I watch with bated breath as the bowling ball soars toward the pins and hits the target with annoying accuracy.

The boy in a perfectly pressed blue button-up shirt spins on his heel and grins at me, his face illuminated by the reflection of the giant disco ball hanging above the lanes.

"How are you so good at this?" I'm practically pouting as I pass by him to grab my neon pink ball. I've barely knocked down any pins, and my past three attempts were all gutter balls. I'm pretty sure he could miss every pin for the rest of the game, and I still wouldn't have a chance of winning.

"You can still put on the bumpers. I won't judge," Dean says.

I don't have to turn around to know he's smiling.

Taking a deep breath, I release it slowly, trying to center myself as I stare down the pins. At this point, I just want to knock one down.

"Do you want some pointers?"

I jump a little at his voice and look over my shoulder to see him walking toward me. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and when I nod, he stops right next to me, hesitating for a moment before guiding my bowling ball up, so it's aligned with the center of my chest.

"Make sure to keep your thumb in line with the pins," he says as his hands adjust the ball slightly, so my wrist is angled up, and my thumb is in line with my target. "And try to keep it as smooth as you can. You kind of fidget before you release, and it knocks off the trajectory of the ball."

He demonstrates the correct motion for releasing the ball, and I nod along, attempting to look like I'm paying attention to his step-by-step tutorial instead of checking him out.

His blond hair is styled to look effortlessly touseled, and his high cheekbones, boyish smile, and ocean blue eyes are more charming than I remember from our diner encounter. He steps back and motions for me to go ahead, and his encouraging smile turns into something decidedly more amused as I give him a thumbs up with the hand not holding the ridiculously heavy ball.

"Here goes nothing." I sigh, bringing the ball up to my chest the way he instructed. With one swift movement, I bring my hand back and then propel it forward, keeping my thumb directed toward the pins. The ball hits the lane with a thud, and it veers off toward the right and clips the pins at the edge of the formation, knocking down four.

The crash of the ball blends in with the rest of the games in the bowling alley, but I revel in it all the same. It may only be four pins, but it's more than I've managed to get all night, and I'm not about to downplay that victory.

Turning on my heel, I want to launch into the air in a celebratory dance. If I could do that heel-clicking thing without breaking my ankles, I would, but for my own safety, I settle for finger guns pointed at the ceiling as I wiggle my hips.

"That deserves a beer." Dean laughs. "Both the pins and the dance." I grin at him and blow on my finger guns before holstering them at my sides. "Any preferences?"

"Whatever they have on tap is fine." I grin, dropping down into the cold plastic seat at the table designated for our lane. He nods before turning and walking toward the concession counter.

The bowling alley is a lot busier than I would have imagined for a Tuesday. Nearly all the lanes are occupied, and the line for beer and food, which Dean is now at the tail end of, is at least ten people deep.

When I woke up this morning, I definitely wouldn't have guessed that I'd be on a date with Dean Ambrose tonight, but now that I'm here, I'm glad I texted him, even if it was just to keep myself from texting Tristan to ask him why he wasn't in chemistry.

I was more than a little shocked when he'd asked me out by lunch, but Nia's comment kept playing in my head every time I tried to type out an excuse to get out of the date.

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.

I'm not planning on getting under Dean but spending my night at the bowling alley is already an improvement from last night. I laid in bed and ate an entire sleeve of Oreos while stalking Tristan's Instagram after I got home from the impromptu paintball game with his teammates.

So it's progress.

Plus, as Nia pointed out when I texted her about the date proposal, I could use a little confidence boost after being friend-zoned. Hookup-zoned? One-time hookup-zoned?

I don't know, but whatever it was, it sucked.

I deserve someone who won't write me off as nothing more than a drunken hookup.

Someone who wants to take me out on a proper date.

Even if it is bowling.

"Hurry, half times almost over."

Three guys in USW Warrior hoodies and baseball caps claim the lane beside ours, directly in my line of sight from the position of my seat. I pull my phone from my pocket, so I'm not staring at the group, but the commotion in their lane is a lot more interesting than the Instagram feed I've already looked at a million times today.

