41. Milo
FORTY-ONE
MILO
“That cannot be a league-sanctioned name,” Holden says, staring at the scoreboard. “There must be an approval process.”
“Oh, it’s real.” I point across the green at the six men currently high-fiving each other with the aggressive enthusiasm of people who peaked in middle school and refuse to acknowledge the decline.
They’re all wearing matching black shirts with PEN-15 CLUB printed across the back in white block letters.
One of them has a headband.
A headband. At lawn bowls.
“It says penis,” Knox says.
“It does, Knox. Thank you for that contribution.”
“Why would they name their team penis?”
“It’s a joke. Pen-fifteen. You write it on someone’s arm at school and—you know what? Never mind. The point is we’re down by two shots with one end left and our honor is at stake.”
It’s late Sunday afternoon at Glenview Lawn Bowls Club, and after everything we’ve learned over the last couple of days, it’s frankly rude that the world doesn’t look any different.
There’s a whole-ass app out there dedicated to grooming and abusing women and the sun is out like nothing happened.
The bowls club looks exactly as it did the last time we were here.
The same aggressively flat green. The same brick clubhouse.
The same honor board filled with the names of people who’ve probably been dead long enough to qualify as archaeological finds.
The bar is still mostly beer.
Reg is still fertilizing the roses.
And the Balls of Fury are still terrible.
We have improved, technically. Our official record stands at six forfeits and two spectacular losses, so being down by only two shots almost counts as progress. Whether losing less dramatically qualifies as improvement is a philosophical question I’m not emotionally prepared to answer.
Micah says we’re here to blow off steam after yesterday’s meeting.
I suggested arson.
He suggested lawn bowls.
Sage said she didn’t care as long as she got to throw something.
So here we are.
She’s wearing flat-soled club shoes two sizes too big because she arrived in her usual boots and the man checking the green took one look at them like she’d threatened to drive a truck over his firstborn. She’s spent the past hour shuffling around like an angry penguin in clown feet.
It hasn’t hurt her game.
If anything, the fury helps.
Since our last match, she’s been practicing in Holden’s backyard with a travel mug as a jack. The lawn now has a series of long grooves running through it, and Holden has started moving the mug slightly between deliveries to “introduce variable conditions.”
Neither of them will admit this means they’ve been practicing together.
“Okay.” I pull out my phone and open the notes app where I’ve been tracking our performance metrics.
“Current assessment. Sage has drawn five scoring shots and sent three opposition bowls into the ditch. Knox has executed four successful drives, although Glenview’s secretary has asked him to stop making the ground shake.
Micah remains annoyingly competent at everything.
Holden is holding steady. I’m playing a complex psychological game that can’t be quantified through conventional statistics. ”
“You’ve put six bowls in the ditch,” Holden says.
“Conventional statistics.”
“And one in the next rink.”
“I was broadening our field of influence.”
“The man on rink three nearly tripped over it.”
“He lacked situational awareness. That’s not my fault.”
Sage lifts one pink bowl out of her bag. “What about Eli?”
I glance at my notes.
“Eli is having a difficult relationship with the concept of bias.”
“There’s a pull,” Eli says.
“There’s supposed to be a pull,” I tell him. “The bowl is designed to curve.”
“Not that much.”
“You keep holding it with the bias facing the wrong way.”
“I corrected that.”
“You changed hands. That isn’t the same thing.”
“I’m adapting.”
“You’ve adapted yourself into the ditch seven times.”
Eli looks across the green with the quiet resignation of a man who has accepted that lawn bowls is simply not his gift.
“I still think the rink is graded incorrectly.”
“It was built before color television,” I say. “At this point, the grading is historic.”
Holden delivers a clean draw, and his bowl curves neatly around one of Pen-15’s guards before coming to rest less than a foot from the jack.
He doesn’t celebrate because Holden doesn’t celebrate things. He walks back to us, accepts the beer Micah holds out, and takes a sip with the energy of a man completing mandatory paperwork.
Holden insists bowls is “an individual discipline performed within a team structure” and therefore our group doesn’t need a strategy beyond each of us “not being shit.”
As team captain, morale officer, and primary snack coordinator, I find this attitude deeply unhelpful.
Headband steps onto the mat.
He approaches every delivery with the swagger of a man who has been lawn bowling since birth and wants everyone at Glenview to know it.
