Page 46 of Wild Love
“Every other week?”
“Yeah, man. It’s a league. Ladies’ Night is one Thursday, Men’s Night is the next. We take a short break between seasons. This is spring season.”
“I thought it was once a month or something.”
“Dude, you’re lucky it’s not once a week. In a bigger town it would be.”
I gape at my friend. We’ve always stayed in touch andmet up here or in the city. We may not have always been based in the same place, we may even be opposites, but West is my longest-standing friend. And absolutely my most loyal.
But this bowling obsession? I don’t know what to make of it.
“Lucky. Right.”
West laughs at my clear dread, and before I know it, we pull up in front of an old building on the side of the highway. Drilled onto the top frame, at the roof, is a large cut-out of two bowling pins and a bowling ball, creating an unusual silhouette against the setting sun and the mountains’ peaks. Neon signs flash out front, advertising everything from “OPEN” to “NEON BOWLING” to “WINGS N BEER.”
We park and follow a dock-like wooden walkway to the front door.
Inside, balls crash against wood and the sign out front didn’t lie—it indeed smells like wings and beer. A piece of cardboard taped to one post near the front desk proclaims, “Welcome to Men’s League,” and I can’t help but laugh.
This is so… small town.
“Weston, how ya doin’, pal?” a large man with pink cheeks and a bright smile calls out from behind the till.
I try not to stare at how the buttons on his striped bowling shirt look ready to burst.
“Just great, Frankie. Got a fourth for the team here. Can we do all the registration paperwork after?” West hikes a thumb toward the lanes, where people are milling about. “I’d rather get him introduced to the gang.”
“You bet. You’re on six tonight,” the man replies before shifting his attention to me. “What’s your shoe size?”
“Thirteen? Do bowling shoes fit differently?”
The man chuckles and pulls out a pair of shoes, tossing them on the countertop. “Here ya go, big fella. They should fit.”
I grab them and follow West farther into the alley, feeling like a nervous kid heading to a brand-new school. I think of Cora. Her fearlessness. If she can waltz into a new town and a new school and a new house with a dude she barely knows, I can join a fucking bowling league.
“Here we go.” West slaps my shoulder as he gestures me forward. “Guys, this is Ford.”
A man with close-cropped dark hair, a few streaks of gray in it, glances up from where he sits tying his shoes. He’s got dark eyes, an unfriendly face, and where he’s not as tall as I am, he’s got a bulk that I don’t. He looks like he hates me, and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet.
“That’s Bash,” West says. “Or Sebastian. But the full name is a mouthful, ya know?”
Oh good. My new contractor.
“And this here”—West pushes an old, wiry man toward me—“is Crazy Clyde.”
Crazy Clyde is wearing a dirty trucker hat with the Rose Valley Alley logo on it and a suspicious glare on his face. It still seems like just calling him Clyde would be less of a mouthful.
“Who’s this?” The man’s watery eyes narrow.
“My friend Ford,” West explains. Again.
“Fords are shit cars. Can’t trust ’em.”
“Well, good thing I’m not a car.” I smirk back at him. West laughs. But no one else does.
“Where you from?”
“Calgary originally, I guess.”