The tallest of the three is flicking through the channels on the TV above their lane until a shot of three reporters appears on the screen. He sets the volume high enough to hear it easily from my seat before he drops down at the table with his friends.

"—But in this game so far, Tristan Beck has single-handedly carried his team." My head snaps toward the TV fast enough to warrant whiplash.

Even when I'm on a date, I can't escape him.

"He's made twelve three-pointers, has forty-eight points, all while the rest of his team put together has only made thirty-three points. He's kept his team in the ballgame with a level of athleticism I don't think we've seen so far this season."

A slow-motion replay of Tristan juking out his defender before stepping behind the three-point line and releasing the ball plays on the TV. He turns while the ball is still mid-air and starts to run back to get ready to defend the next play.

"He's got the athletics." The other reporter nods, clicking the remote in his hand to rewind the clip. He presses play just before he releases the ball. "And a hell of a lot of style. Look at that release, that form, and the swagger on that boy. He doesn't even stop to watch that three go in."

"That's a number one pick if I've ever seen one." The other reporter nods. "And I'm no betting man, but if I were, I'd be putting all my money on seeing Tristan Beck's name announced first in the draft this year."

"He's certainly one to keep our eye on. The second half of the USW, UCLA game is starting now. From the newsroom at USA Sports Network, this is Greg Bradshaw signing out."

The station logo flashes on the screen before cutting to the tip-off of the second half. Even on the small screen, I recognize Tristan instantly. His crimson and white uniform makes him look even tanner than I remember from last night, and his tattooed arm is in a black compression sleeve that spans from his wrist to the middle of his bicep, revealing only part of the ink that trails up and over his shoulder.

The players find their places around the circle as the referee prepares to toss the ball into the air. I recognize Emery as he shakes out his arms, preparing to go against the other team's center in the tip-off. I spot James, Micah, and Luke on the court, too.

"Here you go, sorry that took so long. That line was so slow." Dean drops down into the seat across from me, and my mouth instantly waters as I eye the mass of cheese fries he sets down between us. "Bon appetit." He grins.

"This is amazing," I say, nearly burning my tongue as I swallow the gooey, cheesy goodness. I ignore the tinge on my tongue as I reach for more.

"Everyone always underestimates this place, but it's got the best deal on beer and the most amazing cheese fries in town," he says, scooping up a handful for himself.

"I drive past here all the time on my way to work, but I've never actually been inside," I muse, glancing around the bowling alley.

It has an arcade attached at the far end, which seems to be even more popular than the actual bowling lanes. In addition to the giant disco ball slowly rotating on the ceiling, there has to be a million twinkling lights in all different colors surrounding it, giving off a twinkling sky impression, just with a rainbow color effect.

"How long have you worked at the diner?" Dean asks, wiping his hands with a napkin.

"Since freshman year. They've been great about my schedule for classes and keeping me on even though I go home to Florida every summer, spring, and winter break." I pick through the remaining fries, trying to find one with some cheese.

"Florida, huh?" He grins. "I think that makes us rivals."

I raise a brow as I bite into the fry.

"I'm from Georgia. Go Dawgs."

That explains the slight twang to some of his words.

"And to think, this was going so well." I bite down on my lip to keep from smiling as he tilts his head back and laughs.

"Hey, I chose to come to USW, so that has to earn me back some brownie points, right?"

I shrug, narrowing my eyes as if I'm really contemplating. "Plus, I taught you that awesome bowling trick. That has to count for something, too."\

"That's true." I nod. "I guess I can forgive your terrible taste in football teams."

He holds up his beer at that before taking a sip.

"So, what made you come to USW?" he asks, sitting back in his seat."

Well, Washington is the farthest state from Florida, so that was really the top-selling point." I laugh.

"Running away from an ex-boyfriend?" he asks with a teasing smile, digging back into the fries.

"More like an overbearing mother." I take a sip from my beer.

"Ah." He sucks in a breath through his teeth. "I feel that. I came here to get away from my dad. Somehow, I didn't think about the fact that even with an entire country separating us, he could still call me."

