13. Dane

Istepped through the doors of Bowlero ten minutes before Patrick and I had agreed to meet, thinking I'd have time to pick out my shoes, maybe grab a beer, and settle in. The neon sombrero above the glowing pink bowling ball made me smile.

I hadn't expected to see him sitting at a table near the bar, cradling a half-full glass of red wine and reading a small paperback. Yet, there he was. His hair fell across his face, hiding his eyes and giving me an overwhelming urge to brush it back—or grab it. Yeah, I wanted to yank that shit back, expose his neck, and bob for the most delicious Adam's apple I'd ever tasted.

Shit, my jeans were suddenly way too tight.

Then I noticed his shoes. I wasn't normally a shoe guy, but his caught my eye. Patrick had already rented his bowling shoes … before I'd even arrived.

Who did that? Renting shoes was part of the bowling date ritual. He'd altered a sacred step in the evening's progression, and I wasn't sure I liked it. Traditions were traditions for a reason.

The whole thing made my nerves bunch.

He glanced up, noticed me staring from the doorway, smiled and raised a palm, wiggling his fingertips.

Nerve bunching morphed into asshole puckering. He was absolutely adorable.

I gave him a 'sup head nod and strode to his table. "Hey. You're early," I said.

He shoved a leather bookmark into his book and set it on the table, then hopped up and wrapped his arms around me. The peck on the cheek was unexpected icing on the cake.

"Good to see you too," he said, stepping back and scanning me like a guy in a Hazmat suit worried about nuclear radiation.

"See something you like?" I smirked.

His eyebrows wiggled, and his lips quirked. "Oh yeah. If it weren't for the whole bowling thing—"

"They have a restroom."

His brows stopped wiggling and shot to his forehead, right as his mouth dropped open as wide as it would go. I nearly doubled over laughing.

"That face!"

He snapped his mouth shut. "Were you serious?"

"No, of course not," I said, as a boy, no older than ten, darted between us toward the aforementioned restroom. "I might like an audience, but not an underage one."

He blew out a breath. "Thank goodness. For a minute there I thought—"

"Me caveman. Me screw everywhere. Must make babies." I grunted dramatically through chuckles.

He raised both hands, concealed one so only I could see it, then raised his middle finger.

"You really would fit in well in the station house. Sami might destroy you, but Alex wouldn't know how to react."

The smile he'd given me when our eyes had first met returned. "Really? You think I'd make a good firefighter?"

I gaped. "Lord no. There's a certain, um, type. You're not it. All I was saying was that you'd be fun with the team. You add a certain … hmm … innocent nerdiness that we currently lack."

He turned, grabbed his glass, and down the remaining half like he was gulping iced tea.

"I need a beer. Want a refill?" I asked.

He wiped his lips and nodded. "Thanks."

A moment later, I returned from the five-foot trek with a bottle of Blue Moon adorned with an orange wedge in one hand, and a glass of whatever red the bowling alley had in stock in the other. The bartender hadn't offered a choice beyond "red or red." I chose red.

"One ambiguous red wine," I said, setting his glass on the table. That's when his shoes caught my eye again. The toes shone in the lighting, and there wasn't a scuff anywhere on them.

I whistled. "Those look new. I've been coming here for years and have never seen new shoes behind their counter. I thought they bought them pre-beat-up."

He grabbed his glass and took a gulp. His wine drinking was less … dainty … than I'd seen from other wine drinkers.

"These are new," he said, a note of awkwardness in his voice.

"Here?"

He shook his head.

"Wait." I squeezed the orange and shoved it into my bottle. "You bought shoes for tonight? You know they rent them out, right?"

He paused a beat.

"Oh shit. You didn't know that?" I was stunned. "You've bowled before, haven't you?"

His cheeks colored as he glanced down. "Unless you count Wii Bowling, no."

Holy shit. I'd never met a bowling virgin.

"Please tell me you didn't go out and buy a ball too."

He shook his head, but still didn't make eye contact.

"What?"

His gaze lifted. "I tried. They said they didn't have my size or finger thickness or weight—I really didn't understand. They offered to special order me one, but that wouldn't help much tonight. Could I borrow yours?"

I nearly spat beer. "You can play with my ball any time you like."

His eyes bugged again.

"I'm sorry. It's just … I was just surprised. They have balls you can use. See all those on those racks? They're for anyone to use. Just go stick your fingers in and see which feels best."

"Sounds like a Friday night at the Eagle."

Now I did spit beer. "You know that from experience, do you?"

He grinned, pleased with himself, then shook his head. "No, but I've heard stories."

Have you, now? I let it slide for the moment. "Okay, I still need to get shoes and grab my ball from my locker."

His glass froze halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

"You have a locker? And your own ball? Like, for real, a bowling ball?"

I grinned and shrugged. "Give me a minute; I'll show you my ball."

