41. Milo #2
He forgets the bias entirely. He forgets the delicate, sweeping curve required for the sport.
The heavy resin sphere leaves his hand like a cannonball, entirely airborne for the first ten feet.
It hits the green hard enough to tear an ugly divot in the pristine grass, bounces twice, and obliterates the remaining Pen-15 bowl, sending it rocketing into the concrete ditch with a loud crack.
The jack is caught in the crossfire, skittering wildly off into rink three.
The entire Glenview Lawn Bowls Club seems to hold its collective breath.
Eli stands on the mat, his chest heaving, staring at the destruction.
“Well,” I say, breaking the silence and tapping a new line into my phone. “I’m counting that as a strike. Exceptional kinetic energy, Eli. Zero finesse, but maximum psychological damage.”
“The jack is out of bounds,” Headband squeaks, pointing a trembling finger. “That’s a dead end! You killed the end!”
Holden stands up, smoothing the front of his team shirt. He fixes Headband with a stare so perfectly devoid of human empathy that the guy actually takes a half-step backward.
“We killed the end,” Holden agrees, his voice a low, terrifying purr. “Set it up again.”
I look at the five of them. My family. My pack. Five lethal disasters on a sunlit lawn, pretending to be people.
Yeah. We’re definitely winning this game.
Headband scurries off to retrieve the jack from rink three, practically tripping over his own bright white sneakers. He mumbles a frantic apology to an elderly man in a beige cardigan who is currently staring at the divot Eli left in the turf like it’s an unexploded landmine.
Eli steps off the mat. He’s breathing hard, his hands flexing at his sides.
Sage shuffles over to him. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
The shoes completely ruin the gravitas of the moment, but neither of them cares.
She stops right next to him and bumps her shoulder against his arm and stays there.
Eli’s jaw ticks, but he leans into the contact, his breathing slowing by a fraction.
I make a mental note, filing it away under Critical Operational Updates: Do not use the name Stephen as a motivational tool.
“My bad,” I say, keeping my tone light even as guilt pinches the back of my neck. “I clearly miscalculated the optimal level of rage for a turf-based recreational sport.”
Eli doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t answer at all.
Micah smoothly steps into the space, clapping a hand on Eli’s shoulder before handing him a water bottle. “Take five, man. I’ll throw the next one.”
When Headband finally resets the end, his hands are visibly shaking. The entire Pen-15 Club has lost their middle-school swagger.
We start the final end again.
They replay it with the nervous, hurried energy of prey animals realizing they’ve wandered into a lion enclosure. Two of their bowls end up in the ditch. One barely makes it halfway down the green.
By the time we reach the final deliveries, Knox, Sage, and Micah have all tucked bowls inside Pen-15’s closest. We’re holding three shots. Just enough to turn a two-shot deficit into our first win, as long as nobody touches the jack.
“My turn,” I announce, slipping my phone into my pocket and cracking my knuckles with the exaggerated flair of a concert pianist about to tackle Beethoven.
The Pen-15 guys actually flinch. It’s glorious.
I step onto the mat, pulling one of my teal woods from my bag. My set beside Sage’s pink ones is the closest this team has come to professional branding. “All right, Balls of Fury. Prepare to witness peak athletic performance combined with impeccable geometric calculation.”
“Throw the damn bowl, Milo,” Holden says.
I weigh the bowl in my hand.
I fucked up. The others might let me hide inside the bit, but Eli deserves better than that.
First, I get us through the game. Then I apologize without a punchline.
Because underneath this sunny afternoon, the manicured grass, and Sage’s ridiculous shoes, we’re all vibrating with the need to commit extreme violence against thirty-seven anonymous usernames.
This stupid game is the only thing keeping us from driving into the city and starting a body count.
“Applying a precise thirty-degree bias,” I narrate loudly, pointing toward the jack. “Factoring in wind resistance, the historic grading of the rink, and the residual panic radiating from Headband’s general direction.”
“Hey,” Headband protests weakly.
Knox slowly turns his head to look at him. Headband immediately shuts up and takes a step back.
I swing my arm back. I don’t actually know what a thirty-degree bias is, but I let the teal bowl fly with the confidence of a man who does.
It glides across the grass, weaving smoothly past the divot Eli left behind.
