Page 68 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas

Hollis:Same. Though I reserve the right to complain about it.

Noted. 7 PM. Don’t be late.

I grinned at my phone, already looking forward to it. The coffee shop meeting had gone well, and we’d all been individually dating Talia without drama. But we needed time together without her there, building relationships that weren’t just about coordinating schedules.

Plus, I really wanted to see Cassian Black try to bowl. Something about his buttoned-up precision suggested he’d either be unexpectedly excellent or hilariously terrible, and either outcome would be entertaining.

Friday evening, I arrived at Hollow Creek Bowling at six forty-five to secure a lane and rental shoes. The place was exactly as I remembered from high school. Slightly run-down, smelling like floor wax and french fries, with cosmic bowling lights that would kick on after eight PM. Perfect low-stakes environment.

Hollis showed up at six fifty-five, looking bemused in jeans and a soft green sweater. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“You volunteered. That’s different than being talked into it.”

“I volunteered under duress. Your text had very demanding energy.”

“That’s fair.” I handed him rental shoes. “Size eleven?”

“How did you know my shoe size?”

“I pay attention. Also, you mentioned it once when we were talking about hiking boots.”

Cassian arrived exactly at seven, because of course he did. He surveyed the bowling alley with the kind of analytical assessment usually reserved for property evaluations.

“This place is a fire hazard,” he said by way of greeting.

“This place is a Hollow Haven institution,” I corrected. “Show some respect.”

“I can respect it and acknowledge the fire code violations simultaneously.”

“Size twelve?” I held up rental shoes.

“Thirteen, actually.” He took them with obvious reluctance. “These are incredibly unsanitary.”

“That’s part of the charm. Builds character.” I led them to lane seven, which I’d specifically chosen for being away from the handful of other Friday night bowlers. “Okay, house rules. We’re doing individual scores, winner takes all. Most points after ten frames wins.”

“What are we playing for?” Hollis asked.

“Loser buys drinks at The Tap after.”

“Lowest score or highest?” Cassian was already analyzing the lane angles.

“Lowest score buys. So aim high, gentlemen.”

“Do we have to play for something?” Cassian was studying the ball return like it might contain important secrets.

“All competition requires stakes. That’s how you ensure commitment to excellence.”

“Fine.” Hollis settled into the plastic chair. “Loser buys drinks at The Tap after.”

“Deal. Cassian, you agree to these terms?”

“I agree to nothing until I understand the rules fully.” He’d found a fourteen-pound ball and was testing its weight. “How does scoring work?”

“You knock down pins, you get points. Knock down all the pins in two tries, that’s a spare. Knock them all down on the first try, that’s a strike.” I demonstrated the basic approach. “Like this.”

My ball curved slightly left and took out seven pins. Respectable but not impressive.

“See? Easy.” I retrieved my ball for the spare attempt and knocked down the remaining three pins. “Your turn, Hollis.”