Chapter 10
I remember the yellow-and-white confetti falling from the ceiling after my final strike.
Along with winning the trophy, the USBC gifted me a single bowling pin patch that I’ve stitched and restitched into every updated jersey I’ve had since then.
It became my lucky patch, and I always give it two pats before a match starts.
Winning was the cherry on top of a weekend spent with Mom. There was no pressure from her. No voice in my ear telling me to do better or get my head in the game. Just space to bowl.
It was the last time I felt actual peace on the lane.
Tonight?
Tonight felt like that confetti wasn't just falling on me. This time, it was holding my hand, and I didn’t want to let go.
It’s 7:35 a.m., and I haven’t slept a wink all night. Not because I couldn’t, but because I haven’t wanted to stop thinking about those damn dark curls framing that perfectly shaped face.
Am I twelve years old?
No. More like twenty-three going on never-have-I-ever-been-able-to-enjoy-a-crush-before.
I’ve dated. Slept around. Never anything serious. There’ve been plenty of lonely nights on the road these past two years, though it’s not exactly hard to find attention when I want it. Fans, players—take your pick. It used to be easy.
But the easy has never been good. It’s been fun, but never meaningful.
It’s never been… like this.
This is insane. Every time I close my eyes, I see Ezra and me dancing under the strobe lights, everything around us a blur because of how fast we’re circling around each other. I wish I could stay in the moment forever, even though I know something this good can’t last.
“Truett,” my father’s shouting shakes me from my reverie, vibrating my room.
“Check your email. They just sent out the list of qualifier tournaments. The Southern Regional qualifier is in Dallas this year. It’s your lucky day.
” He’s completely ignoring the fact I already told him I wasn’t sure about competing in any major tournaments this season.
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, knowing he can’t hear me.
I roll over, reach for my laptop under my bed and prop myself against the headboard. The plastic casing around my computer is chilly against my bare stomach as I pull the screen up. My eyes refocus on the email icon, which has a little red number positioned at the top.
One hundred and seventy-three unread emails.
Yikes.
I knew there was a reason why I never use my computer.
I start going through the spam emails. No, I don’t care about silver-haired singles in the area.
No, I definitely didn’t just win a new iPhone.
And, no, I don’t need breast implants. No matter how many times I report this shit as spam, it still finds its way into my inbox.
I get so into the groove of deleting emails that I nearly delete another until I see a coupon for a new paint shop in Austin flash across my screen.
Forty percent off. I bet we could use that for Spare Time.
I skip to the next email.
Dad was right. The USBC sent out a list of all the bowling alleys they’ve chosen to host each regional championship.
The fact they chose Frame 1 Bowling Center in Dallas for the Southern Regional competition gives me an inkling of hope Spare Time has even better odds at getting picked for the national match.
They’d never hold a regional championship in the same alley as the national championship.
The urge to call or text Ezra and tell him we won’t have to worry about Frame 1 taking the hosting location comes faster than the realization that I don’t even have his number.
There’s no point in calling Spare Time directly, knowing they aren’t open this early, so the next thing I can think of is…
sending an email? I could just wait to talk to him in person, but I simply don’t want to.
Any communication with him, knowing he’s on the other end of it, scratches an itch I’ve had since I got home last night from our… not a date.
Knowing alleys need to be informed of tournament locations, I scroll through the USBC listserv—all 793 addresses—and find Spare Time’s email address.
I highlight it and paste it into a new message.
The subject line stumps me for a moment.
I have no idea what to put. I don’t think I can’t stop thinking about those three little freckles above your left eyelid will read well.
At least not so soon into whatever budding relationship we’re developing here.
Right?
Ugh. Keep it simple, Truett.
Subject: It’s Truett
Hi, Ezra!
It’s Truett, but you probably know that from the subject. I’m emailing you, but you also probably figured that out as well. You’re so smart.
Don’t put a heart emoji, Truett. Don’t put a heart emoji.
I keep going…
Anyway, you may have already seen by now, but I wanted to tell you that USBC selected Frame 1 Bowling Center in Dallas to host the Southern Regional tournament, which means Spare Time has a better chance at winning the bid for the National.
The Southern Regional is a qualifier, so being at Frame 1 automatically puts it out of the running for the National. Isn’t that great?!
I was thinking, we should do last night again soon. Like today? If you’re up for it, of course. Maybe before the alley opens? I have an idea of another spot we could go…for some more…you know…inspiration.
Also, I hope you’re the one who is reading this because, if not, that’s embarrassing. Hi, Mrs. Jiménez. But if you are the one reading it, could you maybe reply to this archaic form of messaging so I know you got it? I’m eagerly awaiting your reply.
Sincerely, Truett
(Just in case you didn’t realize it was me from the subject and first line.)
