grinned as she hefted it and then carried it back to our lane. âIâll get our names put into the machine,â she called over her shoulder.
I eyed the bowling balls distrustfully a moment before picking up what I hoped would be one of the lightest, but with large-enough finger holes to fit me. I didnât have sausage fingers or anything, but I didnât have the super-thin appendages Vicki sported. I shoved my fingers inside, found it to be snug but not so much that theyâd get stuck, and then carried the ball over to where Vicki was waiting.
âYouâre up,â she said, with a grand gesture toward the lane.
I approached it with a hint of trepidation. I so didnât want a repeat of my high school fall. It hadnât hurt much more than my pride, but I remembered the sound of laughter, of my butt hitting the floor, feet flying up over my head. Just thinking about it caused a blush to rise up my neck.
âI will not fall. I will not fall.â I repeated it like a mantra as I scuffed my feet across the floor. I stopped about a foot from the line and heaved the ball down the lane. It hit the floor with a thud that caused me to wince, bounced twice, drifted to the left, and then promptly went into the gutter. I kept my head down as I went to the ball return and waited. I could almost feel eyes on me from nearby lanes. At least there was a lane between us and the nearest group of people.
My second try was better. I took out three pins, and then went to sit down while Vicki took her shot. As she weighed the ball in her hand and judged her toss, I looked around at the other groups in the room.
While Iâd been embarrassing myself with my first throw, one of the groups had left, leaving only two still bowling, other than Vicki and me. The couple was still in the arcade, lost in their own little world.
My eyes traveled to the group near the far wall, in lane eight. It was a group of four, two elderly men and what was presumably their wives. They had on matching bowling shirts, telling me they were more than likely in a league together. I watched a woman who looked to be ninety if she was a day snatch up her ball, stride to the line, and toss it without considering it for more than a heartbeat. The ball hit the floor and made a satisfying hum as it sped down the lane. It crashed into the pins, sending all ten of them flying as if a bomb had gone off beneath them.
I groaned and looked away. Great, I was going to get shown up by someoneâs grandmother. It was a good thing Paul wasnât there to see me embarrass myself.
I turned the other way, to lane one, where three guys were playing. They were my age, and all of them looked as if they could have been on the cover of GQ or some other high-end magazine where all the men looked yummy in suitsâunbuttoned or not. Two of the men were up by the lane. One was ready to throw while his buddy teased him mercilessly. I glanced toward the other man, who was seated, and found him looking at me.
I jerked my head away to watch Vicki as she took her second shot. She only had a pair of pins remaining, one right next to the other. She lined up her shot and strode forward with confidence. Her ball didnât move quite as fast as the old womanâs had, but it was right on target. Both pins went down, and she did a little hop and a skip as she spun with a clap of her hands.
âSpare!â
âNice shot,â I said, rising. I snuck a glance back at the men. The guy wasnât watching me any longer but was instead getting his own shot ready. His dark, near-black hair was clipped short and styled. He was wearing a lightweight button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled so as not to get in the way. There wasnât a tan line or anything, but something about the way he held himself told me he normally wore a watch. Even with the lane between us, I could tell he wasnât wearing a ring.
I felt my face get hot as I turned toward my
I eyed the bowling balls distrustfully a moment before picking up what I hoped would be one of the lightest, but with large-enough finger holes to fit me. I didnât have sausage fingers or anything, but I didnât have the super-thin appendages Vicki sported. I shoved my fingers inside, found it to be snug but not so much that theyâd get stuck, and then carried the ball over to where Vicki was waiting.
âYouâre up,â she said, with a grand gesture toward the lane.
I approached it with a hint of trepidation. I so didnât want a repeat of my high school fall. It hadnât hurt much more than my pride, but I remembered the sound of laughter, of my butt hitting the floor, feet flying up over my head. Just thinking about it caused a blush to rise up my neck.
âI will not fall. I will not fall.â I repeated it like a mantra as I scuffed my feet across the floor. I stopped about a foot from the line and heaved the ball down the lane. It hit the floor with a thud that caused me to wince, bounced twice, drifted to the left, and then promptly went into the gutter. I kept my head down as I went to the ball return and waited. I could almost feel eyes on me from nearby lanes. At least there was a lane between us and the nearest group of people.
My second try was better. I took out three pins, and then went to sit down while Vicki took her shot. As she weighed the ball in her hand and judged her toss, I looked around at the other groups in the room.
While Iâd been embarrassing myself with my first throw, one of the groups had left, leaving only two still bowling, other than Vicki and me. The couple was still in the arcade, lost in their own little world.
My eyes traveled to the group near the far wall, in lane eight. It was a group of four, two elderly men and what was presumably their wives. They had on matching bowling shirts, telling me they were more than likely in a league together. I watched a woman who looked to be ninety if she was a day snatch up her ball, stride to the line, and toss it without considering it for more than a heartbeat. The ball hit the floor and made a satisfying hum as it sped down the lane. It crashed into the pins, sending all ten of them flying as if a bomb had gone off beneath them.
I groaned and looked away. Great, I was going to get shown up by someoneâs grandmother. It was a good thing Paul wasnât there to see me embarrass myself.
I turned the other way, to lane one, where three guys were playing. They were my age, and all of them looked as if they could have been on the cover of GQ or some other high-end magazine where all the men looked yummy in suitsâunbuttoned or not. Two of the men were up by the lane. One was ready to throw while his buddy teased him mercilessly. I glanced toward the other man, who was seated, and found him looking at me.
I jerked my head away to watch Vicki as she took her second shot. She only had a pair of pins remaining, one right next to the other. She lined up her shot and strode forward with confidence. Her ball didnât move quite as fast as the old womanâs had, but it was right on target. Both pins went down, and she did a little hop and a skip as she spun with a clap of her hands.
âSpare!â
âNice shot,â I said, rising. I snuck a glance back at the men. The guy wasnât watching me any longer but was instead getting his own shot ready. His dark, near-black hair was clipped short and styled. He was wearing a lightweight button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled so as not to get in the way. There wasnât a tan line or anything, but something about the way he held himself told me he normally wore a watch. Even with the lane between us, I could tell he wasnât wearing a ring.
I felt my face get hot as I turned toward my
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