“Seven and a half, but I can?—”
“I’ve got it,” he insists with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Beer preference?"
“Whatever IPA they have on tap.”
As Conor heads to the counter, Jess sidles closer. “So, you’re the architect he won’t shut up about.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “He talks about me?”
"Girl, you have no idea.” She grins, lowering her voice. "It’s always ‘Betsy this’ and ‘Betsy that’ and ‘Did you see the brilliant solution Betsy came up with for the atrium?’ I was starting to think you were mythical.”
Before I can process this information, Conor returns with shoes and a frosty pint glass. “They’re about to start the first frame,” he says, handing me the beer. Our fingers brush, and I’m suddenly very aware of every point of contact between us.
“Let’s show these Tigers what Piranhas are made of,” I say, taking a long sip to steady myself.
The following two hours are a revelation. I haven’t had this much fun in ages. My first roll is a strike that sends the Piranhas into wild cheers and the Tigers into sullen muttering. By the third frame, it’s clear I’m the best bowleron either team, something Conor seems absurdly proud of.
“That’s our architect!” he shouts after my third consecutive strike, high-fiving me with both hands. “Did you see that? Perfect form!”
I laugh, flushed with success and his praise. “It’s just geometry and physics."
“And talent,” he insists, eyes bright with admiration. "Don’t downplay it.”
Every time I step up to bowl, Conor watches me with such intensity that I can feel his gaze like a physical touch. When it’s his turn, I can’t help but notice how his bowling shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, how his forearms flex as he grips the ball. His technique is indeed terrible—all power, no finesse—but his enthusiasm is infectious.
Between frames, he’s constantly attentive—refilling my beer before I can ask, bringing napkins when I spill some pretzel salt on my jeans, laughing at my jokes like they’re the wittiest things he’s ever heard. It’s disorienting after years of Devon’s casual neglect, the way he’d check his phone while I was talking or forget my drink preference despite five years together.
“You’re spoiling me,” I tell Conor when he returns with another beer and a basket of fries he remembered I mentioned wanting.
His eyes meet mine, suddenly serious. “You deserve to be spoiled.”
The simple statement hits me harder than it should, lodging somewhere behind my ribcage.
By the final frame, we’re neck and neck with the Tigers. The pressure is on as their anchor bowler, a smug guynamed Chad with slicked-back hair, steps up and rolls a strike.
“We need a strike and at least eight pins to win,” Jess calculates, biting her lip.
“Betsy’s got this,” Conor says with such certainty that I almost believe him.
I pick up my ball, feeling its weight, the smooth coolness against my palms. The lanes stretch before me, the pins gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I take a deep breath, focusing on the arrows, visualizing the path. Three steps, swing, release—the ball curves perfectly into the pocket. The crash of all ten pins falling sends the Piranhas into a frenzy.
“One more strike!” Raj yells, bouncing on his toes.
The pressure should be crushing, but somehow it isn’t. I feel calm, centered, and aware of Conor’s unwavering belief radiating from where he stands. The second roll is as perfect as the first—another strike that seals our victory.
The team erupts in cheers as the electronic scoreboard flashes “WINNER” over our lane. Jess tackles me in a hug, and Raj is doing some kind of victory dance that involves a lot of flailing arms. But it’s Conor I’m watching as he strides toward me, face split in a grin so wide it must hurt.
He wraps me in a bear hug that lifts me off my feet, spinning me once before setting me down. His hands frame my face for a moment, eyes locked on mine, before he presses his lips to my forehead in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce.
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against my skin, then freezes, pulling back abruptly. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—that was inappropriate?—”
I laugh, breathless from the contact, the victory, and thesheer joy of the moment. “No worries, Campbell. I’d say I earned that.”
His relief is palpable, and his shoulders relax as he chuckles. “That and more. You just saved the company’s honor.”
A league official approaches with a tacky plastic trophy shaped like a bowling pin, presenting it to our team with mock solemnity. Conor insists I hold it for the team photo, his arm wrapped around my waist as Jess snaps a picture with her phone.
“Pizza and beer at Slice Heaven?” Raj suggests, already packing up his custom bowling ball.
