Chapter 26
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.
I spent the past couple of days thinking about how I’ll take my mother’s advice and fight for him. I need him to know how much he means to me, but I also want to mean the same to him.
But I need to get out of bed first.
I couldn’t be there for him yesterday during the scheduled inspection. I knew it was happening, and I wished I could be there, but I couldn’t risk it since I haven’t officially withdrawn from the National Championship yet.
“Amore mio!” Carlada’s voice cuts through the air like a siren. Sharp, loving, and impossible to ignore. My door’s cracked just enough for the shout to reach me. “Breakfast is ready, porta il tuo culo qui! And… your father has already graced us with his presence this morning.”
I groan into my pillow. I want to stay buried under the covers, become one with the mattress and the empty wrappers of Jelly Krimpets from the box I snuck up to my room last night scattered around me.
But I can’t make Carlada wait. I never can.
So I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, slide into my slippers, and shuffle downstairs, still half asleep and more than half dreading what I need to accomplish today.
I turn the corner into the dining room and immediately wish Carlada was lying when she said he was joining.
There he is. My father.
He grips the back of the chair next to him and yanks it out like it’s a command. “Pull up a seat, son.”
Carlada, thank god, knows me better than anyone. She’s already set a place for me directly across from him, at the other end of the table. I make a beeline for it, drag the chair back slowly, and sit down without a word.
If he thinks I’m playing along with the whole “father-son bonding over brioche” performance, he’s out of his mind. This is breakfast, not a training session. Yet, I’m sure he’s going to do his best to make it one.
“We got to talk strategy, Truett,” he says, just as I expected.
I’d rather discuss the intricate design of the sugary pastry placed on the plate in front of me than sit through this conversation.
He continues, “Obviously, since the USBC is dragging its feet on declaring where we’re going to be playing, there have been no brackets made.
We’re not sure who you’re going up against in the finals, but we can talk moves for each individual round with your fellow competitors. ”
“Carlada?” I call out, attempting to interrupt my father’s coaching. “Could I get some cranberry juice, please?”
Her head pokes out from the kitchen. “Sure thing, amore.” Once she goes back in, I’m left alone with Dad listing the strengths of each individual bowler I may or may not go against in the tournament.
“For starters, you have to be aware of the precision of Blake Fisher. His control over the ball’s spin and hook is at expert level.
His timing and ability to roll deep within the pocket is the reason he holds the record for the most spares in a season.
He’s definitely one to watch for in the finals.
Then, there is the speed demon, Ethan Yang.
His lighting release is unbelievable, especially coming from someone with such a short stature.
” He pauses, making sure I’m paying attention. “Truett?”
“Yes, I’m listening.” I feel the impulse to give more to avoid getting a lecture. Carlada returns with a glass of juice, along with a subtle wink, encouraging me to keep playing along. But that’s it. I can’t play along anymore.
“And then there is Francis Demoy,” he speaks up. “He’s a robot on the approach. I’ve never seen someone so razor-focused and not affected by a roaring audience.”
“He could take it all the way this year,” I say, hoping it’s subtle enough to reveal I’m not interested in competing.
“Exactly, which is why we need to figure out what sets him off. There’s got to be something.” My commentary seems to have assured him my head is in the game, although it couldn’t be further from it.
He takes another bite of his pastry, and before swallowing it, he continues, “Jamal Wallace reads a lane like nobody’s business.
From reading oil patterns to gauging the lane’s humidity, the way he navigates lane conditions is incredible.
Aside from Fisher, I think Wallace might also be in the running to face you in the finals. ”
He takes another bite of his pastry. Still chewing, he says, “Carlada put her foot in these Danishes. You should try a bite. Just don’t eat too much. We don’t need you to be even more sluggish like you’ve been this entire season.” He laughs.
Ezra’s voice cuts in again in my head, not uninvited this time, but sharpened by something protective. He tells you what you should eat?
My father’s comment flares something in me. I’m done being told what to eat. Done being told what to do, what to play, what version of myself to be.
Then Ezra’s voice fades, and something else rises in its place—my own voice, quieter but certain, like it’s been waiting for me to finally listen.
Something I’ve shared with Ezra before about his dreams. I hope one day you realize you are allowed to walk a different path than the one people expect of you.
“What if it’s Fisher and Wallace in the finals?” I speak up, curious to see what he’ll say about such a defeatist thought. “Also…” I take a bite of the pastry, “I’ll eat what I want to eat.” I swallow, then stuff the rest in whole.
“I don’t understand.” His jaw drops with such disgust. “Jesus Christ, Truett. You’re going to choke.”
I finish chewing and swallow, then take a sip of juice to clear my throat. “What if I don’t make it to the finals? Fisher or Wallace are very much deserving of the title.” I look down, tapping the end of my fork on my plate.
“Carlada, dear, did you put vodka in my son’s drink instead of my wife’s?”
Carlada sticks her head out again, but this time her eyes roll quicker than an eighteen-mile-per-hour release, but only I can see it. With the back of his head facing her, my father lets out an obnoxious chuckle, thinking he’s the most hilarious person on the planet.
“No, son, that will not happen. The others might have strengths in timing, accuracy, mental focus, and lane reading, but you, Truett, you are consistent and strong in all the above.” He pauses after saying it, like I do when I hear a rare compliment from him.
He continues, “You need to get your head out of whatever funk you’re in and start planning to win this tournament.
This could be your greatest achievement yet.
You’re already one of the most decorated bowlers in the United States.
This win could pivot you toward world championships. This is next-level, Truett.”
“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.”