Chapter 7
“Iinsist.”
He said he’d not compete in the tournament, but what if he changes his mind?
Could what he’s already done—changing a damn lightbulb—be the only thing he does for me?
It might have just been a light bulb, but what if someone from the USBC, another coach, or even another player saw him and reported Spare Time?
I know I’m overthinking it. It can’t be that serious.
But all I can see is the money on the table and how much it could help my family.
We wouldn’t have to stress about scraping by or dip into personal savings to go toward bills.
The scariest part of all is I don’t think I’m capable of doing any of this alone. I need Truett. He knows the bowling world better than I do, and I’d be foolish to pass up the opportunity.
Even if it means risking my father’s legacy.
The unsettling thought lingers like a gray cloud overhead when I arrive at Spare Time that morning, after making sure to check in with Mrs. Barnes to let her know I’m here. Better that than facing a squad of trigger-happy cops again.
Truett isn’t there when I reach the door.
I’m thirty minutes early, so I didn’t expect him to be—though a small, irrational part of me pictured him leaning against the frame, waiting.
He strikes me as the punctual type, but the truth is, I know very little about Truett Thorne beyond what I’ve read online.
That version of him is curated and incomplete.
Despite my better judgment, I can’t ignore the curiosity tugging at me. The urge to understand the man willing to forfeit an entire tournament just to help me give Spare Time a fighting chance as a potential host.
I shrug my backpack off, heavy with all the information I’ve printed from the emails the USBC sent over. I’ve been over it several times, but my brain turns to mush about halfway through. I need new eyes on it before I let myself freak out or sink into despair because I don’t understand anything.
When 9:15 comes around, and Truett hasn’t shown up, I don’t freak out…
much. But when he still doesn’t arrive by 9:30, I’m mentally kicking myself.
I don’t have his number to text him to see where the hell he is.
I just took him at his word, never imagining he wouldn’t actually show up.
It was foolish of me to believe another person would have my back when it comes to this alley.
I check the clock on the wall again, the ticking of the second hand louder in the silence of the empty bowling alley.
The faint scent of day-old pizza wafts in the air.
My nerves are on edge, and each minute feels like an hour.
The waiting reminds me of sitting by the phone, counting down the minutes until my dad’s final test results came in, only to tell us his relentless cancer was giving him six months tops.
A cancer rotting away my father’s body. A cancer my mom and I only found out about because his doctor strongly encouraged him to tell us before it was too late.
He kept the secret, breaking all the promises he’d ever made to his family about honesty and the future.
Since then, I’ve learned waiting on someone to keep their word will always be a gamble. It’s hard to trust, let alone count on the promises anyone makes. For some reason, I always lose.
I must enjoy losing.
Just as I’m about to write Truett off, the front door slams open, sending a thunderous boom throughout the alley.
I peer over the counter just in time to see a disheveled-looking Truett frantically looking around before his wide eyes land on me.
Even from here, I can see the red flush to his cheek.
But what truly baffles me is the fact he’s shirtless.
“Ezra!” he gasps, frantic eyes landing on me. “I can explain everything. But first, you wouldn’t have a shirt I could borrow, would you?”
There’s a story here. One I need elaboration on, but my focus is shot by the rise and fall of his toned, bare chest. Even though I try to avert my gaze, I can’t help but memorize every dip, curve, and muscle.
Did he get a body like that from bowling?
And has he seriously been hiding it under his shirt this whole time?
It’s distracting, too distracting, but I force my gaze away, even though the image of him half naked is seared into my brain.
“Uhm, Ezra? Are you okay?” Truett’s voice breaks whatever wicked spell he has over me. He looks at me like this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get my attention, and I know I’ve been caught staring.
A smirk quirks at the edge of his lips. I probably should feel embarrassed, but I’m not. It’s been a long time since I’ve appreciated a man’s body in any form, so I happily look my fill.
It’s his fault for arriving half naked, anyway.
I remember I’m still upset with him and frown.
“You’re over half an hour late, Truett. I was already hesitant to accept your help after reading the rules, but for you to arrive late on top of that?
” I shake my head, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.
“I won’t be played like a little bitch.”
