“Sure, nothing serious, though,” he replied. Serious enough to spend the holidays with her on the ski slopes. “You know how it is.”
No, actually, I didn’t. I’d never dated anyone, just hung out with girls sometimes. It was nice to be paid attention to for a night. But I’d never felt a true connection to anyone outside of one girl in high school, who’d then traipsed off to college in another country, and we’d been more friends than anything. In fact, Jasmine reminded me of her a bit.
“And you?” he asked as he grinned down at his phone again.
“Nope.”
“Probably for the best. Wait until you graduate and make some good money.”
I shrugged because I didn’t know what to say to that. I wasn’t built like him and only interested in the finer things in life. Mom hadn’t been either and, in hindsight, I didn’t know what she’d seen in him. Except, I did remember how they would hold hands and laugh a lot together. We had moments of fun when I was a kid, and I really looked up to him, though considering it all now, I knew he only threw me so many bones. He wasn’t the best dad, but he sure loved my mom, and he did put up with me. Maybe she’d made him a better person for a short period of time. I couldn’t force him to be interested in my life. And I certainly shouldn’t expect more than he was willing to give, so why did it sting so damned much?
“Christ, why do they need to flaunt it in our faces?” he said in a frustrated tone.
“Flaunt what?” I asked, though I’d heard this refrain from him before and somehow had an idea of whom he was referring to.
And sure enough, the two guys who’d come in earlier were now holding hands across the table and giving each other googly eyes like they were about to have a make-out session—sort of how Donovan and Kellan would get during downtime.
My gut churned with feelings I couldn’t quite unpack.
What would Dad think if he knew about Donovan and Kellan?
Or me and Girard, for that matter?
Not that there was a me and Girard.
Now I felt sick to my stomach. “Jesus, Dad. Just leave it alone.”
Fortunately, the server had come with our food, and I dug right in, trying not to make eye contact or think about stuff I was trying to avoid at all costs. Only, now it was flooding my brain all at once.
I could never admit to Girard that I’d fantasized about him in the shower that day, almost a year ago now. Thing was, I thought he knew but was giving me a pass, and with every day that went by, I got more and more pissed about letting my desires—or whatever the hell they were—get the best of me. I’d never thought about a guy like that before, but something about Girard drew my eye every time I saw him. Maybe it was his easy smile, or how he never let me get away with shit, or that body on him.
At first, I thought maybe I was simply admiring his personality or the muscles he was packing, but then I began popping boners whenever I let my imagination go wild. I fought it for so long but eventually began giving in. I could come just from imagining him naked and looking at me a certain way.
Christ, I’d been fucking mortified when I’d opened my eyes and saw him standing there staring at me. And yet…he hadn’t looked away. We were naked in front of each other a lot during the season, but never like that, after I’d called out his name and my spent come had washed down the drain. It had been the strangest reaction, like he was okay with it or even entertaining the idea.
But all it did was make me put up a wall, terrified someone would find out. Fuck. I was still terrified. That was why these feelings needed to go away.
Thankfully, Dad moved on to talking about the roof on the house needing repair, and I concentrated on eating and listening. Before I knew it, he was running late for something else and picking up the check, refusing to let me contribute, per usual. I thought it made him feel better.
We parted ways in the parking lot. “I’ll try to make it to your opening game. Just shoot me the schedule.”
“Yeah, sure, Dad,” I replied, knowing full well he wouldn’t show, and I vowed that this year, my last, I wouldn’t even give the stands a glance in anticipation. I didn’t think I could stomach it anymore. But old habits die hard.
2
Girard
“Nickie, lane eight needs help again,” Mom called from behind the cash register. Even though Dominic was my real name, after my father, the family had shortened his name to Nick, and by extension, mine as well. It was either that or Nickie Junior or Dom, and I was fine with all of the above.
“I’m on it.” I swung around the counter and went to fix the pinspotter. The ancient contraption kept getting jammed in the middle of clearing away the pins knocked down by the ball. My parents refused to admit that Girard’s Bowling Alley was considered pretty old-school nowadays, and though they tried to keep up with repairs, eventually it would need a complete overhaul.
But I thought maybe they were waiting for me to graduate this summer and officially be done with baseball so I could help bring them into the twenty-first century. And I definitely would since it was mine to run someday. It was the exact reason I’d moved into the upstairs apartment my older brother, Jace, had vacated once he joined the service. He was currently stationed in Germany and would more than likely have a career in the military. I didn’t have any big aspirations, especially not about baseball like some of the other players. No, my place would be here, and I was totally cool with that. Baseball wasn’t my life, but I did love the game, and this year, my last, would unquestionably be bittersweet.
I went over to the problematic pinspotter and did my best to get it running again. Despite needing repairs, the place was still one of the more popular spots around the university, and customers seemed to like the vibe here with the video games and pool tables and well-stocked snack section. Weekend nights were hopping, along with a couple of nights a week reserved for bowling leagues. Talk about taking a sport seriously. Those people were hardcore and provided the bulk of my family’s business. And just as I had that thought, a group of college kids came in to bowl, and I recognized a couple of them from campus.
My fifteen-year-old sister, Gemma, was behind the shoe-rental counter, handing them out to the line of customers. I stepped up to the cash register beside her, handling the glut as they paid for their sizes, and then sent them on their way.
Once finished, we leaned against the counter and stared out at the patrons setting up in the lanes. She was zeroing in on one of the guys she’d flirted with a minute earlier. He was good-looking, but Gemma was also going through a boy-crazy phase.
She looked over her shoulder, making sure our parents were out of earshot, though sometimes Mom humored her, fondly remembering her own awkward teen years. Dad was the closest, near the row of pinball machines.
“His best feature—smile or eyes?” She motioned in the direction of the guy she was checking out. When Gemma was bored, she got on a roll of her own version of the questions game. It had started on family trips and had progressed to an everyday assessment of mundane life. “Ooh, or maybe his hair.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I wiped down the counter from a customer’s muddy shoes, then stored them in the slots behind us. But as I glanced quickly in the guy’s direction, I could admit that my answer might’ve been different. Maybe something like biceps or butt. It wasn’t the first time I was noticing stuff like that, and I supposed I had Maclain to thank for it. My stomach rolled with a mix of disbelief and apprehension—and if I were being honest, bald desire.