He rolls his shoulders. Adjusts his wristband.
Takes two practice swings. Then he releases with a little flourish.
The bowl curves around Holden’s and settles neatly against the jack.
Headband turns to his team with both arms raised.
“Did he just dab?” Knox asks.
“He dabbed,” I confirm.
“In this current century.”
“At lawn bowls.”
“What a fucking dick.” Knox picks up one of his bowls.
“Knox,” Micah warns mildly.
“What?”
“Keep it on the ground. We can’t explain a headshot away as a slip of the fingers.”
Knox grunts and walks onto the mat.
“He really hates dabbing,” I say, and Micah nods.
Knox draws his arm back and releases. The bowl flies down the rink with the mechanical efficiency of launched ordnance. It hits Headband’s bowl with a crack that draws attention from three neighboring rinks.
Headband’s bowl shoots into the ditch.
Knox’s slows, tips, and settles beside the jack.
The Pen-15 Club goes silent.
Knox walks back, sits down, and picks up his water.
I tap my phone screen, adding a bold asterisk to my notes. “I’m putting a tally mark under ‘Psychological Warfare’ for you, Knox. Truly inspiring work.”
Knox doesn’t blink. He simply unscrews the cap of his water bottle.
Across the green, Headband looks like someone kicked his puppy.
He points a trembling finger at the ditch, opens his mouth to complain to the universe about the sheer violence of the shot, then catches Knox staring at him.
Knox’s expression is the dead-eyed, absolute calm of a man who knows exactly how to make a body disappear in twelve different terrains.
Headband swallows whatever he was going to say and aggressively adjusts his wristband instead.
“Kitten,” I say, gesturing to the mat like a game show host. “You’re up. Bring the pain. Avenge the dignity of the English language.”
She shuffles forward, the oversized white club shoes squeaking pathetically on the manicured grass.
It completely undermines her intimidating aura, but the icy glare she shoots the Pen-15 guys makes up for it.
She’s holding her pink bowl like she wishes it were a hand grenade.
And honestly, given what we stared at on that screen in the club yesterday, I think we all wish it was.
“Remember the travel mug,” Holden murmurs from his chair, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
Sage doesn’t look at him, but her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. She settles her stance, compensating for the clown shoes, her eyes locking onto the jack.
She draws back and releases.
The pink bowl glides. It doesn’t have Knox’s orbital-strike velocity or Holden’s robotic precision, but it rides the bias perfectly. It curves, slows, and nudges Headband’s remaining guard bowl just enough to bump it out of the way before settling intimately next to Knox’s.
“That,” I say, furiously typing on my phone, “is a textbook metric booster. Five stars. Flawless trajectory. Kitten, you’re carrying this franchise.”
Micah clinks his beer against the edge of my phone. “Told you this was a good idea.”
“Hmm. I still prefer arson. But okay.”
Sage shuffles back to our designated bench, the oversized shoes slapping the grass in a rhythm that screams I will murder you all. I hold up a hand. She slaps it with enough force to leave a red, stinging mark across my palm.
“Aggressive,” I say, rubbing my hand. “I love it. Your metrics are off the charts, kitten.”
“I wanted his throat,” she mutters, glaring at Headband.
“The bowl is too heavy for a clean throat strike,” Holden corrects her, not missing a beat. “You’d want to aim for the knee. Shatter the patella. The throat requires a lighter projectile.”
Micah sighs, taking a long drink of his beer. “Please do not discuss shattering patellas on the green. The groundskeeper is looking at us.”
I glance over at the groundskeeper, who is indeed pausing beside the roses to squint suspiciously in our direction. I give him a cheerful two-finger salute. He shakes his head and goes back to his manure.
“All right, Eli,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Your turn. Bring it home for the Balls of Fury. Defy the historic grading of this rink.”
Eli steps onto the mat. He’s holding the black bowl with a white-knuckled grip, his eyes fixed on the jack. The tension radiating off him is so thick you could carve it with the knife Sage likes to keep in her boot.
“Imagine the jack is Stephen, buddy,” I suggest brightly.
Eli freezes. The air around our team drops by about ten degrees. Holden goes absolutely still, his ice-blue eyes snapping to Eli. Knox puts down his water bottle. Even Micah’s relaxed posture evaporates.
Eli’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t say a word. He draws his arm back and hurls the bowl.