7. Betsy
BETSY
T he car ride to Rock and Bowl Lanes passes in a blur of streetlights and shared laughter.
I’m still buzzing from the confrontation with Devon, but Conor’s steady presence beside me works like a balm on my frayed nerves.
His Audi smells of leather and something distinctly him—sandalwood maybe, with hints of cedar.
Clean, masculine, nothing like Devon’s overpowering cologne that always gave me a headache.
“So how good are you really?” I ask, watching his profile as he navigates through Brooklyn traffic. The dashboard lights cast shadows across the planes of his face, highlighting that strong jawline.
Conor chuckles, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. “Terrible. Absolutely hopeless. But the team keeps me around because I pay for the shirts and the beer.”
"Honesty. I like that in a man.” The words slip out before I can filter them, hanging between us in the warm interior of the car.
His eyes flick to mine for just a second, long enough for something electric to pass between us before he returns his attention to the road. “I never saw the point in pretending to be something I’m not.”
The parking lot of Rock and Bowl is already crowded when we arrive, neon lights from the massive sign painting the asphalt in lurid pinks and blues.
Bass-heavy music pulses through the walls, vibrating beneath my feet as we approach.
Conor’s hand finds the small of my back as he guides me through the entrance, his touch light but present, sending little sparks dancing up my spine.
Inside, the sensory assault is immediate—the crash of pins, shouts of victory and defeat, the unmistakable smell of rental shoes and fried food. Colored lights sweep over the lanes, catching on polished balls and gleaming wooden floors.
“Boss man!” A chorus of voices rises from lane twelve, where a group wearing matching blue shirts with cartoon piranhas emblazoned across the front stands waving. Conor’s team—the Park Slope Piranhas—all smiles and raised beer bottles.
“Sorry, we’re late,” Conor says as we approach, his hand still resting at the small of my back. “Everyone, this is Betsy Miller. She’s the architect working on our new headquarters, and she’s graciously agreed to fill in for Marco tonight.”
A tall woman with a sleek ponytail steps forward, extending her hand. “I’m Jess, head of marketing and team captain.” Her grip is firm, her smile genuine. “Thank god you’re here. The Tribeca Tigers have been insufferable, and we’re down a player.”
I turn toward the neighboring lane where a team in orange and black shirts is huddled in conversation, occasionally glancing our way. “Are they that good?”
"They think they are,” says a lanky guy with thick-framed glasses. "I’m Raj, by the way. Head developer and second-best bowler on the team.”
"Second-best?” I raise an eyebrow.
“After you, I hope,” Jess laughs. "Marco’s our ringer, but he’s home with the flu.”
Conor squeezes my shoulder. “What size shoes do you need? I’ll get them while you get acquainted."
“Seven and a half, but I can?—”
“I’ve got it,” he insists with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Beer preference?"
“Whatever IPA they have on tap.”
As Conor heads to the counter, Jess sidles closer. “So, you’re the architect he won’t shut up about.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “He talks about me?”
"Girl, you have no idea.” She grins, lowering her voice. "It’s always ‘Betsy this’ and ‘Betsy that’ and ‘Did you see the brilliant solution Betsy came up with for the atrium?’ I was starting to think you were mythical.”
Before I can process this information, Conor returns with shoes and a frosty pint glass. “They’re about to start the first frame,” he says, handing me the beer. Our fingers brush, and I’m suddenly very aware of every point of contact between us.
“Let’s show these Tigers what Piranhas are made of,” I say, taking a long sip to steady myself.
The following two hours are a revelation. I haven’t had this much fun in ages. My first roll is a strike that sends the Piranhas into wild cheers and the Tigers into sullen muttering. By the third frame, it’s clear I’m the best bowler on either team, something Conor seems absurdly proud of.
“That’s our architect!” he shouts after my third consecutive strike, high-fiving me with both hands. “Did you see that? Perfect form!”
I laugh, flushed with success and his praise. “It’s just geometry and physics."
“And talent,” he insists, eyes bright with admiration. "Don’t downplay it.”
Every time I step up to bowl, Conor watches me with such intensity that I can feel his gaze like a physical touch.
When it’s his turn, I can’t help but notice how his bowling shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, how his forearms flex as he grips the ball.
