Motherfuck.
I punch out a laugh and contemplate how many times I’ve sat back here, oblivious to the fact anyone with a little curiosity could watch the flip-side version of me doing lord knows what. I’m pretty sure I’ve picked my nose once or twice, just a little. I know I’ve pulled out a wedgie or adjusted bras. The more I study my reflection, the more I realize all of the details you can see—like the way even a modest shirt like my Eight Lanes uniform is unbuttoned just enough for a view. I think about the senior league made up of mostly sixty-five-plus men who comes in on Sundays and always tries to “tip” me, and cringe.
Are you hiding or on break?
I consider going with the harmless little lie, then I fall into my usual pattern.
I’m hiding. Don’t laugh.
It’s too late, though, because I already hear him bellowing. I twist to look around the pinsetter again and this time, I’m met with four sets of eyes—both D’Angelo twins, some big guy who I think is named Kade, and Lucas. Three smiles and one mouth that is completely void of being human.
My body is hot, and I’m pretty sure a bead of sweat just dripped down my spine. My neck is hot; even with my hair pulled back into a knot, I’m cooking. They keep this place freezing, so I know it’s just me.
Tory invites me to join them with a huge gesture, as if I’m somewhere on the other side of a field. I swallow and Lucas turns to look at his friend; his shoulders visibly slumping. I type a quick message to Tory.
Pretty sure I’m only half invited.
I stare at him while he reads, noting the way his body shakes in amusement. He doesn’t bother to text back this time, instead cupping his mouth with one hand. I brace myself for it about a half-second before the sound comes out.
“Maybe Mabee would like to come say hi to her friends!” His hand slowly falls away, and a smug-ass grin covers his face. My joints turn to Jell-O.
Friends.
I’m pretty sure I only have one friend over there. I definitely have one enemy.
I can’t stay here, though. Even faking work on one of the ball returns would look like an excuse. Plus, now that I know everyone can see me, I might not ever break back here again. I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and relent, ducking under one of the frames and stepping onto the space between the far lanes. I know better than to look away from my feet, but my ego gets the best of me and I glance up, just for a second, to see whether Lucas is watching me. That’s when I fall.
Bowling lane wax is not to be trifled with. One misstep sends my left foot two feet to the left, my arms flailing to find balance while my right foot struggles to hold on. It’s useless to fight it, but I decide to give in too late. My legs jut out too far in front of my body and I’m airborne for what feels like a full minute, though I’m sure it’s only a blink. The wind leaves my lungs as soon as I slam to the wood, but that’s not what hurts the most. My head falls back onto the sharp corner of the gutter, and actual stars form around my vision like bright fireworks flashing in front of my face.
“June!”
My name sounds as if it’s being shouted through a tunnel. I’m not sure whether the echo is in my head or in the room. The gasping sounds coming from my own mouth seem so foreign, and my head is ringing. The thunderous sound of running feet rushes my way, and in my daze, I expect to see ten guys rushing to my aid. My head falls to the right and my eyes struggle to stay open.
I have a fucking concussion. I know I do.
My vision is super fuzzy, and fading in and out. What appears to be three pair of legs sliding my direction settles into one pair by the time the person they belong to is at my side.
“June, careful. Don’t move.”
Ignoring the advice, I roll to my side, but only because I think I might vomit.
“You can’t carry her on that. You’ll slip, too!”
That voice is distinct. It’s Morty, worried about all of the damn accident claim forms he’ll have to fill out. Whomever he’s yelling at doesn’t seem to be listening because hands slide under my ribs and my right hip . On instinct, I reach up with my right arm and grab on to the shoulder of my life raft. It’s only when my face is flat against the soft cotton of the hoodie that I recognize who is lifting me against his chest.
I breathe in Lucas’s scent, the mix of his mom’s lavender fabric softener and the wood and cinnamon of his cologne. He shifts his arms as he moves his legs under his body to stand, and I cling harder, not wanting to fall again. We rise easily, his arms and chest muscles flexing to maintain balance and hold me up.
“I can walk,” I utter.
“Shhh,” he responds quickly.
My view is of his jawline, the tendon on his neck defined from stress. His feet give way with his tiny steps, and he pauses.
“This shit is slippery,” he shouts to his friends.
We have a carpet we roll out when things like this happen, not that they happen often. It’s happened twice since I’ve worked here, and both times were drunk league bowlers who rushed the lane, pissed off about the ten pin not falling. I’m sure Morty is rushing to get the rug now, but Lucas keeps moving us forward.
I stare at his chin, not wanting to look because things around the room are spinning. His chin is my true north. It’s the only thing not fucking moving.
“Almost there,” he says, reassuring me.
I flinch when his body lunges forward with two massive steps. His balance steadies, though. He tucks his chin to look down, and our gazes meet for a second. That void expression I’ve seen lately has been replaced with a more stoic one, and his eyes have a concerned tilt to them.
“Tory, someone needs to drive her home, man. Get your car.”
Lucas bends down and sets me in one of the plastic seats by the computer and ball return. My hand grips his sweatshirt as he slides me from his hold, and I end up tugging on the material at his waist. I think maybe he’s going to step away, put some distance between us. But when I tug, he crouches down next to me and keeps his hand at the base of my neck.
“She’s your neighbor, Lucas. Get over yourself and drive her home,” Tory says. Lucas twists his head to look up at his friend, but I keep my focus on his chin and jaw. It’s firm, and I sense he’s not thrilled about getting a lecture.
While their stare-off stretches into long seconds, a new wave of vertigo tackles my brain and I have to close my eyes to will it away. With his attention divided, Lucas’s help with my balance slips and as the stomach acid crawls up my throat, I lurch toward the floor. I fall from his grip and catch myself with my palms on the floor, but not before I throw up a little on my Eight Lanes shirt.
Keys jingle as they soar through the air over my head, and Tory takes off in a sprint. Finn, the college dude who’s my assistant manager, has already rushed over with a bucket and mop, and the scent of Pine Sol assaults my nose. I cup my face as Lucas sweeps me back into his cradled arms and carries me through the front area and out the doors. I’d be mortified by all of this but I am in so much pain and so sick and dizzy that I don’t have room to consider anything else.
Lucas’s truck rumbles to the curb, and we pause as Tory rushes from the driver’s side and opens the door so Lucas can set me inside. I fumble with the seat belt once he gets me into a sitting position, but his hand covers mine to stop me.