Page 49 of Tides of Discovery
“Jack.” Cooper’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “You’re frowning at that computer like it kicked your puppy.”
I forced a grin.
Cooper studied my face for a moment, then grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the racks of balls. “Come on, let’s pick out some weapons of mass destruction.”
The bowling balls sat in neat rows, their surfaces gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Cooper hefted a marbled blue one, testing its weight. “This feels right. What about you?”
I selected a solid black ball that felt manageable in my grip. “This should work.”
We dropped our bowling balls off at our lane and made our way to the bar, where a bored-looking bartender sold us two glasses of Barnacle Brews lager.
Cooper set his glass in a cup holder back at our lane. “You go first and set the tone for my inevitable victory.”
The beer helped settle my nerves. I stepped up to the line for my first frame, acutely aware of Cooper watching from the plastic chair behind me.
“Remember,” Cooper called out, “it’s all in the follow-through.”
I drew back and released the ball with what I hoped looked like practiced ease. It rolled straight for about ten feet before veering dramatically to the right, ending up in the gutter with a hollowthunk.
“Solid start,” Cooper said cheerfully. “Really setting the bar high.”
My second ball managed to knock down three pins, their wooden clattering echoing through the lane. “Three points. Not embarrassing at all.”
Cooper patted my shoulder as he passed me. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
His first ball started strong, rolling down the center with confidence before hooking left at the last second and taking down seven pins. “See? Technique.”
“Very impressive.” I pointed at the pins. “Though I notice you didn’t get them all.”
“Details.” Cooper lined up his second shot and picked up two more pins. “Nine points. That’s how you do it.”
The evening unfolded with comfortable competition and increasingly creative excuses for our mutual lack of skill. Cooper beat me in the first game by twenty-six points, which felt simultaneously embarrassing and endearing. During the second game, he started offering tips that were completely wrong but delivered with such confidence that I found myself laughing instead of worrying about my performance.
“The secret,” Cooper said, demonstrating an approach that involved a little spin move before releasing the ball, “is to confuse the pins.”
“I don’t think that’s how physics works.”
“Physics is overrated.” His ball somehow knocked down six pins despite the theatrical wind-up. “See?”
I tried to copy his technique and nearly fell over, sending my ball careening into the left gutter. “Your method needs work.”
“My method got me six pins. Your method got you zero.”
“Touché.”
By the middle of the second game, I’d stopped worrying about being the perfect date and started just enjoying Cooper’s company. He had a way of making everything feel lighter, turning my gutter balls into opportunities for jokes instead of sources of stress. When he high-fived me for actually hitting the pins—all of them, somehow—his hand lingered in mine for just a moment longer than necessary.
“Finally!” Cooper cheered as my strike registered on the screen. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Beginner’s luck.”
“I’ll take it.” He squeezed my hand before letting go. “Beer’s on me if you can do it again.”
I couldn’t, of course. My next ball rolled sedately down the lane and knocked over exactly four pins. But Cooper bought me another beer anyway, claiming that my strike had been “inspirational” even if unrepeatable.
“This is payback, you know,” Cooper said. He’d beaten me again, this time by thirty-one points.
“Payback for what?”