His technique is indeed terrible—all power, no finesse—but his enthusiasm is infectious.
Between frames, he’s constantly attentive—refilling my beer before I can ask, bringing napkins when I spill some pretzel salt on my jeans, laughing at my jokes like they’re the wittiest things he’s ever heard.
It’s disorienting after years of Devon’s casual neglect, the way he’d check his phone while I was talking or forget my drink preference despite five years together.
“You’re spoiling me,” I tell Conor when he returns with another beer and a basket of fries he remembered I mentioned wanting.
His eyes meet mine, suddenly serious. “You deserve to be spoiled.”
The simple statement hits me harder than it should, lodging somewhere behind my ribcage.
By the final frame, we’re neck and neck with the Tigers. The pressure is on as their anchor bowler, a smug guy named Chad with slicked-back hair, steps up and rolls a strike.
“We need a strike and at least eight pins to win,” Jess calculates, biting her lip.
“Betsy’s got this,” Conor says with such certainty that I almost believe him.
I pick up my ball, feeling its weight, the smooth coolness against my palms. The lanes stretch before me, the pins gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the arrows, visualizing the path.
Three steps, swing, release—the ball curves perfectly into the pocket.
The crash of all ten pins falling sends the Piranhas into a frenzy.
“One more strike!” Raj yells, bouncing on his toes.
The pressure should be crushing, but somehow it isn’t. I feel calm, centered, and aware of Conor’s unwavering belief radiating from where he stands. The second roll is as perfect as the first—another strike that seals our victory.
The team erupts in cheers as the electronic scoreboard flashes “WINNER” over our lane. Jess tackles me in a hug, and Raj is doing some kind of victory dance that involves a lot of flailing arms. But it’s Conor I’m watching as he strides toward me, face split in a grin so wide it must hurt.
He wraps me in a bear hug that lifts me off my feet, spinning me once before setting me down. His hands frame my face for a moment, eyes locked on mine, before he presses his lips to my forehead in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against my skin, then freezes, pulling back abruptly. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—that was inappropriate?—”
I laugh, breathless from the contact, the victory, and the sheer joy of the moment. “No worries, Campbell. I’d say I earned that.”
His relief is palpable, and his shoulders relax as he chuckles. “That and more. You just saved the company’s honor.”
A league official approaches with a tacky plastic trophy shaped like a bowling pin, presenting it to our team with mock solemnity. Conor insists I hold it for the team photo, his arm wrapped around my waist as Jess snaps a picture with her phone.
“Pizza and beer at Slice Heaven?” Raj suggests, already packing up his custom bowling ball.
“Tradition after a win,” Conor explains, his eyes never leaving mine. “You game?”
"Absolutely,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. The last thing I want is for this night to end.
Slice Heaven is only two blocks away, a cozy pizzeria with red checkered tablecloths and Edison bulbs hanging from exposed beams. The team claims a long table in the back, and I find myself seated beside Conor, our knees occasionally brushing under the table in a way that sends little jolts through my system.
As pitchers of beer are distributed and massive pizzas arrive, the conversation flows easily.
I learn that Jess used to be a professional dancer before moving into marketing, that Raj has five sisters and can braid hair better than anyone on the team, and that the quiet woman named Mei is actually a champion poker player in her spare time.
But it’s Conor I’m most fascinated by. He listens intently to everyone, remembering details about their lives that demonstrate his genuine care. He deflects questions about his success with self-deprecating humor. How his eyes crinkle at the corners when he really laughs.
Halfway through the dinner, I catch myself staring at Conor’s hands as he gesticulates during a story about a disastrous investor pitch.
They’re strong hands, capable, with neatly trimmed nails and a light dusting of dark hair across the knuckles.
I wonder how they’d feel against my skin, then quickly chase the thought away with a large gulp of beer.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning close enough that I can feel his breath warm against my ear. “You went quiet."
“Just enjoying the show,” I say, nodding toward Raj, who’s now demonstrating how he had to crawl through an air duct during a college prank gone wrong.
Conor studies me for a moment longer than necessary, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You’re a terrible liar, Betsy Miller."
“And you’re very observant, Conor Campbell."
“Only about things that interest me.” His voice drops lower, meant just for me despite the noisy restaurant.