Page 138 of Wild Card
“I love it here,” she finally whispers.
“It’s beautiful,” I reply simply.
“No. I mean here. With you. This life. I love it all.”
I turn now, taking in her profile. The dip of her pert nose, the roundness in her cheeks. Her long lashes laid over them as she speaks with her eyes closed.
It hits me that I’d give her anything. Everything. But hearing that she loves what we’re building? It fills me with so much pride that I could burst.
“What do you want out of this life together?”
Her eyes flutter open at my question as she turns her heart-shaped face up to mine. Her gaze rakes over my face as though she’s memorizing this moment. “Adventure. Big, small. I want to go on every adventure life has to offer. With you.”
Our hands pulse as one. Each of us giving the other a reassuring squeeze at the exact same moment.
It’s the perfect answer. So perfectly her. An invite to spend my life going on adventures with Gwen?
“I can’t think of anything better.”
EPILOGUE
BASH
One year later…
I hold the ball up in front of my face, gaze laser focused toward the end of the lane, and take a deep, centering breath.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I feel Rhys sidle up next to me, lighter on his feet than he has any right to be. “Listen,” he whispers gruffly. “I don’t want to put any extra pressure on you, but if you fuck this up, I might never forgive you.”
My eyes slice in his direction. “Fuck off, Dupris” is all I give him, which only makes him laugh and back away with hands up in surrender. I can hear a chorus of chuckles from our table. Ford, West, Rhys, and Clyde (who is here as our self-proclaimed “coach”) sit and watch. Hell, even Tripp came into town to watch this all go down.
Dads’ Night Out.
Beers, bowling, and buddieswas how West originally sold it to me, and that’s exactly what it has become—plus a little bit more.
It’s become community, friendship, and a deep sense of shared hatred for Stretch and his stupid fucking bowling team, the High Rollers.
So tonight, I need to bring it home for my team—the Ball Busters. Because if Stretch and his team get a three-peat, I will break something.
It’s all down to me in the final, and the odds aren’t exactly in my favor. I need a spare to take the win. And though I might be the best on the team, getting a spare under this kind of pressure feels impossible.
I return to focusing on the pins before me. Still, I can feel the weight of my teammates’ gazes on my back. We’ve been at this for a few years now and have finally clawed our way to the championship match.
What do we win? A shitty trophy, a hundred-dollar gift card to the bar, and bragging rights. Which is really what I’m after if I’m being honest.
I square my shoulders and begin my approach. One step. Two steps. Swing back.
Release.
I point my hand straight after the ball and hold my breath, along with everyone else in Rose Valley Alley. I swear the ball rolls down the lane in slow motion, turn after turn, as I will it to hit in the middle of the V.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking do it.”
