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~~~~~
Twenty minutes later, the crash of pins falling echoes off the walls, and the smell of greasy bowling alley food invades our sinuses. Once we order our burgers and fries, we set up our first game.
“When was the last time we bowled?”
Marisol’s face crunches in thought. I can see the moment she remembers and smiles widely. “We were eight, I think.” None of us wanted to bowl with the kiddy guardrails. The only issue was Alex. He scored an entire seventeen points in a three-game series. “Let’s hope we’ve improved since then.”
“Baby, have you seen me on the court? I’m amazing in every sport I play. It’s in my blood.” I shrug, nonchalant.
We walk a couple of rows over and find our perfect balls. Once the board is set with our names, we get started. Marisol goes first because that’s the kind of gentleman I am. She knocks down one. One. She turns around to grab her ball with the shyest, sweetest look on her face. She’s embarrassed.
She sits after her last roll, only hitting one more. I strut over like I have this made and toss my ball down the lane, only it heads straight for the gutter?both times. I turn around and catch Marisol laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” But she laughs again. “I’m just glad that I won’t be the worst bowler here tonight.” Her eyes are twinkling with a challenge.
Shaking my head back and forth, I get into the spirit. “Now you’ve done it.”
Her eyes widen. “No, Jace. I was just…”
“Challenge accepted.”
“No, Jace. Seriously.” She’s laughing so hard that tears are caught in her lashes.
“I’m going to take you down.” I spin on her, leaning close, and speaking in a dramatic voice. “Rules of the challenge are as followed… there are no rules.” The ominous voice is hard to maintain without laughing, so it ends up sounding like a strangled talk show host, which only causes Marisol to laugh harder.
“Jace! You’re going to make me pee my pants.” She squeaks between fits.
“Good. It’ll give me an edge if you have wet pants.”
We banter back and forth as she takes the first game and I win the second. Now we’re in sudden death with a third round. It’s the tenth frame, neck and neck, and the last frame is make it or break it. Marisol is up first and no one said that I played fair, so a distraction is in order. She may pretend our chemistry doesn’t affect her, but I know differently.
Standing up, I swagger slowly over to where she’s gripping her ball and getting into position. My arms wrap around and pull her body flush against mine, chest to back, as my hands glide down her soft skin, raising goosebumps as they go. She’s gripping her ball so tight, her knuckles are bleaching, and only turn whiter when I breathe heavily on her neck, and whisper in her ear.
“Be sure to bring the ball straight back and then let it rip. Give it a little extra oomph.” My fingers slip under her top and softly caress her stomach.
Sucking in a quiet gasp, she nods, unable to speak. Her breathing is heavy, letting me know I have her right where I want her as I back up and give her the room she needs to roll. She takes her position and does a little wiggle that’s cuter than shit, cocks her arm back, and lets it rip. Only, the ball is going in the wrong direction, having slipped on the backswing.
She spins immediately, her dainty hands covering her mouth that’s now in the perfect O. It’s priceless. The ball hits with a loud bang on the floor, and every head in the place turns to stare at her. The two employees are both shaking their heads back and forth behind the counter. She lifts her hands in a pacifying gesture, taking a moment before her words come out of her mouth.
“Sorry, everyone. My bad,” she jokes, but her face is crimson. She collects her ball and glares at me on the way by.
I’m laughing so hard I think I’ll be the one who pees their pants. She understands what I was doing. The glare proves that. But this time, she moves without thinking and throws the ball in the right direction, down the lane, slamming into all the pins. The machine flashes, “Strike,” and she jumps up and down, clapping her hands.
I smile in awe. Her laugh owns me. Marisol is beautiful, but when she smiles, she turns into an angel, lighting up everything around her. She rolls two more times, getting what the machine yells out as a turkey. How a turkey relates to bowling, no idea.
She walks back, completely smug, thinking she has this game in the bag. “Beat that!” She points to my face.
Getting cocky, I make a show of grabbing my ball and strutting toward the line. The ball is held palm down, fingerholes adhering it to my hand, as I twirl in a slow, methodical circle. No one’s watching but Marisol, who’s laughing her ass off.
Once the show’s over, I get into place and prepare to dominate. My arm pulls back, getting ready to release the ball on its journey to knocking down all the pins, but something goes wrong because it’s not the only thing that’s flying down the lane.
There’s a fine line in bowling that I must have crossed because not only is there a loud buzzard signaling the foul, but my body is now hurtling halfway down the lane next to my ball.
Complete silence descends for a good minute, before every person in the place laughs—hysterically—the loudest being Marisol.
After propping myself up and absorbing that the entire bowling alley is staring and laughing, including the two workers behind the counter, I try composing myself. Cheeks are aflame, ass beyond sore, and my pride severely damaged. There’s not much else to do but laugh right along with everyone else. Even I have to admit, that shit was ridiculously funny.