It curves beautifully at the last possible second, kissing the edge of Headband’s only decent bowl, knocking it neatly out of the way, and parking itself a mere inch from the jack.
I stand up straight, dusting off my hands. “I call that the ‘Data-Driven Dominance.’ Write that down, Holden.”
“I am not writing that down,” Holden replies, though the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I’ll write it down,” Sage says. She turns her head, giving me a small, approving nod.
“Thank you, kitten. See, some people appreciate genius.” I trot back to the bench, tapping my phone screen to add another five-star metric to my own column.
The Pen-15 Club sends up their final player, a guy who is visibly sweating through his shirt. His hand shakes so badly he drops his bowl halfway down the green. It dies several yards short, leaving us holding four shots.
We win by two.
“Game, set, match,” I declare, grabbing a pretzel from the bag and crunching down. “Who wants celebratory salt?”
Nobody takes a pretzel. I shrug and eat it myself. “More for me. Hydration and sodium are key to post-match recovery.”
The Pen-15 guys pack up their bags with the frantic, uncoordinated speed of a heist crew that just heard police sirens.
Headband practically sprints into the clubhouse, actively avoiding eye contact with Knox.
It’s a solid survival instinct. If he’d looked at Knox again, I’d probably be hacking the club’s security cameras to erase footage of a homicide on rink two.
We gather our equipment. Sage shuffles over, and I stare down at the ridiculous white leather boats encasing her feet.
“We need to get you proper footwear if you’re going to take this franchise to the nationals, kitten,” I say, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.
“I am never playing this stupid game again,” she mutters. But she leans against Holden’s side as she says it, letting the tension bleed out of her spine. Holden immediately wraps a heavy arm around her waist, his thumb stroking the curve of her hip.
I step over to Eli. He’s standing over the divot he made, staring at the torn earth like he’s trying to memorize the exact dimensions of his own lost control. I bump my shoulder against his.
“Hey,” I say quietly, dropping the game show host persona. “Seriously. My bad.”
Eli keeps his eyes on the torn grass. “It’s fine, Milo.” His voice is still sandpaper. “Just . . . don’t use the name.”
“Deleted from the motivational database,” I promise. “Next time, I’ll invoke the guy who invented single-ply toilet paper. Universally hated. Zero trauma.”
A faint, genuine huff of amusement escapes Eli. It’s a small victory, but I mentally log it in the win column.
Micah claps his hands together, the eternal mediator officially closing the session. “All right, team. We came, we bowled, we committed minor property damage. But we finally won. I’d suggest grabbing a drink to celebrate, but I think the groundskeeper is about to call the cops. Let’s go home.”
We make it back to Holden’s after dark, quieter than we were on the green. Not the bad kind of quiet. Just the lull after throwing things, laughing too loudly, and almost getting banned from a suburban bowls club.
Sage spends the drive staring out the window, her fingers flexing against her thigh. Lawn bowls gave her something to hit. It didn’t give her what she wanted.
We pile out and head for the front door. As we walk up the path, Micah pulls me into a headlock. “You know, you really do have a gift for extracting discipline out of chaos. Today could have been a disaster, but you turned shit around and we won our first game.”
“Are you seducing me?” I squawk, then, when Sage and Holden both look over, “He’s seducing me. Someone make a record.”
Sage snorts. “I’ve seen Micah’s seduction face. He’s not making it.”
“Wow,” Micah says, letting me loose. “I have a seduction face?”
“It’s the eyes. Your pupils do this dilation thing. Also, your fingers twitch like you’re about to say something invasive but meaningful.”
“Could be worse,” I remark. “Mine’s just a serial killer stare and a bad pun.”
“Yours is an algorithmic mating dance,” Holden mutters, opening the front door. We all file inside, but Sage hesitates in the doorway.
“You okay, kitten?” I ask.
“Fine. Yeah. Just—” She shrugs one shoulder. “Today was weirdly good.”
Fine. She’s said that word four times today and hasn’t meant it once. I log it and let it go, because pushing her on the doorstep of her own house is how you get a door closed in your face.
“You can thank Micah. I wanted to do arson.”
She smiles. “That would have been weirdly good too.”
“Arson’s always good. Except for when there’s fiberglass in the insulation. But I love that you get me. It’s why we’re poly-soulmates.”
She holds out a hand, and I tug her inside and into my arms. She looks up at me. “You’re my poly-soulmate too.”