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“We should’ve gone by your place. I’m sure you have bowling shoes. I know Alden did too. But then you would’ve missed out on these stylish kicks.” I stand up and model the godawful blocky colored shoes.
“Do you think they make them so ugly so no one will walk out with them?”
“I never thought of that. But, yeah, who in the world would trade their shoes for these?”
After we each choose a ball from the rack, I enter our names into the computer.
“Are you any good?” Oliver asks, when I pick up my ball to go first.
“I’m not great, but not terrible. I haven’t played in a long time.” He watches as I approach and throw the ball. Which goes into the gutter halfway down the aisle. “The first one doesn’t count.”
Oliver grins and nods to the screen above us. “The computer seems to think it does.”
My second throw manages to knock down four pins. Not off to a great start.
Oliver picks up his ball, stares at the alley for a moment, and then throws it. A few seconds later, the pins fly, and he turns around to grin at me. “Remind me what that’s called again? A strike? Is it a strike?” he taunts.
“Beginners luck!”
It’s not beginner’s luck. He goes on to prove that by wiping the damn floor with me in our first game. The second is going the same way. “It must be like riding a bike or swimming. It just comes back to you,” he says, after yet another strike. He turns to grin at me. “Well, to me, anyway.”
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
I flip him off and he laughs. He’s having fun and it’s good to see it bringing his personality out more. Shit talking was a Stokes boys pastime.
“Maybe we can borrow that little ramp and those things they’re using down there,” he says, gesturing to the lane with the preschool kid.
“I do not need bumpers!”
“Let me help you,” he says, taking my ball from me. “First, this ball is too heavy for you.” He goes to the rack and swaps it. “Try this.” He follows me when I approach the lane. His hands land softly on my sides, and they feel warm through my thin shirt. “You’re starting too close to the line. You need some room.”
My mouth suddenly feels dry as he walks me back a few steps. Still holding me, he says, "Now, line yourself up with the middle of the lane.”
I take a small step to the right, and he lets go of me.
“Good, keep your shoulders back.” He presses a palm between my shoulder blades, and the breath I draw is stuttering.
Why am I so aware of his hands on me?
After I correct my posture, he steps over to stand beside me. “Focus on those three center pins. Step with your right foot first and swing the ball back, then let it go after your next step.”
“Got it.”
“Ella.” He reaches over before I can move and lifts my chin with his fingers. When I meet his gaze, something stirs inside me. Wistful and deep. He feels it too. It’s in the way his lips part behind a controlled breath, and his eyes never leave mine. “Keep your head up.”
All I can manage is a small nod.
A smile inches across his face, and he steps back to watch me. My throw is much smoother than before because of his instructions, but not hard enough. It hits the pins and takes down six.
“See? Better, but throw it harder next time.”
My second throw goes right between the remaining pins, and I look back at him. He cracks up laughing. “I can show you how to throw but I’m not a miracle worker.”
“I want a rematch on the air hockey machine.”
“Whatever makes you feel better, El.”
