I’ve yet to check out the bowling alley that June works out. She’s been encouraging me to come visit during her work hours for the last week, and now seems like the perfect time. I could use another female to vent to. I shoot her a text to make sure she’s there then head toward the main part of town. The lot is pretty full when I pull in. Cheesy eighties music blares through the doors every time someone comes or goes. It reminds me of a joint back home where I used to get slices of pizza with my dad after games.
I check my phone before going in to see if June responded, but nothing yet. She’s probably busy. Buzzed on the nostalgia of hearing Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” which my dad always points out was my mom’s favorite song growing up, I’m smiling by the time I push open the door. The overhead lights are dimmed, and neon-colored lights line the lanes and walls of this place. It’s a bit of a dump, but in that perfect kind of way. The carpet is obnoxious swirls of color, some of them glowing more than others from the black light shining along the main walkways. My white socks and shoes are vivid, as is the NYU emblem on my sweatshirt.
I make my way to the counter where a few people are in line for shoes, and I’m relieved when I see June rushing around to check people in. Stepping to the side, I lean against the counter and wait for her to have a free moment to talk. She catches sight of me on one of her trips to grab shoes and a smile lights up her face. Mine does the same, proof that I really needed this—a person.
“Hey! Look who finally showed up!” June holds up a finger and rushes back to her register to cash someone out. She clears the line in about two minutes and comes back to me with two large cups filled with Coke.
“Perk of knowing the junior assistant manager.” She smirks. I take the straw and pull the wrapper off, blowing the bit left on the end up in the air for her to catch.
“Fancy,” I say, sucking in a big drink.
“Mondays are league nights, so it gets pretty busy. You have to come back on a Sunday morning. We can literally bowl while I’m on the clock if you want,” she offers.
“Oh, tempting. I’ll have to take you up on that. You know, I was Staten Island sixth grade champ with a pretty wicked one-forty-one,” I brag. I haven’t bowled since junior high, so I’m pretty sure I’d have to work to match that score again.
“Well, I’d only take you by a hundred or so,” June teases. I laugh out hard but stop when I realize she’s not kidding.
“Another perk of the job, I guess, huh?” I say.
She cracks her knuckles dramatically to show off, then winks.
“Hey, I’ll set you up with pool if you wanna stick around and hang out when I’m done here. We can grab a late dinner.” She pulls a box of pool balls out from under the counter as more people walk up to her register. I ate dinner already, but I could really use the girl time, so I nod and smile, taking the balls and my drink into the pool hall area, away from most of the crowds.
The neon lights don’t glow in here. It’s peacefully dim, the room just dark enough to conceal Cannon until I’ve unboxed the balls at the pool table that’s apparently directly behind him. He jumps at the sound, and his movement makes me yelp and grab my chest.
“Oh, shit!” I say through a nervous laugh. My heart is pounding at a marathon runner’s pace. “I didn’t see you.”
He was wearing his hoodie up over his hair but he pulled it back when I startled him. My gut says he’s here hiding. For about four seconds, I’m distracted by the adorable way his hair flops around, before I remember that I want to punch him.
“My dad wants you to see him before practice,” I say without transition. Cannon’s eyes scrunch up. “Just, he said if I saw you before tomorrow’s practice. I didn’t think I would this soon, and ya know . . . I don’t want to forget.”
“Uh huh,” he deadpans with a slow roll of his eyes. He turns his attention back to the other table, rolling one of the balls across the table and back again.
“Don’t throw shade at me just because my dad isn’t happy with you. I have nothing to do with his coaching decisions.” I mumble the words, irritated at the obvious insinuation Cannon makes. Most people—all people—assume that I’m basically my dad’s assistant. I must get favors. He must be willing to punish people just for me, right? I mean, I couldn’t possibly earn things on my own, and no way does my dad has ethical standards.
“Pshh, whatever,” I mutter at my own thoughts.
“You just don’t get it,” Cannon says, suddenly facing me, tossing the cue ball in his palm.
I abandon the balls on my table and lean into the side with my arms crossed.
“Don’t get what? That you don’t trust me to call your pitches or that you would rather make your cousin look good than let him earn it on his own?” I can tell I’ve hit a nerve by the way his eyes flinch. He doesn’t back away, though, abandoning his ball to the other table and stepping into my personal space until he’s
