Page 40 of Resisting my Roommate

“Oh. My. God. You’re on a bowling team?”

“League champs two years running.” He continues walking, as if it’s common knowledge, but I’m too stunned by this revelation to move.

One thing is certain. Jude definitely has layers.

And I want to peel back every single one of them.

“Are you coming?” he calls after me.

I snap out of my shock and scramble to catch up.

When we reach the last lane, we both sit down. As I expected, Jude pulls a pair of his own bowling shoes out of his bag, sliding them on before standing.

“Want a beer?” he asks.

“Sure.”

With a nod, he makes his way toward the bar.

There are a few other people bowling — a couple of teenagers and some older men — but at almost nine o’clock on a Sunday night, this place isn’t exactly a hotbed of activity.

“Hope this is okay.” Jude says when he returns holding two bottles — his label, of course.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever want to drink another brand of beer again,” I answer as he hands me one.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

I take a sip, savoring in the cold comfort of his signature IPA as it slides down my throat. Then he pulls his ball out of his bag and places it on the ball return.

“You can go first,” he tells me.

“Umm… I’m terrible at this. I haven’t bowled in ages. In fact, I’m pretty sure the last time I did, I was young enough to require bumpers.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad. Just give it a try. I’ll help if you need it.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I pull myself to my feet and approach the ball return, testing the weight of a few of them before settling on a sparkly pink one.

Jude raises an amused brow at my choice. “I have a feeling that’s meant for kids.”

“It’s pretty,” I say in my defense. “If I’m going to make a fool out of myself, I may as well look good doing it.”

“You don’t need the ball for that,” he replies softly, his eyes lingering on me for a moment before he clears his throat, averting his gaze. “Do you need help?”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist stubbornly.

I somehow manage to figure out where to put my fingers in the ball, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do from the last time I did this.

Which was easily over twenty years ago.

But it all comes back and I wind up before releasing the ball.

And just like the last time I bowled, the ball lands on the lane with a thud, bouncing a few times before ending up in the gutter.

There was definitely nothing smooth or practiced about it.

When I face Jude, his expression is a combination of shock and amusement, like he can’t believe someone could be this bad at bowling. I warned him.

“Let me give you a few tips.” After a quick sip of his beer, he walks toward me.

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