

“I have a feeling the USBC didn’t really care about the finances,” I speak up. “I’ve played at a lot of alleys, and I think they saw how much work and love have been put into Spare Time. They chose you, Ezra.” I reach for his hand, right in front of our delighted mothers.

“They chose us,” Ezra says before leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.

“And speaking of finances,” Mrs. Jiménez calls out. “With the contribution from the Thornes and all the new business Spare Time will be bringing in, I think we’ll need to repay some loans.”

“Loans?” Ezra straightens. “What loans? Mom, you’ve got to start⁠—”

She waves a hand, silencing him. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a check. Ezra takes it carefully, confusion flickering across his face. But the second his eyes land on the amount, his grip loosens.

“Mom…”

I don’t need to see the name on it to know who it’s for.

“I can’t accept this,” he says quietly. “This is the fifteen thousand the USBC is paying Spare Time to host.”

“Exactly. And we’re using it to pay off our last debt. You shouldn’t have had to use your own money for the rest of the bills, Mijo. That was never your responsibility.”

Ezra opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Say you’ll take it, babe,” I whisper, leaning closer. “You know what you should do with it.”

“But I⁠—”

I wrap my arm around his shoulder. “You have to start thinking about yourself. And I’m going to make sure you do,” I murmur into his ear.

His fingers tighten around the check. “But what about the alley?”

“What about it, Mijo?” Mrs. Jiménez asks.

Ezra’s eyes dart to mine, his head shaking rapidly, panic creeping into his expression like he’s silently begging me to save him from having to admit what he really wants to do with his life. His grip tightens around the check, shoulders stiff with tension. But as difficult as it was for me to be honest with my parents, I know Ezra has to do the same with his.

“You have to start thinking about yourself. And I’m going to make sure you do.”

Truett’s words replay in my mind as I desperately try to have the same confidence he has in me. The thing is—and Truett knows this—I don’t think about myself. I rarely put myself first. It’s always been about my family and what is best for them. My own passions and dreams? I’ve pushed them aside for years, carefully locking them away to suppress them, as if that will help ease the ache of not pursuing what I truly want to do.

And now, faced with my opportunity to tell my mom the truth… I find I don’t have the right words. My body freezes, words lodged in my throat. My heart beats rapidly, and I wonder if anyone else can hear it, because it’s drowning out the sounds of pins crashing and the laughter of family.

A gentle hand touches the small of my back, and I shiver. Like that is the most intimate touch I’ve gotten from Truett, as if I didn’t just have his dick in my mouth moments ago.

Fuck, I can’t do this.

Everyone’s eyes are on me, boring into my soul. I shuffle uncomfortably, wishing a hole would open and swallow me whole.

“I, uh, will be right back.” Like a fucking coward, I make a beeline to the bathroom, weaving in and out of people. I open the door so hard it crashes against the wall with an echoing thud, causing the older man washing his hands at the sink to jump.

Something in my expression must spook him, because he hurries out of the restroom without even drying his hands. The space falls silent again—no footsteps or voices. The other stalls are empty. I rush toward the large stall at the end, my shoes echoing softly on the tiled floor. Once inside, I slam the door shut and twist the lock until it clicks into place.