Page 78 of Right Up His Alley

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m not really sure competing is what I want right now.” My skin grows warm, and my heartbeat picks up, a soft throb echoing in my chest.

Here we go.

“What are you even talking about, Truett? Bowling is your life. You can’t just not compete. What is wrong with you lately?” He pauses. “I swear, ever since that walking tattoo of a man, you’ve been so damn distracted. Don’t think I didn’t see that new addition to your wrist, either. Thank god the USBC doesn’t have any rules about tattoos showing.”

“What did you just call him?” I stiffen, my body growing hot for a completely different reason as I dig my nails into the table.

“A walking tattoo,” he repeats. “The Jiménez boy managing Spare Time? Yeah, your mother told me all about the alley. About how you’ve been spending a lot of your time there. At first, I thought it was good, you having an in at a potential hosting alley. I mean, hell, I sent you there for that same reason when you got home. When your mother wanted to donate, I said sure, why not? This could help us.”

He breathes in. “But now, knowing how much he seems to have negatively affected you, I regret it.” He lets out his breath. “I mean, let’s face it. That Jiménez guy doesn’t look too trustworthy with all that ink on his body. I should have never asked you to set foot in that rickety, classless old alley. And him?”

He scoffs. “I saw the way he jumped into your arms in Dallas. It was like he saw an opportunity to cling to someone with goals, aspirations, money, and fame. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want this.” He gestures around the room, pointing at the framed motion photos of the two of us bowling that he’s hung in the dining room. “He doesn’t belong in our sport, Truett.”

“Shut up.” My voice is low, a hollow lump tightening in my chest.

“Excuse me?”

My volume rises. “I said, shut up.”

“Truett, I know you aren’t⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I shout, flying out of my chair. My anger can’t be contained, and I need to move. “You don’t get to speak about Ezra that way. If you can’t speak about him respectfully, then do not speak about him at all.”

“Truett—”

“No, I’m done listening to you.” The skin beneath my fingernails burns, scratching as I curl my fingers into fists and slam them onto the table. When I look down and open my hands, I see small specks of blood scattered across my palms. “I have zero interest in sitting here even a second longer hearing you speak about my fucking goals and aspirations or what I need to do in order to win a title—a title I don’t even know if I fucking want.”

“Sit down, Truett.”

“You will not tell me what to do anymore, Dad. I’m done. You’re done. We’re finished with this patronizing projection bullshit you have put me through my entire life.”

I inhale and exhale a breath large enough for me to keep going. “I used to have fun bowling. Did you know that? I used to go to Spare Time and laugh, smile, and just have fucking fun doing something I loved. You might have shown me how to become a professional bowler, but Arsenio Jiménez taught me how to love the game. You took that joy, and you turned it into something you could profit from and extend your name within our industry.”

“That’s not what I did.”

“Bullshit! Stop lying to me and stop lying to yourself. You didn’t want my career for me; you wanted it for you. I don’t want to compete at the USBC Championship. Hell, I didn’t even want to compete in Dallas. But I did.” I point at him. “For you.”

He doesn’t respond, but something in his expression breaks, the anger draining into something heavier. He looks like he wants to say something but can’t find the words.

Unfortunately for him, I don’t give him the time.

I press on, digging in. “Besides bowling, you have your cars. But outside of bowling, do you even know what I enjoy in life?” I hold for three seconds, even though I know he won’t respond.

“Actually, don’t answer that because you can’t. I can’t even answer it because I haven’t had the time to figure it out for myself. I know nothing about myself other than I’m so fucking good at rolling a heavy ball down a lane just to hit some goddamn plastic-coated wood. I could have had other joys in my life, but you took that from me. You forced me to block out every other thing that could have brought me the same level of happiness bowling once did.”

Dad shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing as he stands to face me at eye level. I brace for him to explode, but he doesn’t. The anger never rises. Something else takes its place instead, heavier and more contained.

He doesn’t shout. His voice is steady but strained. “No, I did not. You wanted this. You told me you wanted to be like me. You said having a professional bowler for a dad was the coolest thing ever. I followed your lead. I thought this was what you wanted.”

I take a breath, doing my best to soften my voice. “You never asked. How did you come to that conclusion if you never asked me what I wanted? I was a little kid who wanted to connect with his father. I grew up, Dad.”

“But you’re so good. You’re better than I ever was.”

Another rare compliment. Unfortunately, it’s too late for that now.

“I know.” I speak this last part slowly, pleading for him to understand. “But that’s not the point. I’m tired of trying to be you, and I’m tired of trying to impress you. I’m also tired of being in my twenties and hiding the fact that I snuck a box of Jelly Krimpets to my room and ate them all without any fucking regret.”

He presses his hands on the table and leans forward. “I… I don’t know what to say, Truett.”