Right With Me - Stacey Lewis Page 0,34

and all thoughts of pretending to be cool desert me as I spin around and stare up at the screen. It only takes a few seconds before my pin count loads on the screen, but I feel like I’m holding my breath when I watch. I could just look down to the end and count, but that takes all the anticipation out of it.

Squealing when the “X” for a strike fills the first box I bounce a little on my toes and clap for myself, grin widening further when I hear his tortured-sounding groan from behind me. I’m not sure if it’s because we’re tied or the movement I know my butt and boobs makes when I bounce.

Turning, I see Mitchell sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his eyes not leaving my face which feels very deliberate. I practically skip over to take my own seat so he can take his next turn and smirk over at him. “This is going to be interesting.”

He looks at me, almost like he’s shocked I’m taunting him, then laughs. “Yes, yes it will. We should make a bet.”

“What kind of bet?” The possibilities have me intrigued and I wonder what he’s planning.

His own smile lifts one side of his mouth as he thinks. “Winner’s Choice? It can be a surprise.”

“Deal,” I hurry to agree, liking the fact that I’ll have some time to figure out what I want from him when I win.

The rest of the game goes by way too fast, and by the time we get to the last frame I’m winning by nine and already planning what I want for my prize. In the last frame, Mitchell gets three strikes. I’m starting to think he’s not been honest in his playing because before this frame he had three strikes and four spares. I’ve had three turns where I had gutter balls on either the first or second throw which have sort of canceled out my three spares in a row at the beginning of the game and the two I had in frames eight and nine.

Eight flashes on the screen when I throw the ball and I deflate a little bit. Eight isn’t very competitive when compared with his strikes, but when the screen shows what pins are left I can see I still have a chance at getting a spare. The remaining two are grouped together which is way better than having them spread out.

My body tenses when I feel his chest brush against my back just before his breath hits my ear. “You missed a couple.”

“It’s only the first one. There’s still time for me to beat you.” I’m pretty proud of myself because my voice sounds normal. Especially since it’s taking everything I have not to melt into a puddle at his feet. His heat is surrounding me and I feel like I’m drowning in the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with the scents of motor oil and man. That’s the only way I can think to describe it.

Moving forward, I take my second shot, and this time I stand at the edge of the lane to watch as it travels down. My body leans to the right like I can somehow move the ball psychically or something and Mitchell chuckles at my actions. I turn my head for a second to glare at him, and it sounds like he’s strangling himself when he swallows back more laughter.

The ball hits the pins and they both fall, giving me a spare. I fist pump the air and rub my hands together in glee as I wait for my ball to come back and when it does, I walk carefully to the edge of the lane and take a deep breath.

C’mon Hailey, you can do this. Get a strike!

The ball leaves my hand and I stand at the edge once more and hold my breath. Watching the ball go down is nerve-wracking and I’m praying to every God I know to please, please let me get a strike.

I watch the ball get closer and closer until it finally crashes into the pins, knocking every single one of them down. As soon as I realize I got my strike, I spin around and run carefully back to watch the screen tally our final scores.

Mitchell comes to stand behind me right as the scores flash above us. One hundred and seventy-eight. I beat him by one point.

Before I analyze it too much, I turn, throw my arms around