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)
My kid is also strong, athletic and coordinated. We bowled a lot this summer and she got pretty good. I settle back in my chair, prop a foot clad in a horrific-looking bowling shoe on my knee, and watch as she stares intently over the top of the ball and right down the lane to where the pins are lined up. She takes a breath, lets it out slowly and starts forward.
One step, two steps, her arm drops down and swings back. On the third step, she brings it forward, releasing the heavy sphere a little too early so it cracks against the wood flooring, but she has enough momentum it sails fluidly, perfectly centered in the lane. The ball rolls straight for the middle pin and when it hits, she ends up knocking down all of them but one.
“Great job,” I call out to her.
Bowie Jane smiles at me as she moves to the return and when her pink ball pops out, she takes it in hand again. I glance over at Mazzy, sitting on the edge of her chair, elbows on her knees and watching Bowie Jane like a hawk.
Studying her opponent, one might say, and I have to bite back a laugh. To say that Mazzy is not a good bowler would be an understatement. She says she’s played a few times in her life, but I’m thinking it’s just not her natural gift the way the guitar is.
Bowie Jane executes a beautiful release on her ball and just narrowly misses the last pin left standing to pick up the spare. Still, it’s a good score for this frame and puts her several points ahead of Mazzy.
“I don’t get it,” Mazzy says as she shakes her head. She rises from her seat and looks to me in frustration. “How is this little niblet so good at this and I’m so bad? I’m an adult. Logically, I should have better strength, confidence and coordination.”
I drape my arm over the back of the empty seat next to me and smirk at her. “My kid has natural talent. You clearly do not.”
“That’s just rude.” Mazzy sniffs and moves to grab her bowling ball. I bite back another laugh.
Bowie Jane walks over to me and we fist bump. “Great job, kiddo.”
She takes the seat to my left and leans into me, whispering, “I feel bad that Mazzy isn’t any good at this. Maybe I should miss some more.”
My eyes slide over to Mazzy who is fitting her fingers in the ball, moving into position. She’s got on a pair of faded, loose jeans and had been wearing worn-looking combat-type boots before changing into bowling shoes. Her gauzy blouse has billowy sleeves, and she’s put her hair in a long braid that hangs over one shoulder with shorter pieces falling out and framing her face.
I’m usually a gentleman but not today. My eyes drop to her ass briefly when she bends forward a bit and just… Christ, I’ve totally got the hots for the nanny.
Rather than chastise myself or force my thoughts in a different direction, I ruffle Bowie Jane’s hair. Looking down at my daughter, I say, “Rather than you missing more, maybe I should teach her what to do.”
She nods solemnly. “That would be a good idea.”
I push up off the seat just as Mazzy is getting ready to take her awkward steps forward. She holds the ball too low and her backswing flares far too wide, which is why she ends up in the gutter most of the time. All of this is compounded by the fact she’s just not coordinated enough to take walking steps up to the line while at the same time swinging her arm.
“Hold up,” I call out, and she looks over her shoulder at me expectantly.
I trot onto the lane, glancing back at Bowie Jane who gives me a thumbs-up. When I reach Mazzy, I say, “Want a few pointers?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re just now figuring out I don’t know what I’m doing?”
I grin at her, resisting the urge to tweak her on the nose. That beautiful, freckled nose. “Oh no. I figured it out the first time I saw you take the ball in hand. But it was fun watching that weird little waddle you do.”
Her eyes flare wide, her mouth forming an O. “I most certainly don’t waddle.”
I hold up my hand, a small space between my index finger and thumb. “Just a little.”
“Okay, fine, Mr. Know It All,” she huffs out. I hear Bowie Jane giggle from behind us. “Teach me what to do.”
“With pleasure,” I reply. Was my voice a little too deep and husky? She doesn’t seem to react, so I put my hands on her shoulders. “First, you’ve got to loosen up. You’re as stiff as a board.”