“I know,” there’s actual remorse in Truett’s voice, “and you have every right to be upset with me, but please let me explain. I swear I had every intention of getting here on time, and I truly do want to help. Please, Ezra.”
The sincerity in his voice gives me pause, cutting through my anger.
Doubt still lingers, reminding me I can’t fully trust him.
Maybe I should hear him out, see what excuse he has for being late.
He can explain and apologize, but that doesn’t mean I have to accept his help once it’s all said and done.
With a defeated sigh, my shoulders slump. “Fine,” I mutter, barely getting the word out before he flashes a smile that steals the air from my lungs. “But it better be a damn good excuse.”
“Can I borrow that shirt now before I explain?” His voice is edged with amusement. “Or do I earn more points without one?” His smug grin threatens to pull a flush from me, but I force my expression to stay neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“I only have old staff shirts.” I dig into a box underneath the counter, hoping I didn’t accidentally throw them out by mistake.
“That’s fine. Would it be too much to ask for a pizza too? Breakfast… didn’t happen.”
My hand closes around an old cotton shirt before standing up. I give him a pointed glare. “Anything else you’d like to request? Maybe some wine or champagne?”
“I know you’re probably joking, but I wouldn’t turn down a good bubbly.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Despite myself, I smirk, tossing the shirt at him. “Here you go, Hercules. Put this on.”
Truett catches it with one hand and raises a brow. “Hercules?”
I pointedly look down at his body and then back up. “Just seemed right.” And because he has a body like a Greek god, but I don’t add that.
Truett doesn’t take offense at my words. If anything, that goofy grin tells me he approves of the nickname. “So, if I’m Hercules, does that make you Hades?”
“You want me to be your uncle?”
“If you’re into that kinda thing,” he says.
I roll my eyes, and he laughs. Finally—albeit unfortunately—Truett pulls the shirt over his head. It’s snug, hugging his chest like a second skin. The Spare Time logo distorts over his pecs, making the writing look almost like gibberish.
“It’s… nice,” Truett lies. Beggars can’t be choosers, though.
“I’ll make pizza. Half and half, right?” I recall from his last visit, slipping into the kitchen. “Watch the door for me, will you?”
“Sir, yes, sir.” I picture Truett saluting me and hear him move behind the counter. I can only make out his side profile through the order window.
Working on autopilot, I grab the ingredients for the pizza. “Want to tell me why you’re late now?” I haven’t forgotten, and I’m not going to let him either.
Truett sighs. “My alarm didn’t go off. Apparently I set it for eight at night, and only happened to wake up because I heard my mother downstairs on her live.”
“Live?”
“Yeah, she’s a bit of a social media influencer,” Truett explains.
“But, anyway, I hauled ass to get ready and rushed out the door. After grabbing my coffee, of course. But I guess I didn’t close the lid correctly because when I went to drink it, I spilled my entire thermos all over me. It burned, Ezra. Burned!”
“Ah, hence the reason you were shirtless.” I finish up spreading the cheese on the pizza before grabbing the pepperonis.
“Yeah. It was not a good morning. I really did want to be here on time. I had every intention, but I swear it won’t happen again. I truly do want to help, if you’ll let me.”
Maybe I’m still dazed from seeing a half-naked Truett, or perhaps I’m just desperate, but I believe him.
He could have just not shown up at all and left me hanging.
But he didn’t. He’s here. He showed up. I don’t have many people in my life who will show up for me, so would I be a fool to let my initial hurt stop me from accepting his help?
Deep down, I know it isn’t just his lateness that’s bothering me.
I’ve never been good at relying on other people.
There’s a vulnerability in it I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
But my biggest hesitation? It always goes back to not knowing if Truett truly plans to sit out the tournament.
I’m the only one with something to lose here.
Everything would be so much easier if my father were still here. He’d know what to do. I miss my father, but at times it still feels like he’s here because I live in constant fear of disappointing him by failing this alley.
“Ezra?” Truett says softly, and I look up to find him standing by the order window. There’s something akin to fear and sorrow in his eyes. “Please let me help. I know you don’t like me—”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t need to say it. It’s pretty obvious. You aren’t exactly Mr. Friendly.”