It’s not until I press send and read it a second time—as if I can change anything now—that I realize I’m smiling.
A winking emoji is definitely smoother than a heart emoji.
And even though the message is giving desperate, I’m okay with that.
It’s exhausting to always be perfect. I can settle for desperate every once in a while.
I glance at the time at the bottom right of my screen. It’s only been a whole minute since I pressed the send button, but is it too psycho of me to think he has already read it and is trying to figure out a way to call our next outing together a real date?
A guy can dream.
On the other hand, this guy shouldn’t be dreaming of getting mixed up with the owner of a bowling alley.
Especially when I haven’t determined how to get out of competing in the National.
Entangling myself deeper with Ezra in a romantic way could honestly make things way messier.
Breaking an integrity rule could make me a laughingstock in the world of bowling.
A scandal like that could ruin my reputation.
I might not want to bowl anymore, but I also don’t want something I’ve worked so hard to build to come crashing down.
And I definitely don’t want to screw over Ezra and Spare Time’s chance either.
But being messy with Ezra sounds so good right now. Ugh. I tip my head back, rolling my neck until it cracks, trying to stretch out the stress of such a decision.
Another five minutes go by, a slew of emotions have run their course, and I’m sure I’ve overthought this entire online exchange. He probably doesn’t even read his emails, let alone respond to them. I need to put my computer down and actually start my day, because sitting here is not at all product—
Ding.
Holy Meg Ryan.
I’ve got mail.
I click on the icon and see it’s from Jimenez@. I double-click faster than you can say “ham-turkey dinner” before I read the subject line.
Subject: RE: It’s Ezra
Truett, it’s like eight o’clock in the morning.
Why—how—are you awake? Hell. Why—how—am I awake?
Also, there are way more efficient ways to contact me—even without my personal cell number.
Of course, you, of all people, would scour the internet to find an email address for Spare Time.
I’m impressed by the effort, though. You have my attention.
Tell me about where you want to take me.
It better not be another bowling alley that clearly has its shit together more than Spare Time does right now.
Wherever we go, let’s hope I don’t spiral into an anxious void again, only to have a professional athlete save me a third time. By the way, thanks for that.
Sincerely, Ezra
P.S. I changed the subject line because I’m not you. I’m Ezra. Just in case you didn’t know that already.
Not even a full two minutes later, I’ve sent a response.
Subject: RE: It’s Truett—OMG!
I seriously didn’t expect you to respond. Hi! Sorry for the late response. I couldn’t find the email tab. Uhm, yeah, I can tell you about it. But wouldn’t it be easier over text?
From the land of too many tabs,
Truett
Subject: RE: It’s Ezra—No, you started this. Plus, this is more fun.
Late response? It was two minutes, dude. How about you tell me where you want to take me before I start thinking you’re a creepy serial killer luring me into a white van somewhere? If I like what I’m hearing…and if you bring decent candy, I’ll consider giving you my phone number.
Just close your tabs,
Ezra
Subject: RE: It’s Truett—This is not more fun.
You really make a guy work to get your phone number, don’t you? Fine, I will try to impress you with my brilliant idea, but you should know I’ve never worked this hard to get a guy’s number before. Consider yourself special.
There is this new paint shop that opened in Austin, and you’re talking to a stud with a forty-percent-off coupon just waiting to be used. A coupon, Ezra. I haven’t used a coupon in…forever. This is going to be exhilarating.
Are you impressed yet? Or are you annoyed because you were hoping for something more…not a date?
I’m sure you’re annoyed. But that’s okay! Your annoyance is growing on me.
So, what do you say? Will you check it out with me? At the very least, do I get your number?
Are bite-sized Butterfingers alluring enough?
Truett
Subject: RE: It’s Ezra—I’m mildly interested…in the Butterfingers.
Can’t have you mistake me for easy, Mr. Thorne. Where’s the fun in the reward if you can’t enjoy the chase?
As for forcing me to get out of bed, put clothes on, and drive with you to Austin this morning, I’m not thrilled about it. However, if you think a forty-percent-off coupon will keep us under the budget we don’t have, then I’m willing to take a drive with you.
The plot twist you didn’t see coming,
Ezra
P.S. You’ve earned my number—
There it is.
The ten-digit number that will bring us closer together. That will bring our working relationship closer together, of course.
Subject: RE: It’s Truett—Be still, my heart.
I’m going to miss coming up with fun subject lines.
I’m so excited,
Truett
P.S. You have to put clothes on? So, does that mean you sleep in the nude?
Subject: RE: It’s Ezra—Dot. Dot. Dot.
I gave you my number. Why are you still emailing me?
Don’t be a perv,
Ezra
Subject: RE: It’s Truett—Now I have to find my phone
Texting you now.
Playing it cool,
Truett