She watched, not turning around until the arm of the machine lowered to remove the downed pins. “That’s all. Pretty simple.”

He glared. “If you do this all the time, how come you only knocked down nine?”

He worried she might be offended by the question, but laughed instead. “I’m not great. Better than your average ‘show up once in a blue moon’ bowler, but I’m not great. Sadly, this is my best sport. You’ve seen how pathetic I am at cardiovascular feats. I’m more of a spectator and reporter rather than a doer.”

He couldn’t tell if she was being honest, or self-deprecating. Either way, he could tell she wasn’t as fancy as some of the other bowlers he’d watched during league play. They had crazy windups, wicked spins, and some had almost comical footwork. Hers was a straightforward approach. Nothing fancy, just getting the ball down the lane time after time.

“Okay then.” He waited for her to bowl her second time, counting the steps and watching when she released the ball. The timing of the release seemed to be the key. The final pin didn’t stand a chance as the ball hit it head-on. After she was finished, he stood and grabbed his ball.

Aileen took a few steps to the side and back, so she was out of his line of vision. “Okay, off you go.”

He took one step, then froze and turned to look at him. “What, no coaching? No tips or last-minute tricks?”

She scoffed. “It’s bowling, not land mine jumping. Just throw the ball and see if it works.”

“You know, for a semi-professional—”

She snorted.

“—you’re not very exact.” He tried to emulate her simple approach and windup, then ended up throwing the ball straight into the gutter two feet down the lane. “Well, damn.”

“You twisted your wrist at the last second.” She held an imaginary ball in front of her, fingers extended as if they were in the correct positions. “At the last second, you did this when you released.” She demonstrated with a flair, some weird wrist-flip thing.

“I did not.”

She raised a brow. “You’re right. Us semi-pro folk know nothing.”

He was the one who snorted this time. “Fine. I have another shot, right?”

“You do.”

He was determined this time to get it right. Or at least, as right as he could with zero practice. He waited for his ball to pop out of the chute-thingie and gripped it like she’d shown him.

He lined up, positioned his feet, took three steps, then froze again.

“You’re thinking too much.” Aileen walked up behind him and gripped his arms, pulling him back to the starting position. “That little hitch that made you stop was you thinking too hard. It’s just a ball, and you’re just telling it where to go.”

This was ridiculous. He forced himself to take a quick approach and flung the ball as hard as he could. It bounced with a nasty thud, then skittered straight into the gutter. There was no way to mask the groan he let out at seeing a second ball fail so spectacularly.

“Yeah. Just toss it like a Neanderthal. Brilliant.” With a tone so dry it might have been burnt toast, she gave him a few claps. “If you don’t want to do this—”

“I do,” he snapped, waiting for the ball to return and then grabbing it.

“Uh, it’s actually my turn,” she said.

“Do you need the practice?” When she kept her lips pursed together, he nodded. “So I’m just gonna go.”

Hustling to the starting point, he got ready, then jolted when he felt her small hand between his shoulder blades. She rubbed a few times, like she might have been soothing a child.

“Let me help.”

The words were full of more than bowling advice. He ignored the heaviness of their implication. “Fine. Show me again.”

“Together,” she countered. Stepping up behind him, she flattened her front to his back. The pose was ridiculous, with her face pressed to his back and her hips cradling his ass. But he couldn’t make his cock find the hilarity of it. No, his cock found the entire thing far more sexy than it had any right to. Despite the ugly shoes and the stupid shirts, despite knowing there was no way a relationship between them would work, his groin couldn’t be persuaded to find her unattractive.

Seeming to understand the position did nothing helpful, she laughed. “Okay, if you weren’t so darn tall, this would work.”

“I’m not tall,” he insisted, but she ignored that and scooted around in front of him. Nestling her back against his front, she took the ball from him and slid her fingers in. With a little wiggle, her ass rested against his thighs, and his erection pressed into the small of her back.

She slid a saucy smile over her shoulder. “Is that a bowling pin in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?”

He laughed. “Cheesy.”

“But effective. Now shadow me. Follow my steps and my arm swing. Ready?” She started to move and he awkwardly followed. It was difficult, as her steps were so much shorter than his own, but he tried to keep up with her without stepping on her heels. She didn’t release the ball at the end, just froze in her final position. “Feel that? This is what your arm and wrist should look like after you let the ball go. You have to tell it where to go.”

He stepped back, fighting the urge to toss the ball aside and go a few rounds with her on the lanes themselves. “Just tell the ball where to go.”

She seemed to think for a moment, cradling the ball by her breasts with both hands. “You’re the kicker. Do you just walk onto the field, take a few steps back, let your leg swing around wildly, and pray you connect with the ball and it goes in the general direction you want it to?” She barely paused for a breath, and certainly not long enough for him to answer. “Of course not. You have a plan. Certain amount of steps, certain way you want your placeholder to position the ball, certain part of your foot you want to hit the specific spot on the football. That sort of thing. That’s you telling the ball where to go. Same thing. You’ve just gotta be the boss.”

She’d taken the time to analyze bowling into football terms he could understand. Without overthinking—that evil thing she’d told him not to do—he stepped up, took the ball from her, and gave her a smacking kiss. “I’ll do my best, coach.”

“I hope you don’t give your special teams coaches the same sort of treatment after practices,” she said in an amused voice.

“Only my favorite ones.”

“I’m reporting on the wrong story,” she murmured with a wicked gleam. She stepped to the side, a little behind his starting position, and waved a hand. “Give it a run. Do what you felt me doing, and don’t worry.”

Much as it pained him to admit, he wanted to get this right. He wanted to impress her. Be the guy who was good at everything, earn her respect and admiration, her worship, her . . .

Her.

Yeah, right. And bowling is the way to do that. Head out of your ass, ball down the lane, knock down pins.

Here went nothing.

* * *

An hour later, Aileen checked her watch. She hadn’t planned on staying so late when she’d started this silliness. A single game or two of bowling and laughing and . . . okay, some flirting and maybe stealing a kiss or dozen. But they were now on game four, and Killian was determined to keep going. And going, and going . . .

It wouldn’t have been so bad, except that he was so bad. For all the precise accuracy he showed on the football field, he was all thumbs with a bowling ball. Even an average Joe should have had more luck than what he’d had, just playing around with it and having fun. But Killian’s fun-blocking personality wasn’t letting it flow naturally, and he kept catching himself on the details instead of just letting loose.

She lounged on the row of hard plastic chairs, taking up three at once. Stifling a yawn, she called out, “You have to start a few inches to the left. You’re too far over.”

He scowled at her as he approached the ball chute. “When I started there the last time, the ball shot straight to the gutter.”