17 | Kicked Out
“Lodge Girl is fine,” Wesley said as we walked into the bowling alley. “Nobody knows anything.”
Kadir held the door open behind us. “Everything they found has an explanation.”
Leo adjusted the baseball cap pulled low over his curls. “And Lodge Girl sounds mysterious. You should be grateful they didn’t choose something worse.”
“Such as?”
“Bitchy Manager.”
I walked past him before the conversation became another reason to regret leaving the lodge.
The men were probably right.
The videos showed me standing near the stage at the bar and reflected faintly in the dark windows behind their stripped-down performance.
None of that was unusual for their manager.
Fans had taken several harmless details and built a romantic story around them because romantic stories were more interesting than the woman behind the camera checking audio levels.
I had considered explaining why the rumor felt different from where I stood.
If strangers decided Leo was sleeping with his manager, he would remain a desirable frontman with poor impulse control. Kadir would become the mysterious bassist secretly involved with the woman behind the camera. Wesley would become the sweet one who had apparently charmed his manager into bed.
Their reputations could survive it. The rumors might even help them.
I would become the label executive’s daughter who received an important assignment and slept with the clients she was supposed to manage.
Every successful choice I had made could be recast as favoritism, manipulation, or proof that the men only listened because I was available to them in ways their previous managers had not been.
I considered saying that.
Then I heard the complaint as it might sound to anyone outside my body.
My wealthy father gave me an excellent job, three famous men wanted me, and now strangers on the internet might be unfair.
Tragic.
I could have explained it better. The men might even have understood. They had surprised me several times by taking my worries more seriously than I expected.
I was tired of hearing myself worry.
I wanted one afternoon when I wasn’t a daughter, their manager, or Lodge Girl.
I wanted rented shoes, fruity alcohol, and the opportunity to watch Leo discover that confidence didn’t translate into athletic ability.
The bowling alley sat near the end of a small commercial strip twenty minutes from the lodge.
It had twelve lanes, faded neon carpet, two old arcade machines, and a ceiling low enough that I could see individual stains on the acoustic panels.
Plastic stars hung above the prize counter despite there being no visible method for earning prizes.
Only three other lanes were occupied.
A retired couple bowled near the far wall. Two teenage boys shared a lane closer to the entrance. A mother sat with a small child in the arcade area while he repeatedly crashed a digital motorcycle into the same barrier.
The middle of a weekday had been intentional.
We had hired a driver from the local car service because the bowling alley advertised frozen alcoholic drinks large enough to require designated transportation and several bad decisions. The men wore hats and hoodies. Leo had added clear glasses with thick black frames, though he did not need them.
He looked less disguised than prepared to explain independent cinema to someone who had not asked.
Wesley studied him while we waited for our shoes. “You look like a substitute teacher.”
“A hot substitute teacher.”
“One who gets fired before lunch.”
Leo looked toward the woman behind the counter, apparently considering whether to prove Wesley wrong through direct experimentation.
I stepped between him and another avoidable incident.
We rented one lane and several pairs of shoes. The shoes were stiff, aggressively red and blue, and produced the immediate feeling that no one wearing them should be trusted with heavy objects.
I entered our names into the scoring system while the men searched for bowling balls.
Leo looked over my shoulder. “You put yourself first.”
“I’m establishing order.”
“We should bowl by age.”
“You don’t want anyone knowing your actual age.”
Wesley returned carrying two balls. “Style points should count.”
“They don’t.”
“They should if someone bowls backward.”
“No one is bowling backward.”
Leo picked up a purple ball and tested its weight. “This is already becoming oppressive.”
“My father told you what happens when people ignore my schedules.”
Kadir chose a black ball from the rack. “Badges get revoked.”
I finished arranging the lane order. Me, Wesley, Kadir, then Leo. Leo objected because singers belonged at the front. Wesley argued that drummers controlled the count. Kadir said nothing, which suggested he understood the scoreboard would settle the issue.
I bowled first.
My approach was controlled, sensible, and completely ineffective. The ball traveled at the speed of an injured animal and knocked down four pins.
Wesley applauded loudly enough for the retired couple to turn around.
“That was four,” I said.
