She wasn’t in any danger. You didn’t throw it at her, just rolled it past her. It wouldn’t have hit her. You saved him, and he didn’t even notice.

He frowned at me after we moved over a lane (for the safety of everyone, though the anxious manager didn’t actually come out and say that). We restarted the game, and he let me bowl first.

I carefully rolled the first ball down the gutter, where it wouldn’t be likely to hit anyone. I don’t know if I did it for my own sake or to reassure anyone watching me.

All you were trying to do was keep Adam happy. And this is the thanks you get.

Almost squishing babies wasn’t exactly an act I expected thanks for. I rubbed my forehead as if it would help clear my thoughts.

It wouldn’t have hit her. You made sure of it. Even if Adam had missed, it would have rolled harmlessly past.

Adam watched me thoughtfully, but he didn’t say anything to me as I engineered my loss by a hundred bazillion points. I could hardly bowl well after my spectacular failure, or someone would figure out I’d done it on purpose.

I had done it on purpose, hadn’t I?

I couldn’t believe I’d done something like that. What was wrong with me? If Adam had looked more approachable, I might have talked to him about it.

He doesn’t want to hear what you have to say. Best just keep quiet. He’d never understand anyway.

I didn’t mind, didn’t object anyhow, to the way Adam made sure to stand where he could field my ball if I lost control again. After all, his rescue of the baby looked better if he seemed to think I was an idiot, right?

Four turns in, Adam stepped in front of me, and said in a low voice that wouldn’t carry beyond us, “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? What in the hell were you thinking?”

And for some reason, even though I agreed with him, his question made me mad. Or maybe that was the voice in my head.

He should have understood sooner. He should understand his mate better than anyone. You shouldn’t have to defend yourself to him. Best not to say anything at all.

I raised an eyebrow and stalked past him to pick up my ball. Hurt fed anger. I was so mad I forgot myself enough to get a strike. I made sure it was the last point I made in the game—and I didn’t say a word to him.

Adam won with a score over two hundred. When he finished bowling the last frame, he took both our balls back to the rack while I changed my shoes.

The teenage boys (by then five lanes away) stopped him and had him sign an autograph for them. I took my shoes back to the desk and turned them in—and paid for the game, too.

“Is he really the Alpha?” asked the teenage girl behind the counter.