Chapter 12 #2
I grab another ball, fingers sliding into the holes like second nature, and step up to the lane without hesitation.
I wait for the pinsetter to set the pins back to their original placements.
The last strike is still echoing in my bones, but I don’t stop to celebrate.
I don’t need to. With Dad present, it’s easy to take strikes for granted.
It’s easy to take anything for granted when you’re the one who doesn’t want it in the first place.
I swing my arm back, roll forward on the balls of my feet, and release again. The ball glides over the shiny wood, a perfect curve snapping into the pocket, scattering pins in another violent explosion.
Another strike.
I don’t break stride. The more I push now, the less my father will make a big deal about me not practicing enough.
I grab another ball, send down another roll, and there is yet another explosion of white.
My rhythm is unshakable, my movements robotic.
The sound of crashing pins blends into one continuous roar as I send ball after ball down the lane, each one a perfect shot, each one obliterating the ten pins without mercy.
What more does Brett Thorne want? Maybe the six to eight French fries from my tray I’ve seen him scarf down when he doesn’t realize I’m watching. God, he’s such a hypocrite.
After a complete game of consistent strikes, I take a seat next to my father and the half-eaten basket of fries.
I take a few moments to breathe before expressing to Dad that I’m taking a break until the actual competition.
He grumbles at first, but waves his hand as if he’s dismissing me from a service.
I take it and don’t wait for him to change his mind.
Making my way around the alley, I scan the lanes out of habit.
Near the far end, a little kid fumbles with a ball, his small hands struggling to keep control before he sends it wobbling down the lane, only for it to veer straight into the gutter.
He throws himself down on the lane and slaps the floor in frustration.
Behind him, his mom juggles a fussy baby boy who’s busy smearing something yellow… and liquid… all over the front of his outfit. She looks exhausted, barely able to keep up with the mess. But yet she calls out, “You got this, baby. Don’t give up, okay?”
The kid tries again. Another gutter ball. Frustration twists his face even more, and before he can give up completely, I step over. “Hey there,” I say, glancing at his mom. “Mind if I help him out a little?”
She looks up, surprised, then nods with a grateful smile.
“Oh wow, Truett Thorne. I can’t believe it—hi.
” Her face reddens the moment she recognizes me.
“We—my oldest, rather, the one over there” —she points to the boy— “watches you compete in all the televised matches. Yes… yes, of course. I haven’t perfected the art of teaching bowling with a baby attached to me.
” She nods to her little one squirming around in the carrier hanging from her chest. “This one right here won’t let me go long enough to practice with Gavin. ”
I smile, then head over to the boy’s lane. He turns to look at me, eyes glazed, like he’s seen his favorite athlete. A feeling I’ll never get over.
I crouch down to Gavin’s level, offering a reassuring grin. “Hey, buddy, my name is Truett. Your mom said I could come chat with you and give you some bowling pointers. How does that sound?”
Gavin looks back at his mom and gets her approval in the form of a supportive thumbs-up. He turns back to face me. “Yes, please. I can’t stop throwing gutter balls. Can you help?”
As soon as he asks, a comfort spreads through my chest. I don’t answer right away. The hum of the lanes fills the space between us, pins crashing somewhere behind my left shoulder. I nod before I even realize I’m smiling.
Being trusted like this pulls me backward in time.
I see myself younger, standing where Gavin stands now.
Hands tucked into my sleeves, wanting so much to enjoy something that should be fun.
I remember asking questions quietly, half expecting to be dismissed.
But that never happened with Mr. Jiménez.
He showed me how to line up my feet, how to breathe before the release. More than that, he made learning feel safe. Not like an order, but more like an invitation.
The memory settles into me, warm and familiar. Happiness follows but quickly fades as I remember I’m here with my dad, competing in a competition I’m not interested in, instead of being here with Mr. Jiménez.
Underneath that happiness is something brighter. It feels more like… possibility. Maybe this is a direction I’m meant to take. Not chasing scores or perfection, but navigating my way to a place that’s always felt like home. Could I pass those same feelings on to others?
Spare Time isn’t a big arena, but it is where passion lives. It’s where impact is made. It’s where people learn how to be patient, how to stay present, and how to trust themselves.
“Should I ask them to put the bumpers up on the lane, Mr. Truett?” His second question gives me the chance to see where he’s at when it comes to trusting himself.
“How about I show you some things first, and if we still need them, we can ask. How does that sound?”
He nods.
I spend about ten minutes with Gavin, showing him technique, form, and a few special tips and tricks I have up my sleeve about sending the bowling ball in the right direction.
It’s when Gavin’s ball makes contact with his first five pins that I hear my name screamed across the alley, yanking me out of any chance to celebrate with him.
Brett Thorne, of course.
I don’t respond but instead say my goodbye to Gavin and make my way back over to Lane 9. “You rang, Your Highness?”