Bash: Hey, just letting you know that I’m all good. Back home and healing well.

    Tripp: Better than my news, which is that we didn’t clinch a yoff spot. I’ll touch base when I’m in a better mood.hr

    IT’S DADS’ NIGHT OUT AT ROSE VALLEY ALLEY, AND I’M SIDELINED. Forced to watch and not partake, even though I’m a founding member of the Ball Busters.

    But I don’t care. After a couple of weeks spent recovering slowly, lying in bed for too long, and constantly dodging Gwen in my own home, I really needed a night out.

    “That was fucking terrible,” I tell West right to his face as he saunters back to our team’s table. My text exchange with Tripp rubbed me the wrong way. Truthfully, it hurt my feelings. He didn’t reach out to ask how the surgery went, and when I told him I was okay, he instantly turned it into a conversation about hockey. Like making the yoffs was more important than my survival. And maybe it was more important to him—and that just makes me feel worse.

    West’s brow furrows as he turns to look back at the bowlingne. “Did we see two different turns there? I got you a spare!”

    I grunt and sip at my boring-ass water. Because apparently mixing alcohol and prescription painkillers isn’t rmended. “A spare isn’t a strike, West.”

    Ford, West’s best friend, chuckles from beside me, and Rhys just shakes his head. He and I have grown closer over the past several months. He’s a man of few words but many facial expressions, and I can tell he’s amused.

    “Well, have someone better take your turns for you, then. Not sure who made you the dictator of this entire team,” West teases.

    I haven’t been medically cleared to bowl since my surgery, but I have been medically cleared to go for light walks. And I figure sitting at bowling, hydrating, and coaching this ragtag team can’t be any more strenuous than a light walk.

    It’s a hell of a lot healthier than sitting at home trying to avoid Clyde’s off-color jokes and Gwen’s mere presence. Since our talk on the balconyst week, we’ve avoided each other like the gue. It’s different this time because she’s avoiding me.

    And I hate it.

    “I’m not a dictator. I’m coaching you. And I know you can do better than that.”

    West rolls his eyes at me before hitting me with one of his signature smirks. “No. You’re a dick… tator.”

    Ford drops his head to his hands. “Jesus, West. How old are you?”

    “Age is just a number, fe,” West quips as he ps his friend on the shoulder. “And, Bash, if you don’t like me bowling your turns for you, why don’t you ask Rhys? At least he could use the practice.”

    Rhys’s cheek twitches, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to defend himself—he knows he’s the worst on the team by a long shot.

    He’s just not as fun to pick on as West.

    “Don’t insult him. He’s a professional athlete. He’s mastered something, and here you are, pretending spares are something special.”

    West justughs. He’s impossible to piss off. “Man, you’re even more miserable than usual. Were all your good moods in the kidney that you gave away? Are you stuck with the bitchy kidney?”

    “My kidneys are both exceptional. The doctors told me as much,” I mumble defensively.

    “No, seriously. Who pissed in your cereal and why is it Clyde?”

    I bristle at him assuming Clyde is the one who’s under my skin. “Clyde doesn’t bother me. Mostly.” He’s been at the hospital daily for follow-up appointments, but otherwise, he’s fairly bedridden. Gwen takes care of him, and while she’s at the yoga studio, he usually sleeps or dozes in front of the television.

    “Wait. Does that mean Gwen pissed in your cereal?” Rhys finally pipes up, curiosity dawning on his dark features.

    “Is there a different metaphor we can use?” Ford sighs, taking a deep swig of his beer. “I don’t love the mental imagery with this one.”

    West grins, no doubt about to add something he thinks is funny to the conversation. But he stops mid-breath and shifts his gaze to me. Analyzes me. And though he’s a big old goofball, he’s also great at reading people. I think it’s a skill he’s honed as a horse trainer, picking up on subtle cues and bodynguage. And the way he’s staring at me makes me feel like I’ve given him a tell.

    “No, wait. That makes so much sense.”

    Rhys chuckles. “Is she bugging you about your chakras? Is one of them blocked?”

    I scowl, wondering why everyone is talking about my chakrastely. She must be indoctrinating Rhys during his sses too.

    “No. She’s fine.”

    West’s mouth pops open. He looks like a fucking dog with a bone right now, and I don’t like it one bit. “Like, fine or…fine?”

    “Fine. Like I don’t notice her at all.”

    I look back at three sets of eyes, all fixed on me. Even Ford, who usually stays out of this shit now regards me with pity.

    “What?”

