Page 51 of Wild Card
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BASH
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 playoff spot. I’ll touch base when I’m in a better mood.
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 playoffs was more important than my survival. And maybe itwasmore important to him—and that just makes me feel worse.
West’s brow furrows as he turns to look back at the bowling lane. “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 recommended. “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 balcony last week, we’ve avoided each other like the plague. It’s different this time becauseshe’savoidingme.
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 adick…tator.”
Ford drops his head to his hands. “Jesus, West. How old are you?”
“Age is just a number, fella,” West quips as he slaps 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 masteredsomething, and here you are, pretending spares are something special.”
West just laughs. 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 body language. 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?”
