Page 16 of Fall is Brewing

I swallow hard, emotions pressing uncomfortably close to the surface.

He squeezes my hand once. “This is your season, Willa. I trust you. It doesn’t matter if you come in first place or fifteenth. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose the People’s Choice trophy.”

Except it does matter. It matters to the town… our orchard… and to me.

The lane buzzes again, Dad swearing as his ball hooks wrong, Patty laughing like it’s all part of the fun.

When it’s my turn to bowl, I step up to the line, ball heavy and familiar in my hands, and take a breath like maybe—just maybe—tonight will be the night I finally figure this out.

“Don’t overthink it,” Dad calls from behind me.

“That’s literally all I do,” I mutter. I line up my shot. Adjust my grip. Swing my arm back with what I hope looks like confidence and not impending humiliation.

The ball leaves my hand…

And immediately veers left.

Not a single pin goes down.

The gutter claims it without mercy.

There’s a beat of silence—then the lane beside us erupts in cheers for someone else’s strike, which feels personal.

I sigh, long and defeated, and turn back to my family. Grandpa offers a sympathetic nod. Patty pats my arm. Dad opens his mouth, then thinks better of it.

“That was… bold,” Patty says kindly.

“I’m getting drinks,” I announce. “Before the lane files a restraining order against me.”

No one argues as I make my escape toward the bar, sticky floors tugging at my shoes. The noise of the lanes fades into background comfort as I approach the counter—and then I notice the crowd.

Not a big one. Just enough people clustered around lane five to make me curious.

Someone whistles.

Pins explode in a clean, effortless strike.

Standing in the middle of the semi-circle crowd, Brooks Calder stands, posture relaxed, movements smooth and practiced like he’s done this a thousand times. He doesn’t celebrate—just steps back, rolling his shoulders as if a strike is expected, not impressive. “Now, if I get a strike this time, James, you need to carry our flagship cider here for at least a month. If it doesn’t sell well in that month, then you take it down… no hard feelings.”

James laughs and leans his elbows on the bar, watching eagerly as Brooks takes a breath, the ball up by his nose. Then he moves fluidly, taking fast, crisp steps to throw the ball again…

The scoreboard flashes.

STRIKE.

Of course he’s good at bowling.

Because apparently the universe has decided he should excel at everything important to me.

He turns toward the seating area, laughing at something a man beside him says—and that’s when he catches me watching.

His brow lifts slightly, amused. Then he gestures toward my lane, subtle but unmistakable. “You want a tip?”

I stiffen. “No.” The truly infuriating part? Somehow, impossibly—I kind of do.

He grins anyway. “Suit yourself.”

I turn away from lane five before I can do something reckless—like accept help from Brooks Calder—and head straight for the bar.