"Exactly." I laugh, sitting up in my chair. "I could be in Antarctica, and my mother would somehow find a way to contact me."

"If it were a normal hey, how ya doing, son conversation, I wouldn't mind, but I can only sit through so many lectures about me carrying on his legacy as a partner in his firm so many times before I go crazy." He shakes his head, and my mouth drops open.

"Your dad's a lawyer?" I ask a little too loudly. His brows raise slightly at my outburst, and he nods. "My mom's a lawyer; she has her own firm."

"So you feel my pain then." He laughs, leaning his forearms onto the table.

"Well, kind of, but not really," I admit, taking another sip of my beer. "I have two older brothers who were given the guilt trip about joining the field and continuing her firm. By the time I was old enough to think about college, she had already given up on me since I was so vocal about not wanting to follow that path. And it also helped that my brother, Jeff, decided to go to law school, so she'd already found her replacement."

"You're lucky." He laughs. "My older sister went to cosmetology school, which I think is awesome, but in my father's eyes, it's the equivalent of going to clown college. I was his only hope at that point."

I imagine my mother would have a similar reaction, which is ironic because, for someone who looks down on cosmetology as a career choice, she'd probably have an actual heart attack if she missed her hair appointment every four weeks at her salon.

"So, are you?" I ask. "Studying to be a lawyer?"

He looks like it physically pains him, but he nods. "I didn't want to at first, simply because everyone expected me to. I even told my dad I was majoring in philosophy my freshman year just to tick him off, but when I took Introduction to Law, everything kind of just clicked, you know? I'm good at it, and I'm interested in learning it, which I guess is a pretty good sign that I should pursue it, even if it means having to go to law school after this."

"I'd say so." I smile, drinking the last sip of my beer.

"What about you?"

"Journalism," I say. "I'm applying to grad schools now."

"Any top contenders?"

"NYU is kind of my dream school, but I'm still waiting to hear back."

"Another great location." He smirks.

"Far enough away that she can't stop by." I laugh.

The guys at the table next to us explode onto their feet, and I search the TV above them to watch the camera zoom in on Tristan. He's smiling, a full teeth-baring, dimple indenting, breath-catching smile.

"USW takes the game with that impressive final shot by Tristan Beck," the reporter says as the instant replay starts.

Luke is dribbling down the court as the rest of the players set up on the arch around the hoop. James and Micah both cut through the center, but Luke keeps the ball as the UCLA defense denies a clean pass for both players.

Tristan runs through the arch, his defender hot on his heels, before juking and running back to his original position. Luke throws him the ball, and he pivots, sets his feet narrowly outside of the three-point line, and releases the ball just as the light on the timer ignites.

The ball sails through the air and finds the net perfectly.

Dean lets out a low whistle. "Damn, that guy's good."

I cough to cover my laugh as the irony hits me. I doubt Dean would be praising Tristan if he knew what he did with his date a few weeks ago.

"Let's go find an after-party," one of the guys says as he turns his hat around on his head. "Have to celebrate that win with or without them."

"Oh, they'll be celebrating," the tallest one says as he pushes back his chair to stand up. "I'd bet my left nut Beck's going to get some good UCLA pussy tonight."

I freeze as the words hit me, and when I look up, the group is already out of earshot as they walk toward the exit.

"Well, I should probably get you back since you have class in the morning," Dean says, glancing at his watch. "It's almost ten."

Standing up from my seat, I nod as I pull my coat on and readjust my purse, trying to stop the comment from playing on repeat in my head.

Beck's going to get some good UCLA pussy tonight.

It doesn't matter what he does tonight, I remind myself. He can do whatever he wants. We're not together.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek as I follow Dean out of the bowling alley toward his shiny, red Jaguar parked near the front. I pull my coat tighter around myself and try not to imagine all the UCLA girls waiting outside the locker room right now.

Dean cranks the heating, and I immediately feel the warmth surround me as the air circulates his car, but glancing at my shaking hands in my lap, I know it has nothing to do with the icy wind we just walked through.