17 | Kicked Out #2
The alcohol had warmed his eyes and loosened the corners of his mouth. He looked pleased enough with himself that I forgot to defend the integrity of the sport.
Wesley became more ambitious with every frame.
His normal approach already involved too much speed. After his second lime drink, he decided to add a turn. He held the ball at chest height, rotated during his final step, and attempted to release it while facing the lane again.
His fingers remained in the holes a fraction too long.
The ball left his hand on the upward swing.
It struck an acoustic ceiling panel above the approach with a loud BANG.
The panel jumped out of the metal grid, tilted sideways, and remained hanging at an angle. The ball dropped onto the lane with a heavy thud and rolled slowly toward the pins.
It entered the gutter halfway down.
The entire bowling alley went quiet.
Wesley looked up at the displaced panel.
“That looks… fixable.”
I put both hands over my face.
Leo was making a sound beside me that suggested he could no longer breathe.
Kadir walked onto the approach and pulled Wesley backward before he could inspect the damage directly beneath it.
The manager emerged from an office beside the shoe counter.
He was a broad man with gray hair, a mustache, and the exhausted expression of someone who had spent several decades explaining basic physics to people holding bowling balls.
He looked at the ceiling. Then at Wesley. Then at all four of us.
“Balls stay below your shoulders.”
Wesley nodded. “That makes sense.”
“It should have made sense before.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ll pay for the panel,” Leo offered.
The manager turned toward him. “You dropped a ball behind yourself.”
Leo’s expression tightened. “That was an equipment issue.”
I stepped forward before the argument developed into a second reason for eviction.
“We’re sorry. We’ll calm down.”
The managerial voice arrived automatically. It worked on musicians, hotel staff, junior label employees, and occasionally my father.
The bowling alley manager looked less impressed.
“One more problem and you’re done.”
“We understand.”
Behind me, Wesley whispered, “We?”
I stepped backward onto his shoe.
He stopped talking.
The manager returned to his office after one final look at the ceiling panel.
We behaved properly for ten minutes.
Then the third round of drinks arrived.
I could no longer taste the alcohol, which should have concerned me more than it did. The room felt warm. The neon carpet had become unusually interesting. Leo’s glasses migrated to Wesley, whose vision apparently improved through lenses without a prescription.
Kadir continued bowling with irritating accuracy despite being visibly more relaxed. At one point he rolled from a near-standing position beside the ball return and knocked down nine pins.
Leo called it disrespectful.
I accidentally bowled in the lane beside ours.
The ball knocked down seven pins belonging to the teenage boys.
They cheered.
I bowed.
Leo climbed onto the bench and announced that I had expanded our territory, mentioning something about “Westward Expansion.” Wesley tried to assign the seven pins to my official score. Kadir pressed the reset button before either of them could change anything.
The retired couple left.
I chose to believe their departure had been previously scheduled.
We ordered pizza and ate it between frames. Leo stole the crust from my plate. Wesley put crushed red pepper on Kadir’s slice while he wasn’t looking. Kadir ate it without reacting, then switched Wesley’s lime drink with a cup of water.
Wesley consumed half the water before realizing.
The betrayal inspired the final competition.
Leo decided all four of us should bowl at once.
There was no logical reason. We only had one lane and three available balls. Wesley solved this by retrieving a fourth ball from the rack while Leo explained that synchronization was the foundation of great bands.
I stood at the edge of the approach holding a pink ball and enough frozen alcohol to believe the idea was totally fine.
Kadir counted down.
We moved together.
Leo released early but at least sent the ball forward this time. Wesley’s roll traveled faster than everyone else’s. Mine drifted immediately toward the gutter. Kadir’s remained straight.
Then Leo stepped across my path to watch his ball.
I collided with him.
My drink flew from my hand.
The red frozen mixture hit the approach and spread across the polished floor.
Wesley tried to stop, slipped near the foul line, and grabbed Kadir’s shoulder. Kadir remained upright for almost a second before all three men collapsed into one another beside the lane.
None of the balls hit more than four pins.
The manager appeared before we stopped laughing.
He stood with both hands on his hips.
“We’re done,” I said.
“You are.”
Leo remained on the floor. “Do we get refunded for the unfinished frames?”
The manager pointed toward the exit.
We collected our hats, coats, and phones under supervision.
Wesley apologized again for the ceiling panel and left enough money at the counter to cover several replacements. Leo attempted to argue that getting expelled technically made us undefeated. Kadir carried my coat because I had forgotten to put it on.
The teenage boys applauded as we left.
Cold air hit us the moment the door closed.
We crowded beneath the awning while waiting for a driver. The bowling alley’s neon sign buzzed above us, one letter flickering often enough to make the business appear intermittently closed.
I leaned against Wesley because the parking lot moved when I looked at it too long.
He wrapped one arm around my shoulders.
Leo pressed against my other side, still complaining about the manager’s inability to appreciate innovation. Kadir stood behind us and pulled my coat around my body, fastening the buttons I had ignored.
His hands settled at my waist after he finished.
For several seconds, we remained tangled together beneath the awning, laughing every time one of us remembered another part of the afternoon.
Wesley pulled out his phone.
“Picture.”
I should have stopped him.
My reflection had already inspired fan threads. Videos from the bar had been analyzed from multiple angles. The correct managerial response involved avoiding any new evidence connecting me socially to all three men.
Wesley lifted the phone before I finished constructing the objection.
He held it above us. Leo leaned closer until his cheek pressed against mine. Kadir remained behind us, his chin near the top of my head and one hand still around my waist.
Wesley smiled at the screen.
The flash went off.
The photograph showed four flushed faces crowded beneath a flickering bowling alley sign.
Wesley looked delighted. Leo’s glasses were crooked.
Kadir’s smile was small but visible. I looked tipsy, happy, and completely unlike the woman who had spent that morning evaluating every possible threat to her career.
“Don’t post—”
The warning reached the edge of my mouth.
I stopped.
I was warm from the drinks and their bodies. Leo laughed against my cheek. Wesley showed me the screen as though he had captured something worth keeping. Kadir’s fingers flexed once against my waist.
That’s when it hit me.
It felt right. They felt right.
I had spent years proving I was responsible enough to deserve every opportunity my father helped me reach. I controlled schedules, anticipated problems, and measured my behavior against the worst interpretation anyone might make of it.
I honestly didn’t care what Wesley did with the picture.
For one afternoon, I was tired of deciding how every good thing might eventually hurt me.