Josiah looked dubious, but said nothing.
Michael had no such reservations. “Dude, don’t be an anti-social nut sac. Come eat with us. We’re about to go on the road for two weeks straight so let’s just hang out tonight.”
He hid a grin as he bent over and zipped up his bag. “Unlike popular belief, I’m actually not a . . . what was that term you just used? An anti-social nut sac.” He clapped Michael on the shoulder as they all headed toward the exit. “But I actually do have plans.”
“What?” Michael asked, clearly not believing him.
“I’m meeting up with Freckles.”
“Who?” Michael asked.
“Aileen?” Josiah paused mid-step, forcing both Michael and Killian to glance behind them. “You’re going out with a reporter? Lambert’s wrong. Your sac isn’t anti-social, it’s made of brass.”
He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “She’s okay. But it’s not social,” he hastened to add as the other two exchanged a look. “She’s been hounding me for an interview so I agreed. I’m just trying to annoy her into giving up before things actually get started. I figure me pestering her while she’s doing something she likes—like she pesters me at my job—is the quickest way to get that accomplished.”
They both looked like they doubted him, but said nothing.
“Thanks for the offer, though,” he added after some thought. When they reached the parking lot, he took a chance and said, “Next time?”
Michael shot him a thumbs-up before heading to his car. Josiah walked to his hybrid SUV—too cold to bike today—and gave him a wave.
Killian tried to remember the last time he’d hung out with his teammates. His freshman year . . . when he’d met Emma. He hitched his bag in the back and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was twenty-nine. Wasn’t it time for him to start having a social life again? A select few guys, maybe. The ones who wouldn’t say shit even if they found out about Charlie and Emma. The kind who wouldn’t blink before agreeing to protect a little kid.
Yeah. He watched both Michael and Josiah pull out. Maybe it was time to try.
* * *
He wasn’t coming.
Aileen refused to dissect exactly why that made her so sad. Sure, he’d promised, so she expected him to show up. But it wasn’t like he was obligated. They didn’t have a cheering section, and it wasn’t like she’d saved him a seat. It was just league play, like any other week.
Ernie, her favorite teammate, nudged her shoulder. “You all right, kid?”
He often called her “kid,” as she was the youngest on the team. Second youngest in the league, actually. At twenty-six, she was less than half the age of most of the participants. Many were retirees, or people who had been bowling for decades, before it was retro-cool. She didn’t mind. It was like having a huge group of grandparents, aunts, and uncles. As much as she missed her own parents, the league had become a pseudo-family for her over the last few years.
Aileen tightened the Velcro on her wrist wrap, then flexed her fingers. “I’m okay.”
“You’ve been checking the door every two minutes for the first two games. Expecting someone?” Ernie sat down and propped one spindly leg—clad in khakis with a sharp crease—on the seat next to him. Their teammates, Cindy and Al, a married couple in their late forties with an empty nest and a zest for their new hobby, were discussing the best way to attack the seven-ten split.
“What, for bowling league?” she scoffed. “I don’t need my own cheering squad. I’m good enough without it.” She made a show of buffing her nails on her polyester shirt with her name sewn on the pocket.
“Everyone needs a cheering section.” Ernie watched her, his faded blue eyes so insightful it made her gut hurt. She debated, just for a moment, spilling the beans about her problems.
Then her problem walked in the door.
He wore sunglasses, even in the dark alley, and a hoodie with the hood scrunched up around his neck. Not quite over his head, but up high enough to detract people from seeing his face. His hands were stuffed in his jeans pockets and he was scanning the area looking for . . . well, her, she assumed.
The butterflies in her stomach—the same ones that had been making lazy circles since she’d left the parking lot yesterday—went into overdrive. As his gaze passed over her lane, she held up her hand in a little wave. He must have passed over her for a second, then zeroed back in on her. With a slow gait, as if he had nothing else to do, he sauntered over.
“Hey,” she said, somehow more nervous and less so all at once now that he’d shown up. “Hope you aren’t this punctual to practice or you’ll be out of a job.”