Page 73 of Right Up His Alley

“And yet deeply lovable.” She glances around before spotting the slushie machine behind the concessions counter. Her eyes brighten up. “Oh, now hold on. That is absolutely piña colada-adjacent.”

“Wait. So you really just came to see if I was here?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “But now that I’m here, I want to watch my boy bowl.”

I groan. “Which means pictures for your socials.”

“You haven’t played much this season, and with you maybe taking a break from bowling, who knows when I’ll be able to snap more photos.” She’s already pulling out her phone. “My—well, your—followers are starving for some Bowling Mom posts.”

“They are not my followers.”

“They love you though, and who could blame them?” She squints at me while angling her camera. “Don’t move. The lighting in this place is better than I remember.”

“Ma.”

“I know, I know. Let your mother be proud of what you’ve accomplished before you retire or whatever you end up choosing to do. You know I’ll support you.” She snaps a picture, then pulls her phone closer to inspect it. “Perfect. They’re gonna love this.” She smiles, puckers her lips, and blows me a kiss before turning and heading toward the kitchen.

I find my way back to my lane, refocusing, my mind locked in. When I pick up my ball, it feels heavier now, as if it’s carrying everything I have on my shoulders.

My father’s expectations.

My mother’s concern, her social media followers, even.

Every thought or reminder of Ezra and how badly I want him to know I still believe in him. In Spare Time.

It all comes back to him.

So, I line up my next shot, bury the ache, and let the trance take me again. The lanes, on my terms, are the only place where things still fall where they’re supposed to.

Another hour goes by, and I’m coming to a close on my fourth solo game. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my mom chatting with Ezra’s mom near the concession stand. Somehow, both Mrs. Jiménez and my mom are sipping piña coladas. I’m unsure of how she even ordered one, let alone another for Ezra’s mother. From my knowledge, the alley only serves red-flavored slushies, PBRs, and bottom-shelf wine on occasions.

Their heads tilt toward each other, their faces lighting up in warm, easy smiles. This is the first time I’ve seen both Ezra’s and my worlds collide in this way. It makes something in my chest hopeful. But it also makes me nervously wonder what they are saying? What could they possibly be talking about besides mine and Ezra’s relationship?

Gah! I can’t shake him. I want to know what’s going on in his head. I need to help. I want to be there. But you can’t pull someone away from the cliff if they don’t care if they slip. I can’t force him to talk. I can’t fix what he won’t work through with me.

I reach for my phone, half hoping there’s a message from Ezra waiting for me. Instead, my thumb swipes on instinct and opens up the only social media app I have on my phone. Right at the top of my feed is a new picture from @ThorneyPins of me mid-stride, caught in the motion of a bowling throw from today. It’s sharp and bright.

In the background, some light bounces off the brand-new paint. The floors are shiny—stunning, really. The LED lights we placed along each gutter make the alley look fresh and unique. Just by this one photo, you can really tell how much work Ezra has done. How much love we’ve put into this place. She posted it twenty minutes ago, tagging Spare Time, and it already has over a thousand likes.

Out of curiosity, I click on the Spare Time tag and am surprised to see that its account was just created today. There’s only one photo posted so far: an artistic shot of the front entrance sign—the neon lights of Spare Time shining brightly, with a piña colada raised in front. The photo has 900 likes, with the account having almost a thousand followers already.

Oh @ThorneyPins…what am I going to do with you?

I make my way toward my mother and Mrs. Jiménez. “Is this what you two were talking about over here?” I turn my phone toward them, showing the now-refreshed follower number on Spare Time’s account—fifteen hundred.

“Your mother is teaching me all about branding,” Mrs. Jiménez says with a laugh before taking another sip of her colada. “Excuse me one moment; let me check these people out.” She stands and heads toward the cash register, where one of the families from earlier is ready to close out.

“You didn’t tell me how fun Mrs. Jiménez is, Truett,” my mother says, still smiling. “We’re having a blast over here.” She gestures toward the kitchen. “You should get yourself one of these. Or at least eat some pizza. You haven’t eaten all day.”

I should stop and eat something. That would make sense. I’ve been here for hours.

But if I step away from my frame, I lose momentum. I can already feel it slipping just thinking about it. My father’s voice threads through my head, sharp and familiar, reminding me about carbs, about staying light, about everything I should and shouldn’t put in my body before a tournament.

And I hate that it still sounds like guidance instead of pressure.

Even though I know Spare Time’s pizza is good. Even though I can practically taste it. I still catch myself doing the math anyway, like food is another thing I have to optimize instead of enjoy.

Then Ezra’s voice cuts in, uninvited, like it’s been doing all week when I’m closest to ignoring myself. This time it’s calling me out for not eating, for letting my father’s rules take up too much space like he does with everything.