Page 56 of Right Up His Alley

But for myself.

For Spare Time.

Winning today’s trophy and bringing it back to Pflugerville—putting it in a case behind the register at Spare Time—could bring an exciting, new kind of attention back to the alley. Back home.

My home.

That has to count for something, even if Spare Time isn’t chosen for the USBC Championship.

“Is Truett Thorne freezing up?”

I barely hear Fisher as his voice fades into the crowd. As much as I want to run into Ezra’s arms, that has to wait. I take my stance again, ignoring the gravity of Blake Fisher’s belittling and my father’s stare, even as his eyes swiftly pass between me and Ezra.

I ignore the pressure building in my chest. I roll my shoulders back, set my feet, and focus. This time, I don’t only commit to the shot. I commit to myself, too.

The ball leaves my grip. It glides down the lane, hooks at just the right moment, and crashes into the pins with a momentous force that feels final in every way.

Strike.

I breathe. Pick up the next ball. Roll again.

Strike.

I locate my rhythm once again. Frame by frame, I fight my way back into the game. Blake, realizing his taunting efforts have dried up, isn’t parading his confidence around anymore. He makes careless mistakes, even throwing two gutter balls back-to-back. The lead he built is shrinking, and he knows it. The entire crowd knows it.

By the time we reach the final frame, it’s down to one last shot. I line up, exhale slowly, and let it fly.

The moment the ball hits, the crash fills the air. The pins explode, scattering in violent chaos. I flinch as the roar of the audience rattles up my legs and through my entire body.

I look at the scoreboard and see it laid out clearer than crystal. I rolled a strike.

I won. I beat Fisher. I’m the Southern Regional Champion.

The urge to run, to release all this energy, nearly takes over. Not because of winning, but because all I want is Ezra. It's like an invisible rope dragging me through the crowd, pulling me straight to him.

People clap me on the back, and hands reach out for high-fives. I even see a cameraman and someone with a microphone charging at me, but I barely register them as I push forward. And then I see him. I see those beautifully designed arms hanging loose by his side.

Without thinking, I grab him around the waist. He reads me instantly, jumping just as I lift, making it effortless to bring him up before gently taking him back down. I place my hand to his cheek, my thumb brushing over his skin to make sure he isn’t a dream.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” I’m breathless as I drop my hands to my side, realizing just how risky it is to be so affectionate with him at this moment. Representatives from the USBC could literally be watching us right now. “What made you drive all this way?”

Ezra shrugs, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. He wants to appear indifferent, but he’s nervous. It’s written all over his face. As if I’d be upset he’s here.

“You’ve done so much for me, True. I wanted to be there when you needed me too. I know we’ve discussed you not competing for the good of Spare Time, but this is your life. You should be able to compete when you want. On your terms. When you told me yesterday about competing, I saw something in you. You wanted to be here. I don’t want to be the person who holds you back from doing something you want to do.” His neck bends just a little, and his eyes shine. “And I must say, that was…”

“Boring?” I cut in.

“No! Well, some of it,” he amends. “I was going to say riveting. The way you caught up and kicked that guy’s ass? Color me impressed.”

I arch a brow. “Just impressed?”

Ezra leans in, his lips pressed against my ear, and his voice drops an octave just for me. “Maybe a little turned on.” He winks, and suddenly, I can’t think of anything else I want to do right now besides ushering Ezra back to my suite. Alone.

“Take my key. The name of the hotel is on it. It’s about one block from here. Room 237.” I slide the key card into his hand, my fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary. Ezra’s thumb brushes my knuckles, warm and grounding, before he curls his fingers around it.

His gaze drifts past me, his expression adjusting just enough for me to feel it. He’s spotted something—or someone—in the crowd, and whatever he sees sets him on edge.

I follow his line of sight, and my stomach tightens. My father is weaving through the crowd with a purpose.