Page 33 of Bourbon Bliss
Onion rings? Damn, I liked her. “I’m with you there.”
There wasn’t a wait staff, so I got up and ordered at the bar. I brought back a pitcher of beer and poured two glasses.
June watched the bowlers, her eyes roaming across the scoreboards. I wondered what was going through that sharp mind of hers. The bartender brought our food—it smelled greasy and delicious—and we both dug in.
I never would have thought watching a bowling tournament could be this enjoyable. But just watching June have fun—listening to her calculations and predictions—was fascinating. She knew things about the origins of bowling—because of course she did. Her eyes were bright and her smile lit up the room as she scarfed down fried food and watched the tournament.
Made me think back on other dates I’d had. Expensive restaurants with fancy menus. Exclusive clubs. VIP treatment. Those days had held a certain appeal. It was fun to be treated like you were a big shot; even I could admit that.
But I’d never been so relaxed on a date before. I could kick back, stuff my face with onion rings and fries, and just chill. No pressure. No wondering if my date was only with me for my status or my money. June was a fan, but she didn’t seem to give two shits about my fame. And it was one more thing on a growing list of reasons I liked her.
“Have you picked a winner yet?” I asked, gesturing to the teams.
“It’s likely to beI Can’t Believe It’s Not Gutter.”
I glanced at the scoreboards. “Looks like they’re in third. You think they’ll pull ahead?”
“Their strongest players bowl last in the rotation, so I suspect their score will improve considerably in the later stages of the game.”
“Can’t argue with that logic.”
We watched a bit longer, finishing our meal. I needed to use the restroom, so I excused myself, leaving June at our table.
When I came out of the restroom, the thunder of bowling balls had been replaced by loud voices. An argument had broken out between the teams in lanes six and seven. A group of players in bright fuchsia bowling shirts—thePin Pushers—squared off with theBall Bustersin neon green.
Most of the other bowlers had stopped playing, their attention on the altercation. I glanced around, wondering if there was a league official or a manager who could step in. Did bowling tournaments have refs?
“He was over the line,” a man in fuchsia said, jabbing his finger at one of his opponents in green. “It’s a foul. No points.”
“Bull honkey! He was not over the line. It’s a spare.”
A woman walked straight into the fray. A woman who looked disturbingly like June. I shot a quick glance at our table. Empty. ItwasJune.
Oh hell no. I wasnotletting my woman get in the middle of a throw-down at a bowling tournament.
Wait, when had I started thinking of June asmy woman?
I didn’t have time to contemplate that now. Seeing her stride into the middle of what looked like a fight waiting to happen had me ready to hurdle over the barrier to get to her. I was hit with a surge of adrenaline and I balled my hands into fists as I followed her onto the bowling floor.
The man in green’s face was red and his voice shook. “Now you listen here—”
“I’m done listening to this nonsense.” The man in fuchsia jabbed his finger at the opposing team again. “You try to get away with this every year. I’m not having it.”
June got right between them. I wanted to grab her by the waist and haul her out of there. Keep those crazy bowlers from touching her. What was she doing?
“Gentlemen,” June said, her voice filled with authority. She held out her arms as if to keep the two teams away from each other. “Let’s look at this logically. If thePin Pushersdid indeed have a spare, the relative results of the game won’t change. They’re currently in fourth place, and a spare won’t move their score high enough to take third.”
“But if they get another strike, that spare could kick them over the edge,” the man in green said.
June rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t understand why she was having to explain something so simple to these people. “The points differential is already too high. The spare in question isn’t significant to the overall scores. Not this late in the game.”
“But—”
“As long as none of your team members deviate from your current average, your position in third is secure,” June said.
The man in fuchsia crossed his arms, his brow furrowing.
I grabbed June’s hand to pull her out of there. “She means don’t mess up and they can’t beat you.”
