Page 54 of Right Up His Alley

“Blaine!” I press the speed buttons down to a slow walk. I breathe in to catch my breath. “Wow, nice to see you, man. You competing in the Dallas Masters?”

“It’s actually Blake. Blake Fisher.” He wipes his towel across his forehead. “But, yes, I’m hoping to snag a couple of wins today and qualify for the USBC Championship.”

Blake Fisher. Oops.

He leans on the treadmill bars, closing the space between us. “Have you seen the recent prediction polls?” A smirk plays on his lips. “With only one tournament under your belt this season, they’re saying there’s a chance someone with more stats this season will take the trophy.”

“Is that so?” My chest tightens a bit as I keep my breathing steady and continue walking.

“Yeah, man. Where have you been this season? I was surprised to see such a hiatus since ending your two-year tour.”

“I’ve only been back for a couple of weeks. I wouldn’t really call that a hiatus.”

“You know better than anyone—a couple of weeks off and only one tournament before qualifiers isn’t a great way to find your rhythm.”

I cut off the treadmill and step down, wiping my palms against my shorts. “Well, that’s why I’m here working out.” I grab my hand towel and sling it over my shoulder before taking a deep breath. “We’ll see what that does for my rhythm.” A hint of annoyance lingers on that last word.

His sharp gaze lingers. “Just don’t be surprised if I leave you in the dust out there.”

I take another breath, letting his words settle. Trash-talking and fierce competition have always been there to motivate me, but this time something's different. This time, it feels smaller.

Like a flame snuffed out by gentle breath.

The fire I have to compete is slowly going out, and I’m not sure if that bothers me anymore.

I nod politely. “Good luck today, Blaine.”

“Blake,” he snaps, his jaw tightening, and stalks off without another word.

Seven hours later, the gym is a distant memory. My father never came back, and I was okay with that. Hopefully, my mother told him I would do better without him being there, which is true. I finished my workout in peace, got my mind right, and now I’m here stepping onto the lane for my first game of the tournament.

The weight of the ball in my hand is familiar, grounding in a way that makes me forget about the hundreds of people watching me. Some cheer me on to score a perfect game; others wait for me to fall flat on my face so the bowler they are here to support goes further.

Before I take my stance, I pat my jersey’s bowling pin patch twice, lock my eyes on my mark, and breathe. I can hear the announcer’s voice, the scattered applause, but it’s all background noise. I let nothing in. It’s just me and the lane, like it’s always been.

The first game is clean. Strike after strike, spare when necessary. My rhythm clicks into place like the gears of a well-oiled pinsetter. The next two games play out much like the first, which surprises me considering where Fisher says I sit in most predictions this season.

I would say my confidence gets brighter and brighter, but I’d be lying. In this stepladder tournament, I basically started off facing the weakest bowlers. By the fourth or fifth game, I should see some stiff competition.

There are no elimination rounds in this tournament because they want the top-ranked players to advance to the USBC Championship. The final two advance, but the winner takes the trophy. With the way my rolls have been on fire today, I’m sure I will advance.

But I can’t allow myself to do that. I can win, but I can’t advance. Not with the promise I made to Spare Time and to Ezra.

A little part of me is hopeful for a challenge soon. Who knows? Maybe another bowler could be the one to knock me down a peg or two. I’m sure that would please everyone who picked me not to win in the prediction pools—just as much as it would piss off my father.

When the last frame ends on the fourth game, my score lights up on the screen. It’s eleven points higher than my opponent’s, which means I win. A quick rush hits my chest. Wins like this used to make me a lot happier, prouder even, but now they come as brief pulses of adrenaline, electric and fast, before they settle. I sharpen my focus for the next round. The final, fifth game.

Then comes Blake Fisher.

Blake is not like my first four opponents. He seems slyer. Methodical.

Even though we’ve bowled our frames respectively, I know he’s been watching my every move, waiting for me to slip. His comments about my stats earlier were just the first shots in his psychological warfare.

Where have you been this season?

He knows I haven’t been focused on winning. He knows my mind has been elsewhere.

But how? Is it that noticeable?