Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“It’s stressful getting your ass kicked by a ten-year-old,” she mutters, but then rolls her shoulders under my touch. She even throws her head side to side, as if cracking the bones in her neck. “Okay… I’m loose.”
She’s not, but I move on. “Next, you need to hold the ball a bit higher.” I move behind her, using my hands at her elbows to raise everything. “Right here at chest level.”
I try very hard not to think of her chest in any way.
“Now, move forward. We’re going to leave the waddling issue alone for now and just have you release from the line. You won’t have as much momentum, but we’ll straighten out your delivery.”
“I have no clue what you just said,” Mazzy mumbles but lets me walk her up to the line with my hands still supporting her elbows. I’m not touching her in any other way but our bodies are close, and I am hyperaware of how good she smells and how lovely that red braid looks disappearing over her shoulder.
“I’m going to guide your arm,” I advise as I wrap a hand around her wrist. “Just hold the ball and stay loose. Lean forward a tiny bit.”
With my other hand still at her opposite elbow, I guide her arm backward in a much straighter line than what she had been previously doing. “Feel the difference?”
Mazzy nods.
“Now look back and see where the ball is in relation to your body.”
She does as requested.
I release her and step back. “Okay… just practice that move a few times. Bring your ball up before your chest, then lean forward and swing your arm back keeping it close to your body.”
Mazzy takes instruction well and after a few practice attempts, I tell her, “Okay… let’s just do the release. Focus your attention on where you want the ball to go… right down at the pins.”
“Oh,” she says in that snarky voice of hers that I’ve come to enjoy. “I thought I was supposed to be looking at the gutter since that’s where all my balls were going.”
“Well,” I drawl with a playful grin, “Bowie Jane and I were wondering. Okay, go ahead… do the swing just like I taught you, focus on the end goal of hitting those pins and let the ball go.”
I step to the side to watch, utterly charmed by the fierce look on her face, wrinkled in concentration. She pulls the ball up, leans forward and brings her arm back perfectly. When she swings it forward, she doesn’t release the ball soon enough and it arcs upward briefly before coming down with a loud thud. The ball rolls a few inches and stops.
Laughing, I run to retrieve it. “You released too late, but the good news is it went straight and not to the gutter.” Mazzy rolls her eyes. “Next attempt, I’ll tell you when to release.”
For the next hour, I coach Mazzy as she and Bowie Jane finish up their game. She improves incrementally before finally declaring, “I suck at this game. I’m done.”
Bowie Jane and I give her a good deal of ribbing but we start a new game with just the two of us, and Mazzy turns into my kid’s cheerleader. She encourages and praises Bowie Jane and taunts me, especially as I’m getting ready to deliver my ball down the lane. There is nothing about what she’s doing that is distracting to me. Side benefit of my job—I know how to focus intensely on the task at hand.
But I ham it up just a bit, pretending to stumble or swing wildly. Bowie Jane howls with laughter each time and joins in on the trash talk. In the end, I barely beat Bowie Jane but the win or loss doesn’t matter.
What matters is we spent an hour laughing and talking and having fun. It was a bonus that Mazzy joined us.
“Let’s get some pizza,” I say.
We remove our ugly shoes and check out before heading over to the restaurant side of the bowling alley. It’s not the best food but Bowie Jane loves their little pepperoni pizza, so I promised her we’d eat here.
An empty booth calls out to us and Bowie Jane slides in next to Mazzy. It’s still early, so we’ve beat the dinner rush. A waitress comes over, leaves us with sticky menus and promises to return with waters.
“I want the pepperoni pizza,” Bowie Jane proclaims.
“Not surprised,” I mutter. She eats it every time we come here but the choices aren’t that grand. When the waitress returns, I settle on a burger and Mazzy orders a salad with grilled chicken on top.
It doesn’t take long for our food to arrive and there is no shortage of things to talk about but we’re interrupted when my phone rings. I tense slightly as I recognize Sandra’s ringtone. I fish my phone out of my pocket and I see she’s called on FaceTime which means she’s calling for Bowie Jane.