Chapter 12
Arriving at Albuquerque’s City Open Championship, I push open the doors to the alley.
For the first time in a long time, I feel actual dread walking into a bowling alley.
Even with a likely win here in New Mexico—and after a full day spent in the back of a limousine with my father—I can’t shake the distress from the awkward goodbye Ezra and I shared this morning.
I would rather be at Spare Time painting its walls, but of course I’m stuck, registered for a competition I honestly don’t give two shits about.
The look on Ezra’s face, even though it was blank for the most part, still told me everything I needed to know.
I was letting him down by not being there to help him with the first major project.
It’s not like I broke the exact promise I made.
I only told him I’d not compete in the national championship if it meant Spare Time would be chosen.
But I still feel terrible leaving him to paint by himself.
I shouldn’t have led him on. The registration for the City Open happened so fast, and I’ve been so caught up pouring my energy into Spare Time that I never discussed my plans with Ezra.
When Brett Thorne tells me to jump, I still don’t know how to say I’d rather not.
And now here I am, standing in a place that looks more like a swanky hotel lobby than a bowling alley, wishing I were back at the drab lanes of Spare Time.
“Alright, I’ll take care of registration,” Dad says, barely slowing as he heads toward the check-in counter. “Go get your shoes on and start practicing.”
He’s already halfway across the alley before I can say anything. Not that it matters. He doesn’t expect a response from me, only perfect obedience.
I let out a slow breath, adjusting my grip on my duffel as I glance around.
The walls are lined with framed artwork, but not the cheesy kind I usually see in alleys.
No cartoon bowling pins with goofy faces or bowling balls designed as planets.
Instead, there’s a mural stretching across the far wall, a stylized painting of a strike in motion, with blurred streaks of color giving it this cool sense of movement.
I snap a quick picture on my phone. Ezra would absolutely hate this place.
It’s not at all how he’d want to see our place turn out.
I can’t wait to see his face when I show him.
Our place.
It’s not like I consider Spare Time as mine in the ownership kind of way, but I do feel I’m allowed to think of it as a sanctuary.
In the same way a child thinks of their parents’ home as theirs, that’s how I like to think of the alley.
I’m proud to be a part of the legacy Arsenio Jiménez left behind.
But it’s more than the legacy. It’s about the feelings and memories Spare Time holds for me.
I can’t help but think back to my early days, hearing Mr. Jiménez loud and clear as he taught me the basics of bowling.
His voice was always steady, patient, paternal—unlike that of my dictator father.
Ezra may have some feelings toward his dad for pushing him into the family business, but pushy isn’t how I remember him.
Sitting in the back of a limousine for ten straight hours has left the calf muscles in my legs cramping. I stretch them out first, then begin to unlace my sneakers.
The seating area is modern, with cushioned benches instead of stiff plastic chairs I’ve spent way too many hours in before.
My ass lets out a thank you in advance. The ball return is sleek, the monitors above the lanes aren’t lagging with outdated animations, and there’s this clean, open feel to the whole place.
This center has style, and I can’t wait to tell Ezra all about it when I get home.
I slide on my bowling shoes and tighten the laces, glancing toward the lanes Dad wants me to study and analyze.
Oil patterns. Board markings. Pin reactions.
That’s what I should be focused on.
Or at least that’s what Brett Thorne believes I should be doing.
The floor of the bowling alley gleams from what I assume is consistent janitorial care and upkeep.
My shoes glide smoothly against it as I make my way to the concession counter.
The rich aroma of hot oil and buttered popcorn fills the air, blending perfectly with the nostalgic scent of lane polish.
My stomach growls, and I press my palm against it like that might quiet it down.
It’s been a long day with the drive, and all I want right now is a soda and a basket of carbs.
My body is craving something salty, greasy, and completely and utterly satisfying.
I lean an elbow on the counter. “Large cola, loaded fries, please.”
The teenager working the register nods without looking up and pokes at the screen. After I tap my credit card on the reader, he hands me a buzzer and tells me my food will be ready when it vibrates.
