I grab my green ball and hurl it down the lane. It makes a beeline for the gutter, leaving all ten pins glued in place. Not an ideal start. I overcorrect on my second attempt and fling it down the other gutter.

“I need nachos and beer. That’s the problem. Lack of sustenance.”

Devin shakes his head at my declaration, but he nods when I stick out my thumb and pinky finger, holding them to my lips in the ‘want a drink’ gesture. He reaches for his wallet but I stop him with a glare. We lock eyes. He stalks over to me, shakes his head and slaps a twenty in my hand. Guess he’s buying this round then.

The entire little argument about who’s paying happens in a few seconds without us saying a thing. I like that I understand him without needing words. We could have an entire date without talking. I think Devin might prefer it.

Our game is almost over. Devin’s managed three strikes, two spares and a handful of eights and nines. The best I’ve managed is a four and polishing off most of the nachos. It’s the second to the last frame and Devin’s got three times the points I do. The smug, lopsided smirk on his lips is unmistakable. I’ve never seen him happier than when he’s beating me. I’m not worried. I’ve got this.

“I’m getting a strike on this roll. I can feel it,” I declare. Devin quirks an eyebrow at me, taking a lazy sip of his beer. Challenge accepted. I pick up my lime-green ball and stage whisper, “Come on, Greenie. Let’s show him what we’ve got.”

I line myself up in the center of the alley. I keep my eyes locked on the head pin and focus on the smooth, fluid motion. My ball rolls down the lane, starting out straight and true. My heart ticks up. Yes. Yes. Yes. Then Greenie gets a little wobble. No. I lean to the right, trying to keep her on track. It doesn’t work. Greenie keeps diving toward the gutter.

A stifled laugh, covered by a fake cough, sounds behind me. I spin and stare daggers at Devin, who’s reclining in that ugly plastic chair like it’s his blue-collar throne. Anger surges through my body.

“You know what a strike is, JB?” Devin asks when I flop into my chair. He picks up his ridiculous black ball and rolls it down the lane with impressive force. The pins go flying, parting like the damn Red Sea. He struts back to me. “That’s a strike.”