He groaned at my thirteen-year-old humor and sipped his wine, but he was grinning, and his eyes said he loved every word.

I made it halfway to the counter before glancing back to find him staring pointedly at my ass. I'd worn my tightest jeans in hopes he'd like the menu. They were still pretty loose, unlike the ones worn by so many of the guys headed out to clubs, but Patrick didn't seem to care.

He caught me catching him, flushed crimson, and turned away to stare into the arcade where Ms. Pacman chattered away.

It took the rest of the walk to the counter to wipe the grin off my face.

By the time I returned to Patrick after waiting behind a family of seven who each tried on several pairs of shoes before picking their final winner, his glass was again empty.

"Ready to rock?" I asked, holding up the worn size-thirteen bowling shoes and leather case containing my most prized possession.

"You're going to crush me, aren't you?"

My hands were full, so I bumped shoulders. "Probably. Especially since you're a virgin."

He nearly missed a step.

"A bowling virgin. I already popped your other cherry."

He slammed into a ball rack and doubled over, holding his shin. I tried not to laugh, but when he started hopping on one foot and a group of teen girls giggled, I lost it.

"You're rude!" he said, lower lip pooched out.

"And you're a klutz," I replied through chuckles. "At least you're cute."

He stopped hopping and looked up. "You think I'm cute?"

"You know I do or you wouldn't be here." I rolled my eyes then pointed to lane six. "That's our lane. I'm going to put my shoes on while you find a ball."

He nodded and stared down at the rack before him. The scowl on his face looked like he wanted to curse it out for reaching up and slapping his shin. I chuckled all the way to our lane.

A few minutes later, shoes laced and ball unpacked, Patrick still hadn't returned. I glanced around to find him sticking his fingers in one ball after another, hefting them and pretending to bowl, nearly knocking an old woman down in the process. There was something about this guy, his clumsy, almost goofy awkwardness contrasting with his obvious intelligence that made me smile and feel warm all at once. His sharp jaw and piercing eyes made me want to do a lot more than was allowed in Bowlero.

Being in public service, we were always warned against getting too friendly with the press. They could be helpful in spreading safety tips or warning the public, but they could also turn simple things into a national crisis just to sell papers.

Dating a reporter was bad news, so to speak, and I knew it.

And yet, watching Patrick walking toward me, ball cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby, something tugged at my insides, made me want to know more, to see where this could go.

"Found one." He hefted a bright blue ball in the air, straining a bit with the effort.

"Sure you want to use the heaviest one in the place?"

His ball fell almost as quickly as his face.

I stood. "That's a sixteen pounder. You might want to start with something lighter, for your first time. It'll be a lot more comfortable, trust me."

I took a quick glance at the rack behind our lane. "Look, grab that pinkish one. I think those are thirteens."

He racked the heavy ball and picked up the one I'd pointed at. He hefted the ball in one hand and planted his other on his hip. He looked like Ru Paul giving sass right before stepping up to the line. "You just want me to bowl with a pink ball."

I covered my face with one hand and tried not to laugh again. "The lane's on. Want to try a few practice bowls?"

He sauntered past me, exaggerating his hips and brushing into my chest, stepped up to the line, and hurled his pink lady as hard as he could. It made it nearly three feet before thunking into the gutter and rolling past the pins without so much as a vibration in them.

He turned back, sass evaporated. "I'm not very good at sports."

I set my ball on the return and stepped up. "Let me show you."

When Pinky returned (that was Patrick's nickname for his ball), I had him hold it and let me reach around him from behind, like teaching a boy to tie a necktie. My chest pressed into his back as I reached around one side to hold his arm. If we hadn't been in a public bowling alley, I would've nibbled his earlobe. My breath tickled it as I spoke over his shoulder.

"Bring the ball back like this—" I pulled his arm back slowly, pressing my body into his. He shivered but didn't say anything. When I pushed forward, forcing him to swing like he was bowling, the entire front of my body ground against his backside.

He groaned, and the ball fell from his grip.

As he scrambled to grab it before it crossed the foul line, a woman in her fifties stepped up in the lane next to us, winked at me, and whispered, "Please show me next."

I blinked in surprise as she tossed a perfect strike, spun, clapped, then blew me a kiss.

There were no more lessons, at least none as suggestive as that one, but Patrick's eyes rarely left me as we completed three games. The suggestion in his gaze was unmistakable and kept my jeans somewhat tighter than the maker intended all night.

As he recorded our last throw and leaned back in the scorekeeper's chair, he looked up and asked, "Why bowling?"

I cocked my head.

"Tonight. For our first real date. Why bowling?"

"Oh," I said, taking a seat beside him. Our knees rubbed together in the tight confines of the scorer's booth. "My mom used to make us watch bowling every Saturday morning. Guess I grew up with it. It's sort of my go-to when I … when I like somebody."

His cheeks reddened, and I had to fight the urge to kiss him.

