He grabs the same ball as Ollie and lines up. Step. Step. Step. Release. His leg swooshes back in perfect form and…

Strike!

I jump up, cheering, and give him a kiss as soon as he turns around, throwing my arms around his neck. Okay, maybe a slight overreaction, but every nerve in my body snaps all at once, and there's nothing else I can think to do to release all of this pent up energy. And besides, he just looks so adorably kissable when he turns around with a look of complete triumph.

But as soon as we break away, I can't help it. A blush creeps all the way up my cheeks and embarrassment warms my skin. My eyes slip to the side, running into Ollie's furious glare. A thrill shoots up my spine, bringing a grin to my lips. But I break contact, tearing my gaze away and turn around.

Whoa—what the heck did that mean?

Did I make him jealous? Was I trying to make him jealous? Or was that just overprotective Ollie once more—older brother Ollie?

I sit back down, folding my hands in my lap, biting my lip as I stare at the floor. Patrick follows, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and easing back as Aubrey takes the floor.

She bowls a spare. I wince. Does the girl need to be stunning and talented and a good bowler? Aren’t the first two enough?

"You're up, Skye," Ollie prods, teasing. His turquoise eyes dance in the dark, fiery with anticipation.

Patrick gives my shoulder a squeeze, whispering, "You got this."

I walk up, every step a resounding thump in my chest as the rest of the room goes so silent that I can hear myself breathe.

Seven-pound ball? No. Hot pink and way too girly.

Eight-pounder…okay, never mind. Whose fingers are that small?

I grab the nine-pound ball, not really at all sure what I'm doing as I slip my thumb and two other fingers into the slots.

Be the ball.

Breathe.

Be the ball.

Okay, let's get back to what I said earlier. I have no idea how to bowl. I mean, sure I've gone before—with Ollie I might add, hence the smirk burning my back right now—but the whole one-handed throw thing has alluded me for my entire life. I'm more of the squat and use two hands sort of bowler, but the cast wrapping around my left hand has kind of made that option obsolete.

How hard can this be, really?

Just breathe.

I line up, copying everyone else's movements and hold the ball up at my chest. Okay, step. Step. Step. Swing. I throw my arm back.

Whoa!

That ball is way heavier than I anticipated and I stumble, squeezing my fingers for dear life, just barely able to keep the bowling ball from flying backward out of my palm.

Someone snickers.

I don't need to turn around to see who.

A moment later, after a few shaky steps, I try again, a little more prepared. Step. Step. Step. Swing. Release!

And I do it, the ball actually leaves my hand and lands in the center of the lane with a resounding thud. And it rolls. And it rolls.

Oh no.

It's sliding. It's slipping. It's—

Gutter.

I deflate.

"You can do this," Patrick says from behind. I close my eyes, grabbing a different ball, and wait for the light to go back on at the end of the lane. I line up again, throw…

Gutter.

This is going to be a long night.

"Good try," Patrick says, smiling as I take my seat.

"When did you start bowling one handed?" Ollie asks.

I turn to him, glaring under hooded brows. "You missed a lot while you were living in California."

"Maybe." He shrugs, easing up from his seat. "But some things never change, Skye." And then he turns his back on me, stepping onto the lane to bowl.

Strike.

Why am I not surprised?

"So, we're supposed to be getting to know each other, right?" Ollie says as he sits back down, a little smug with his scorecard. "Well here's a juicy tidbit. I was Skylar's first kiss."

I immediately jolt out of my seat. "You were not!" Is he seriously bringing this up right now? Here? "Charlie Saunders was my first kiss. Ninth grade, truth or dare, and it was horrible."

I sit back down, breathing heavily, and realize a thick silence has settled in the wake of my outburst. I glance at Ollie and his eyes are wide, shocked, a little troubled. I flick my gaze to Patrick whose eyes have narrowed to pin pricks. Aubrey is chewing her lower lip, eying me like new competition. And then I understand. Idiot!

Denial.

Denial was the correct approach. Because now, hanging unsaid in the air between us, is the question of what number Ollie was. I never said that it didn’t happen. I just said that it didn’t happen first. And that's a huge difference.

Crap.

"I mean, what are you even talking about?" I continue, mumbling, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as my fingers. "We've never kissed ever." The words sound lame even to me.

But Ollie takes it in stride, leaning back with a wide smile. "Of course we have, I'm heartbroken you don't remember. Fifth grade, Valentine's Day…"

I release the tension in my body, breathing normally again—of course he's talking about that and not the other thing. Of course. Ollie likes to tease, but he's not mean spirited about it. I smile as the memory trickles to the forefront of my thoughts. "I was in second grade and you were in fifth grade, and in the middle of recess, Bridge and I snuck onto the big kid playground to give you our valentines."

"And," he says, taking over the story, "Bridge gave me a big kiss on the cheek when she gave me her valentine, so when you gave me yours you leaned in for the same, copying her, but you missed and hit my lips instead."

"I think you're forgetting the ending to that story…" I trail off, waiting.

But Ollie looks at me with a blank expression. He doesn’t remember! I bite down my grin at having one over on him. "And as soon as I leaned back, giggling, you shoved me and yelled, 'Ew! Girls have cooties!' And then ran away."

"I did not," he says, sitting up.

"You did too," I challenge, "and I fell on the pavement and scraped my knee and had to go to the nurse's office for a Band-Aid."

His jaw drops. "I don't remember that at all."

Aubrey chimes in, "You know, they say when little boys do that it's because they secretly have a crush on a girl."

Seeing Ollie's mounting embarrassment, Patrick leans in. "Speaking as someone who may have pushed a few girls and called them mean names when I was a kid, that saying is completely accurate."

And I can't help it. Witnessing his desperation is like a drug—I'm always on the receiving end of this. And for once, it's fun to give him a taste of his own medicine. I ask, in a jokingly sing-song voice, "Are you guys saying Ollie loved me?"

"Okay." He falls back, exasperated. "Now you guys are just being ridiculous. Have you ever seen Skye as a little girl? She was a freckle-faced pipsqueak!"

"Hey!" I lean forward, pointing at him. "You're one to talk, four-eyes."

"You wear glasses?" Aubrey asks, turning with surprise.

"I used to," he grumbles. By my side, Patrick is grinning wider than I can ever recall seeing.

"Oh, now he hides behind contacts. But for all of elementary school and all of middle school, Ollie didn't just wear glasses. He wore black, wide-rimmed glasses that were larger than his face. And they always started slipping, so he had to push them up his nose all the time."

Ollie crosses his arms, glaring at me. I raise my eyebrows as if to say, what? I mean, hey, I tried to take embarrassing stories off the table. He's the one who wanted to use them against me. Well, not this time buddy. Not this time.