    “Bash, old boy, you’ve got a crush,” West announces eagerly, making me wince.

    I whip around and take in everyone around us, hoping upon hope that no one is listening. The small-town gossipwork is fucking vicious, and I don’t want to be itstest subject.

    “I do not,” I say. But it sounds unconvincing, even to me, so I add something that I am convinced of. “Plus, she dated Tripp. That’s a line you just don’t cross. Even if I saw her first.”

    If I had known.

    I ended it on the spot.

    I tried to find you.

    I’d cut her off, but I know that’s what she was about to say. I could piece it all together. I wasn’t blind to the way she looked at me. The way she looks at me. Gaze licking over me like mes over kindling.

    “Saw her first?” Rhys asks, looking confused.

    I wave a hand casually. “We got stuck in an airport overnight together over a year ago.”

    West gasps. “Wait, she’s that girl? Didn’t you get her number?”

    My stomach drops hard and fast. I never told West that story. “How do you know that?”

    “Clyde told me.”

    Fucking Clyde.

    I find myself wondering if it’s toote to take my kidney back when Terence—who likes to go by Too Tall and is the most universally hated guy at bowling—pops his head over to our table. “Is one of you going to take your turn? Like this year? Or are you forfeiting?”

    “Fuck off, Stretch,” all three of my teammates say at once.

    Rhys turns to re at him, making a twisting motion with his hands as though he’s wringing the water out of a dishrag.

    The guy leaves, but not without muttering something offensive under his breath.

    Or… it would be offensive if any of us cared what he thought.

    “Okay, wait,” Rhys starts up. “You’re telling me that you met Gwen first? And hit it off first? And then she dated your son?”

    Ford hisses out a breath. “That’s so weir—”

    I correct his train of thought before he can even go there. Because I went there at first too. So now I admit to them what I haven’t even admitted to myself. “I don’t think she knew Tripp was my son, so don’t make it sound like that. And I took her number down wrong after pulling an all-nighter, so in her defense, she thought I ghosted her.”

    West elbows Rhys. “See that? Falling all over himself to protect her honor.”

    Rhys smirks in response, but Ford looks downright thoughtful. “That’s actually—”

    “Kind of romantic?” West guesses with amusement twinkling in his eyes.

    “No.” Ford shrugs. “Sad.”

    Fucking Ford. Direct to a fault sometimes. “Thanks, I’m really fine, though,” I reply grimly.

    Fine.

    “So you’re saying that it is Gwen who pissed in your cereal, but you’re fine with it?” West asks while stroking at his chin like he’s some sort of old-school philosopher.

    Rhys rolls in with his deep, authoritative voice. “You know, as someone who grew up without a dad, I don’t think this would bother me.”

    “You mean if your dad came around and started dating Tabitha, you’d be cool with that?”

    Rhys turns a fierce re on West. “Fuck no. That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

    Westughs, holding his hands up in an amused don’t shoot gesture.

    “I just mean,” Rhys continues, “if my dad showed up and dated a casual ex of mine that he met before I did? I don’t know. I’d have no rtionship with the guy, so I doubt I’d care. It would be like any random dude dating an ex of mine. Unless I was hung up on her.”

    I know he’s trying to beforting, but it doesn’t work. Instead, it just stresses me out to think my already tenuous rtionship with Tripp isn’t salvageable.

    “But what if your dad wanted to have a rtionship with you?” I blurt, hoping the big, broody man before me has a magical answer.

    Rhys shrugs before shooting me an apologetic nce. “I don’t know. Our situations aren’t the same. But I’d probably have some shit I needed to work through before I could do that. And him dating my ex would be the least of the grudges I’d be holding against him.”

    I swallow and nce away, trying not to spiral. Because it feels like I’m damned if I do pursue Gwen and damned if I don’t.

    But beneath myyers of anxiety, he’s nted a seed, one that gets me thinking. What if Tripp wouldn’t care? He doesn’t seem to care all that much about me anyway. It begs the question: am I holding myself back for no good reason?

    All three of them are staring at me like they expect me to respond, but I’m done talking about this. “Somebody take your turn before Stretch throws a full-blown temper tantrum,” I bark, effectively ending the conversation. I cross my arms, shuttering my emotions.

    I’m not sure when a fucking bowling team turned into heart-to-heart chats and rtionship advice with these guys, but it catches me off guard. I simmer and stew over my opening up for the rest of the night.

    And against my better judgment, I order a much-needed rum and Coke. Just to take the edge off.