I drum my fingers against the counter as I wait, looking back at the lanes.
The pins crashing and the hum of conversation bring a sense of comfort to me.
That is until I see my dad standing near Lane 9, his arms crossed, watching someone’s form with such critical, narrowed eyes.
I just know he’s picking apart their technique, mentally cataloging every little flaw and hoping they’re my competition this evening. He does this every time.
The buzzer vibrates, and the teenager slides my tray across the counter.
A mountain of fries, drowning in melted cheese, hot chili, crumbled bacon, and a drizzle of ranch, takes over the entire plate.
The condensation on my soda cup beads up against my palm as I wrap my hand around it, bringing it to my lips for the first sip.
I turn, ready to make my way back to Lane 9, when I see my dad walking toward me, clearing his throat. My stomach twists before he even opens his mouth.
“You going to eat all that, son?” The response he wants is obvious, which means he’s about to say something I really am not going to like or something he knows will piss me off.
I glance at him, then at my tray, like maybe I need to double-check if I accidentally have someone else’s tray. I remember Ezra’s surprise when hearing how my dad makes comments about my eating habits. “Yeah. I haven’t eaten anything since we left Pflugerville. What’s the issue?”
His mouth twitches like he’s holding back something sharper. “Just saying, the tournament is tomorrow. You need a good night’s sleep. You might want to think about what you’re putting in your body.”
There it is.
I exhale slowly through my nose, begging myself not to react.
I can’t believe I haven’t picked up on how much he focuses on what I eat.
When Ezra questioned it, I didn’t think too much at first. But now, my dad’s opinions about my eating habits are louder than anything.
His comments and little jabs about my body, my performances, and the goddamn food on my plate have all been disguised as casual observations.
Through his eyes, I’ve always felt damaged—never good enough—and I couldn’t figure out why.
I thought it was just because of bowling and a little family competition, but it’s more. It always has been.
“It’s one meal, Dad.” I glance down. All of a sudden, my plate looks like it’s overflowing, like there’s too much food and not enough space to hold it.
I know the illusion isn’t real, but I can’t help how this mix of guilt and doubt forces me to see it this way.
Not just an image of a crowded plate, but an image of myself, so negative. All because of… him.
“Sure. But one meal turns into a habit, and habits affect performance.” He nods toward the tray. “Loaded fries aren’t exactly fuel for a champion.”
The words hit their mark, like a dart landing dead center on the target.
My fingers curl into my palm, one by one, slow and deliberate.
I draw in a deep breath, then let it out just as slowly, giving myself time to decide what to say next.
Counting to ten—dragging out each Mississippi in my head—I grab a fry from my tray, hoping my father notices just how irritated he’s made me, and shove it in my mouth.
I want to say a clever retort or even curse him out, but I do what I always do when it comes to Brett Thorne. I shove my frustration down to the depths of my soul. I’m not in the mood to argue with him because it’s not worth it. Unfortunately, Brett Thorne will always win. No matter what happens.
For now, though, I simply shrug and lift another one of my searing-hot fries to my mouth and chew like it’s the first bite to my last supper. “Guess we’ll have to see.”
His eyes linger on me for a second, like he’s debating whether to keep pushing or leave it alone. “So be it.” He exhales sharply through his nose, shakes his head, and turns back to the lanes. “Don’t come crying when you feel sluggish throwing balls down the lane tonight.”
I roll my eyes, hoping Dad sees the passive-aggressive whites of my eyes before he walks back to our lane. I follow along, even though my desire to run out of this bowling alley at full speed is strong.
I put my food down and step up on the approach, grabbing the beautiful green and blue reactive ball I brought with me from the return table.
It’s heavy but perfect for the wide hook I’ve become pretty famous for over the years.
I wind up, swing the ball behind me, and follow through with a forceful thrust, sending the ball down the lane, past the arrow zone, toward the back end.
The ball crashes into the pins, knocking down all ten with a thunderous clang.