Chapter 6 #3
“Listen,” he says. “Of course I need help. Free labor sounds fucking amazing. But you can’t give me that.
I’ve been racking my brain since the USBC visit, and I can’t shake the thought of why you happened to be there at the exact moment they came.
The exact moment I find out Spare Time has the chance to be something bigger.
“It’s like something—or someone—in the universe was telling me it’s not a good idea to have you help me.
Mr. Weathers knew who you were. If the USBC finds out you helped, I’d lose the bid, or worse, you’d ruin whatever reputation you have for being one of the best professional bowlers in the world,” he says in air quotes.
I’m not sure if he’s mocking me or complimenting me.
He continues, “I had no idea my father applied to host such a large-scale tournament. My mom didn’t even know.
She’s been on the phone all morning applying for loans for the fixes and possible new hires.
” Lines crease his forehead as his lips twitch.
He’s caught between knowing he’s giving me too much information and not enough at the same time.
“This morning, I was able to get through reading the information packet they sent.” He stops, shoulder braced against the door, neck angled my way.
The air between us feels heavy. “Which is why I’m a little late, so forgive the fuck out of me.
There is just a lot to think about and a lot to do before they come back to reevaluate the alley. ”
“But I offered—”
“Yes, you did, and I thank you for the gesture. But like I said: There are rules. As a local pro bowler, I’m sure you’ll be a contender in the championship.
There is a Tournament Integrity Policy that prohibits players from collaborating with the tournament host or venue to influence competition results.
You helping me fix up Spare Time is a conflict of interest. I can’t have that mess up my chances at getting to host this stupid tournament at my alley. ” He pauses again. “My family’s alley.”
I’ve been seeing this all wrong. The impatient grumbles, the incomplete tasks I blamed on him—I took all of it as indifference. But maybe… maybe my judgments were skewed. Maybe he does care.
“The money they’re offering, if we’re accepted, could help revitalize Spare Time. I can’t risk that.”
I’m not sure what comes over me next, but I blurt out, “It’s just a light bulb, Ezra. I want to help Spare Time. This place has given me more than you know. No one has to know I’m here lending a hand.” I pause before finishing my thought. “Let it be just a light bulb.”
“That’s the thing, it’s more than just a light bulb.
After he got sick, my dad only had enough strength to put Band-Aids on everything.
It doesn’t seem like a lot, but I don’t even know where to begin with the updates.
I need to make reasonable and rational decisions moving forward.
And, unfortunately, I don’t think appeasing your drive to find something meaningful here is a reasonable or rational decision.
” He exhales, though I’m not sure he realizes how his next words will land.
“You’re too… distracting. I can’t be distracted. ”
The seriousness, accompanied by a sense of his own desperation, shows me a different side to the rude, unmotivated guy I met yesterday.
It’s as if he actually cares about doing what’s right.
Or maybe there are other ulterior motives?
I’m not sure. It wasn’t until his head tilted down and his worried stare found something on the ground to focus on that I realized maybe he’s not doing this for the alley or even himself.
Maybe he’s doing all of this for his mom, or even more inspiring, for the memory of his father.
Who knows?
But what I do know is that I need to be here whether the USBC rules says it’s okay or not.
Ezra’s right. I do need to find meaning.
I need to find a purpose other than being the person my father wanted me to be.
I need to see this place shine and become a home to so many more people like it was for me.
My voice barely rises above the volume I imagine my father shouting in my head, yet I manage to say something Ezra isn’t expecting: “Well, that settles it.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Settles what?”
With my father’s inevitable disappointment looming, and my own uncertainty about what I’ll actually do gnawing at me, I finally push the words out: “I won’t compete in this year’s tournament if I’m asked.”
“Wh—?” Ezra’s brows arch, and his nose crinkles.
“We make a list of what needs to be done, and we start tomorrow. How’s 9:30 sound?”
Ezra shakes his head, genuinely shocked. “You can’t do that.”
He’s right. I don’t have the confidence to make this decision right now, and I probably shouldn’t be leading him on if I do decide to accept the invitation to the championship.
Assuming I qualify, of course.
When I qualify. I know I won’t be able to avoid all of my father’s demands to compete in the tournaments leading up to it.
But I can’t let this opportunity for Spare Time slip away either.
Like Ezra said, it has the chance to be something bigger.
I’ve had chances like this my whole life. Why shouldn’t Spare Time get one now?
Why not Ezra?
“My mind’s made up—” Even though it isn’t. “I insist.”