“Strong opening.”
He took his turn with the energy of someone entering an arena. His first ball knocked down nine pins. He jogged backward toward us with both hands lifted.
Leo stared at the lane. “Hey, I think you left one.”
“I’m building suspense.”
Kadir rolled next.
He took three easy steps and released the ball without effort. It traveled directly into the pocket and cleared all ten pins.
The strike animation flashed across the overhead screen.
Kadir walked back toward the table.
“That was upsetting,” I told him.
He sat beside me. “Why?”
“You’re secretly good at bowling.”
“I’ve bowled before.”
Leo removed his glasses. “You’ve been hiding this from us?”
Kadir took a drink of water. “You never asked.”
I watched Leo approach the lane with the offended concentration of a man who had been personally betrayed by recreational competence.
He held the purple ball in one hand and gestured with the other while explaining that bowling was primarily rhythm, confidence, and follow-through.
He looked at me during the explanation.
That was the problem.
Leo began his approach, swung the ball backward, and released it several feet before the part where releasing it became useful.
The ball struck the floor behind him with a violent crash.
Everyone froze.
The ball remained between Leo’s feet.
The teenager on the next occupied lane laughed first.
Then Wesley folded over the scoring table.
I tried to stop myself because we were famous-adjacent adults in a small business, and creating a scene contradicted the entire purpose of the disguises.
Leo turned around slowly and looked down at the ball.
“It slipped.”
Kadir took another drink. “The ball moved exactly where you sent it.”
“The holes are wrong.”
The woman at the counter stared at us.
Leo picked up the ball with more care and rolled again. It traveled directly into the gutter.
I sat down because my legs had become unreliable from laughing.
His dignity didn’t improve during the second frame.
Mine didn’t survive the third.
Kadir stood behind me while I selected a lighter ball. He took my wrist and adjusted the angle of my hand, then shifted his other palm to my hip.
“Don’t throw with your whole body.”
His chest rested briefly against my back while he repositioned me. His voice stayed quiet near my ear, and the bowling alley faded for one second.
Then I rolled the ball into the gutter.
Kadir kissed my temple when I returned.
It felt like consolation and mockery in equal proportions.
Wesley treated every successful roll like a championship victory. He high-fived me for six pins, chest-bumped Leo after a spare, and attempted to start a chant when Kadir missed his first shot of the afternoon.
Kadir silenced him with a look.
The frozen drinks arrived during the fifth frame.
The menu called them Strike Freezes, which suggested a relationship between alcohol and improved performance unsupported by medical evidence. Mine was bright red and tasted like cherry candy with no detectable alcohol.
Leo chose blue raspberry. Wesley ordered lime. Kadir claimed he didn’t want one, drank from mine, then returned to the counter for a dark purple flavor called Midnight Split.
The first few sips improved morale without immediately harming coordination.
Leo recovered enough to knock down eight pins and kissed me because I told him the roll had been respectable. He caught my face between both hands and kissed me directly beside the scoring table, forgetting the hats and glasses were supposed to make us less noticeable.
The kiss lasted only a few seconds.
It still left me smiling when he pulled back.
Wesley protested that affection should not be awarded for mediocrity.
“You kissed her after four pins,” Leo said.
“That was encouragement.”
“This was reward.”
Kadir remained seated with one hand resting on my thigh beneath the table. He laughed at the argument. His thumb moved slowly against the inside of my knee while he watched the lane.
The casualness of it affected me more than the kiss.
They touched me in front of one another without pausing to determine whose attention I currently belonged to.
Wesley leaned over me while adjusting the scoreboard.
Leo stole my drink and held the straw to my mouth when I demanded it back.
Kadir pulled me into his side while we waited for a ball to return.
By the second round of drinks, the scores mattered less.
I had been leading for approximately one frame, which I announced several times after falling into last place.
Leo developed a theory that gutter balls deserved half points if they traveled quickly.
Wesley began awarding style bonuses despite my refusal to enter them into the system.
Kadir quietly changed his own score after Leo distracted him during a roll.
I caught him pressing the button.
“You cheated.”
“The machine missed a pin.”
“There are cameras.”
Kadir leaned closer. “Report me.”