Page 3 of Right Up His Alley

And I fucking hate feeling this way.

Before I can respond, a loud boom reverberates around me, coming from the kitchen.

“What the fuck⁠—”

“Watch your language,” she chastises. “But is everything okay?”

“I need to call you back.”

“Ezra, what’s happening?” My mother’s voice grows shrill on the other end.

“Nothing. Something fell,” I lie, quickly moving toward the kitchen. She doesn’t need to concern herself any more with me today. “But I’ll call you back. People are coming in.” Another lie.

I don’t wait for her reply. The call ends, and I slip my phone back into my pocket as I shove open the kitchen door. A thick cloud of smoke hits me instantly, heavy and choking. My stomach drops as my eyes lock onto the fryer. For one brief, panicked second, I think the grease has gone up, but it hasn’t. Thank god. The smoke is darker, harsher, curling up from the back where the cord meets the wall, and the sight of it sends a sharp spike of alarm through me.

Just the icing on the fucking cake for my morning.

Not five seconds after my Uber drops me off at my parents’ two-story, five-bedroom, modern hill country home in central Texas, my father texts me, demanding I take one of his many cars to investigate a nearby bowling alley. I didn’t have the chance to settle in, let alone grab one of my mom’s organic fruit chews to fill my stomach, before I was given an address and a strict time to arrive.

It’s my first time home in two years after living on the road, traveling from one professional bowling competition to the next. You’d think I’d be welcomed home with a bright, splashy banner or a plate of the house chef’s chocolate chip cookies I used to steal from the kitchen after evening practices growing up. But no. My father, the famous Brett Thorne, already has an agenda for me, which usually includes making me feel like I can’t win something without him. I can only imagine what he wants me to do when I get to the bowling alley in town.

Two full years have passed since I last had to drive myself to a competition or event, so being behind the wheel of my dad’s brand-new silver 2026 Mustang feels foreign. I’m usually asleep on the back of a Greyhound or riding shotgun in whatever luxury SUV picks me up to take me back to the hotel. The stress I feel doesn’t subside, even when a line of police cars speeds past me, red and blue lights flashing, swallowing everything in my line of sight.

I’m not sure what worries me more, the police pulling out of the parking lot I’m heading toward, or the fact I’m twenty-three years old and can’t figure out how to say no to my father, a thirteen-time USBC tournament champion who reminds me more often than not he has more titles than me.

Luckily, that doesn’t bother me too much. I’ve already accomplished what I’ve set out to do. I’m widely considered one of the best bowlers of my generation and have no reason, need, or desire to best Brett Thorne in his own game. However, I am curious as to why he’s making me investigate a random alley today.

Although, little does he remember, this isn’t just any bowling alley.

It’s Spare Time.

Growing up, Spare Time was my home away from home. Honestly, it was the only place I ever felt comfortable calling home. Getting the chance to visit my old stomping grounds? My dad didn’t need to say another word.

I’m not surprised he’s forgotten I grew up in this town and hung out at Spare Time a lot, practicing for all the competitions he forced me into. Some of my best memories are in that alley: throwing my first strike; getting to know the alley’s owner, Mr. Jiménez; nearly breaking a toe after I dropped a bowling ball on it; kissing a boy for the first time in the arcade room; and the pizza. Oh, the pizza. My father disapproved of me eating it, but I can still taste that delicious, greasy, cheesy pizza, with its thin crust and thick pepperoni slices. Just thinking about it has me licking the corners of my mouth, making sure no saliva drips down my chin.

I’ll give Brett Thorne the benefit of the doubt—he was never really around while I was growing up to know what I was doing. He was always traveling and competing—winning, I should say—in those USBC tournaments. So how could he remember? It’s not like he cared enough to ask how things were going.

Before I know it, I’m pulling into an empty parking spot right in front of Spare Time. The fact that I can park this close to the entrance is wild. I remember when this lot used to be packed almost every morning, especially on weekends. It would get so full that my mom had to park near the old antique shop at the far end of the plaza just to find a spot. I’d walk across the lot in my socks to avoid scuffing up my bowling shoes on the concrete.

But today, strangely enough, I’m the only car in sight.

My phone rings, and my father’s name flashes across the dashboard. I hesitate for a moment, but if I don’t answer, I’ll get an earful when I get home. I swallow, steady myself, and answer, “Mornin’, Dad!”

“Truett.” His greeting is short, stern even. With barely a second ticking by, he continues, “What’s the verdict? Does the alley seem like it’s going to be a good fit?”

“I’m not sure if you heard me, sir. But I did say good morning.” I look into the rearview mirror and run my hands through my brown hair. The length growing on the sides reminds me I need to get a haircut soon.

“No time for pleasantries, Truett. A buddy of mine works for the USBC, and he told me there is some interest in bringing the annual USBC Championship to Pflugerville.”

There it is. That’s why I’m here. He wants me to intervene in the most sacred process the United States Bowling Congress goes through in preparation for their biggest championship tournament of the year: host selection.

“Lord knows why they’d come to Pflugerville when Dallas is only a few hours away,” he continues, “but apparently Old Man Jiménez had quite the impressive application. Has that dump of an alley gone to complete shit, or do you think it’s a solid option the USBC reps will consider?”

I’m surprised he’s open to any feedback from me on this, but my father’s main concern isn’t really which location is chosen; it’s how my performance in a local tournament I have no choice but to enter will reflect on him. Once I told him I wanted to come back home to Pflugerville and take a break from traveling, I knew he’d be concerned I’d become complacent.

“Dad, I just pulled up.” I twist my neck to scan the parking lot. “It doesn’t even look like anyone else is here yet.”

“That means you have more time to look around. Check out the lane blueprints, see if the pins are mapped properly, and evaluate the accuracy of the arrow zones. C’mon, have I taught you nothing?”