"Have you always had your own ball?" When I smirked, he huffed out a breath. "Bowling ball, silly."

Being immature was fun, especially when it got a reaction like that.

"Nope, not until I was an adult. We didn't have the money for things like that back then," I said. "My uncle owned the local lanes, so we'd go down at least two or three times each week, sometimes more. I remember watching these league guys walk in with their own balls, polishing them like they were those Russian eggs."

"Fabergé?"

He even added a little accent. My hand found his back and rubbed for that. I couldn't resist anymore.

"Yeah, those, I think." I had no clue. "Anyway, I always wanted my own, to be a real bowler like those guys. When I graduated the Fire Academy, I treated myself to a present and ordered one."

"You ordered a Fabergé egg?"

"No, a bowling—" He was grinning. "Did you just fuck with me? After I wiped you off the lanes like a squished bug?"

I felt his shrug against my fingers on his back.

"Why don't we switch to something I grew up playing?" his voice teased.

"And that would be?"

"There's an arcade. You will never beat me in Ms. Pacman. It's not possible."

"Oh, you're on. Grab Pinky and that perky ass, and let's go."

Patrick

I couldn't remember the last time I'd smiled so much on a date. Then again, it was hard to recall my last real date that hadn't involved a phone app telling me how far away my potential evening's pleasure was currently located. I'd begun to think dating was like ordering off a menu. "Tonight, I'd like beef with a side of pork, please. Oh, might I also have roasted nuts on the side, and add that creamy gravy you do so well. You know, the salty one that tastes of alfalfa or asparagus? Yes, that one."

Dane and I hooked up after spaghetti night, but we'd actually eaten a meal before eating, well, dessert … and we had met in real life first, not on some impersonal, virtually anonymous screen.

We strode into the arcade, me in front and eager for the battle to come, while he clomped inches behind me, so close I could almost feel him pressing against my back, his bowling shoes clamoring against the tile flooring with each step.

"You go first," he said as we stood before Her Majesty of Dots.

"Not a chance," I smirked, finally feeling confident after three rounds of gutter ball … I mean, bowling.

Dane hadn't scored below two hundred, while I'd barely broken fifty. I was certain the five-year-old bowling two lanes down from us beat my scores—but he didn't count because he was using side rails, which was an unfair advantage. The kid needed to learn self-respect sometime and bowl like a real adult.

I really did hate to lose. I might be awkward and gangly, but competition raged in my veins as much as any jock. From the glint in Dane's eyes, he might've overdosed on that particular drug.

"Fine, but for the record, this gives you an advantage," he said, gripping my hips and practically lifting me aside so he could sit on the stool.

I leaned against him, my arm resting on his shoulder. "Advantage? How so?"

He glanced back and grinned. "You get to see how bad you're going to lose before you go. I wasn't just a jock; I have brothers, remember? Video games and sports were how my parents kept us occupied growing up. You're going down, pretty boy."

The quarters dropped into the slot, clicking at each stage of the machine's digestion, then the all-too-familiar welcome song began. I waited until the start timer was at one before leaning into his ear, so close I could lick him, and whispered, "I'll go down later, but you're going to lose here."

Then I nipped his lobe.

Ms. Pac Man ran straight into the red ghost. She'd barely made three turns.

Dane turned, a scowl marring his handsome face. "Not fair. There should be a penalty for—"

"Wishing you luck? Being supportive? Offering to do naughty things to you later?"

He turned back to the screen and grumbled, "Fine. When you put it that way, I guess it was okay."

He couldn't see my grin widen behind him.

Three rounds later, I'd captured all three high scores, and not just in our little competition; the ones on the machine. Some other player, probably a pre-teen with acne and a vitamin D deficiency, had scored over 400,000 to capture the number-one ranking, leaving a very mature "SEX" as his initials. He would be very disappointed to learn SEX was now a fourth-place activity.

"Damn, you really are good at that," Dane said, scratching his head and leaning against the vintage Centipede machine. "Your last game took almost an hour."

My cheeks reddened as I resisted my head's natural urge to duck under the weight of a compliment. "Sorry about that. I kind of lose track of time when I'm playing."

He glanced at his watch. "Shit, it's almost ten. Are you hungry? I didn't eat much before meeting you here."

"Starving."

"The food here's okay." He hesitated, then added, "Or we could go back to my place. I could pop a pizza in the oven."

Translated into online dating lingo, that meant he would pop something else too.

I held up two fingers and placed the other hand over my heart. "I volunteer as tribute for Plan B."

He laughed and shook his head. "You sound like I'm going to hunt and shoot you."

"If I'm lucky, but I'd prefer a good spearing, if you've got the weapon for it."

His smile flattened as his brows rose. "Let me turn in these shoes so we can get out of here. Pizza and Hunger Games await."

"After you, Peeta."

He chuckled and pinched my nipple as he passed by.