Page 76 of Right Up His Alley

Mr. Weathers nods again. “Well, we will get to it then. Don’t mind us. Continue what you were doing before we arrived. I’m sure you’ll have customers coming in soon.” His colleagues fall in line behind him, already commenting on a few things I can’t quite hear. Not wanting to be awkward, I head back over to the front counter.

I figured the alley would stay quiet during the inspection, leaving me with nowhere to hide from my own panic. No customers to distract me. No work to lose myself in.

Every attempt at cleaning ends with me forgetting what I was even holding, and inventory is impossible when I keep rereading the same numbers without processing them. My nerves are so wound tight I can barely stand still for more than a minute before I’m pacing again, constantly checking on the men who hold the fate of the alley in their hands, searching their expressions for any sign we’re about to lose everything.

But then, strangely enough, customers begin filtering through the doors one after another. Some stroll in alone; others arrive in groups, and eventually a small busload pulls up outside. The passengers climb out slowly, looking as though they’ve come from an adult daycare before making their way into the alley. Before long, I barely have time to think about Mr. Weathers and the others inspecting the building around me.

It’s odd to have so many customers, but maybe, for once, the universe is on my side. Even if it’s a fluke, I’ll take it. As I finish greeting and assisting more customers than I’ve seen in a single morning all year, I finally find a moment to sit.

The phone in my pocket feels like it’s burning through the denim, as if it’s begging me to pull it out and call the one person who would want to hear how busy it’s been—and who could probably calm me down before I spiral while waiting for the USBC reps’ verdict.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt this kind of anxiety. My body doesn’t know what to do with it. My hands shake. My breath comes too fast and too shallow. Every second I resist calling him feels like I’m fraying at the edges, coming undone.

Just as I feel like I’m about to break, Mr. Weathers clears his throat, nearly making me jump out of my skin. He smiles, clearly oblivious to the stress I’ve been under this morning. “We’ve finished the inspection. We appreciate the changes you’ve made to the alley, Mr. Jiménez. It’s also nice to see how busy it is. Is this what it normally looks like in the morning?”

I scoff without hesitation, even though it’s a total lie. “Oh? This is nothing. You should see this place in the evenings.”

“Wonderful! Which reminds me, the last thing we will need to see is your financial records for the last three months. It’s not a deciding factor, but we still want to gauge the popularity of the alley to see what kind of turnout we can expect.”

All the color drains from my face. “That’s a requirement?” The words come out more like a question, my voice sounding too shaky even to my own ears.

“Yes.” Mr. Weathers’ eyebrow lifts. “We’ll need a simple Statement of Financial Position Summary. A one-pager, if you will. But don’t worry about pulling that now. Send it in an email.” He pulls something from his jacket pocket. “Here’s my card. Feel free to send it directly to me or the generic email box we’ve been corresponding through.”

Mr. Weathers hands me the card, and I have no choice but to take it. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s made of stone instead of paper. “Right,” I murmur, because I can’t think of a single damn thing to say.

Once they look at our records, it’ll all be over. They’ll see the truth spelled out in black and red—months of losses, desperate attempts to keep the lights on, the cracks we’ve tried so hard to hide. Surface-level changes like paint and fixing the lights can only hide so much. Everything we’ve done to improve the alley will have been for nothing.

They’ll see what Spare Time has become: a shadow of what it once was.

And just like that, the dream slips completely out of reach. No more chance at hosting the championship. No crowds. No spotlight. No redemption.

Just the gut-punch of knowing I’ve failed—not just myself, but the place I’ve poured everything into.

“I believe that’s it then.” Mr. Weathers holds out his hand. I take it, not even caring that my handshake is weak. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Jiménez.”

And then I watch them walk out—maybe for the last time—taking with them not just the air in the alley, but every chance we had of hosting the championship and all the money that came with it. The silence they leave behind is heavier than the loss itself.

I swallow hard and force myself to move. One foot in front of the other, I make my way to the office computer. The monitor wakes when I jiggle the mouse, stalling on the login screen for a few agonizing seconds before finally loading.

Login.

Click.

Finance folder.

Click.

My fingers move despite my hesitation, dragging the cursor to drop the new QuickBooks file into an email for Mr. Weathers.

As soon as I hit send, the window vanishes, leaving a hollow ache to settle deep in my chest.

The USBC seeing the most recent debt settlement isn’t just a setback for Spare Time.

It’s a collapse.

And maybe it’s what I deserve.

I’m embarrassed to think about how long it took me to figure out the kind of man I want to be, but it’s because of how I feel for Ezra that I had the realization in the first place.