finger just as she tries to launch it down the lane and losing her balance. Falling. Just like she did before.
She glances back over her shoulder. I just raise an eyebrow at her, shrug and hold a hand up, palm out. “It was your idea,” I tell her. “Can’t chicken out now. You do, it’s a forfeit.”
She narrows her eyes—that got her. Stiffens her back, tightens her hold on the ball. She takes three long, graceful steps and releases the ball. The pins fall, every last one. Strike.
“And so the competition truly begins,” she says, trying desperately to suppress a gotcha smile. She fails miserably.
“Better get your game together, buddy.” We both turn to find Burt leaning over the railing behind our lane, watching us. “She’s good. But surely you can beat her.”
“I’m going to, already,” I defend myself as I grab my ball. “She just had a lucky frame, is all.”
Chelsea bristles. I try to tell myself I’m just pushing her, like any good coach would. But it’s more than that. I don’t want to lose.
Her next two balls are strikes, too. “Easy as cuttin’ butter,” she taunts as she points to our score screen, where the image of a turkey flashes.
“Hey,” a rotund older guy says, pointing at our lane with his cigarette. “That girl’s good.”
Having seen the turkey, Burt wanders down from the front counter again. “What’s going on?” he calls to me. “You’re not losing, are you?”
“No,” I shoot back. But on our screen, it’s clear that after my spare, I’ve left two open frames.
“I think you are,” another man yells, putting his beer down just long enough to point at the screen.
“It’s not over yet,” I snap, frustrated.
Maybe I snap it just a little too loudly, because Chelsea sort of droops. Like she’s decided, in that moment, not to push it any further—like she’s decided I feel bad. That she thinks I might even be a bit of a sore loser. That it’s not worth getting me completely peeved.
But when she gathers her ball for the next frame, two women at the concession stand start whistling through their fingers, hollering and clapping like Chelsea’s somehow standing up for every downtrodden female throughout the history of all time.
“I can’t exactly let them down, now, can I?” she asks me as she lines herself up again.
Another strike for Chelsea. Six pins for me. Without thinking, I growl and slump into my seat, cross my arms over my chest. I start to wonder why I care so much. Why I can’t stand to lose. But I know the answer—I had no idea how hungry I was for a clean rivalry. A battle. I had no idea how much I’d been needing this very thing. I feel like I’m the one getting mended. By bowling. Of all things.
When I catch Chelsea smiling at me, I figure she knows it, too.
Two strikes later, every woman in the alley—including the woman who’s been sweeping the floor and the girls who’ve been leaning on pool tables while their boyfriends play eight-ball—are all crowding around our lane cheering, while the men start shouting, “Come on,” and “Get ’er,” and “What’s the matter with you?”
Chelsea scores a spare on the seventh frame, which the men take as their shot to rally. But I’m pathetic—rusty. Not that I was ever much of a bowler, but when I was still playing hockey, I must have been better than this. I’ve only snared two spares the entire game.
With the hopes of the entire male population resting on my shoulders, I hit one measly outside pin, then roll a gutter ball.
I’ve definitely forgotten what it’s like to shoulder pressure.
“I’d regret the ass kicking I’ve just unloaded on you if that pouty look on your face wasn’t so adorable,” she murmurs in my ear.
For the first time, I feel the pout on my face. Laughter starts to pour out of me, surprising me. When a jokester throws me a small white towel, I say, “No way. I’m not quitting. I’ll never hear the end of it if I do.”
Chelsea’s last frame’s another strike, landing her two more chances. “You want them?” she teases. “Might improve your score.”
I drape the white towel over my head. “Just go on. Let me know when it’s over.”
Spare.
Her feet click right up to where I’m sitting on the bench. She peeks under the towel and whispers, “Want a rematch?”
“You’re joking, right?” I grab the towel and wave it. “Complete and utter defeat,” I announce,