Bowling date

—1419 words—

Alex's phone buzzed on her bed just as she flopped down, exhausted but relieved after finishing her test. She didn't even need to check the name to know who it was.

Marco: ayy how'd the test go

She smirked, typing back.

Alex: Good.

Marco: obviously. bc i helped u ~relax~ 😏

Alex's face warmed instantly.

Alex: Shut up.

Marco: make me

She rolled her eyes but couldn't fight the smile tugging at her lips. Before she could reply, another text popped up.

Marco: anyway. since thanksgiving's comin up im gonna need to see u as much as possible before then

Alex blinked.

Alex: Marco. It's one day.

Marco: EXACTLY. a WHOLE DAY without u. tragic

Alex: 🙄

Marco: im at work rn but ill pick u up after. u down?

Alex hesitated—then typed before she could overthink it.

Alex: Sounds good.

On the other end of town, Marco froze mid-oil change, staring at his phone. No sarcasm? No excuses? Just… Sounds good?

A grin split his face.

Marco: damn. who r u and what've u done with the real alex

Alex: Don't push it.

Marco: 😘 see u soon mami

Alex tossed her phone aside, shaking her head—but her heart did a stupid little flip anyway.

———

Alex sat cross-legged on her bed, textbooks spread out in front of her. She had a few hours before Marco would be off work, and she figured she might as well get some studying done. She flipped open her chemistry notes, determined to make the most of the quiet time.

But her mind kept wandering—back to yesterday, to Marco's stupid grin, to the way he'd kissed her shoulder that morning like it was the most natural thing in the world. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus.

Focus, Dunphy. You have a life outside of him.

She highlighted a formula, scribbled a note in the margin, and tried to ignore the flutter in her chest every time she glanced at her phone.

Meanwhile, at the Auto Shop...

Marco wiped grease off his hands with a rag, glaring at the hunk of metal in front of him. The car—a beat-up '98 Chevy that had seen better days—was giving him hell.

"It's gotta be the fuel pump," Javier said, leaning against the hood.

"Nah, listen to that whine—that's the alternator," Malik countered, arms crossed.

"Could be the spark plugs," another mechanic chimed in.

Marco groaned, running a hand through his hair. "We checked the spark plugs. Twice."

The debate escalated, voices overlapping as theories flew.

"Maybe the ECU's fried—"

"Did you check the timing belt?"

"It's never the timing belt—"

The shop door swung open, and Boss Mendoza strode in, coffee in hand. He took one look at the crowd gathered around the car and sighed.

"Dios mío, how long's this been going on?"

"Two hours," Marco muttered.

Mendoza set his coffee down, popped the hood, and—without even rolling up his sleeves—leaned in. Thirty seconds later, he straightened.

"Vacuum leak. Hose is cracked near the intake."

Silence.

Marco blinked. "…Oh. Oh."

Mendoza took a sip of his coffee, completely unimpressed. "Fix it. And clean up."

And just like that, he walked away, leaving the mechanics staring after him in awe.

Marco shook his head, grinning. "Well. That was embarrassing."

Javier clapped him on the back. "At least you're not the one who said it was the alternator."

Malik flipped him off.

Marco laughed, grabbing his tools. He had a car to fix—and a certain genius to pick up.

———

Marco finished up at the shop an hour later, the troublesome Chevy finally purring like a kitten. He wiped his hands on a rag, clocked out, and made a beeline for the employee bathroom to scrub off the worst of the grease. A quick change into fresh jeans and a clean hoodie later, he was out the door, hopping into his car with a grin.

Time to pick up Alex.

Alex was just finishing up a problem set when the familiar sound of screeching tires and incessant honking echoed from outside. A second later, Marco's voice cut through the neighborhood like a foghorn:

"AYYY, MAMI! LET'S GOOO!"

She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at her lips. So much for subtlety. She snapped her textbook shut, shoved her feet into her sneakers, and bolted for the stairs—only to nearly collide with Claire in the hallway.

"Going somewhere?" Claire arched an eyebrow, arms crossed.

"Uh. Yeah. With Marco." Alex sidestepped, but Claire mirrored her movement, blocking the path.

"And where, exactly, are you two going?"

Outside, another round of honks. Honk. HONK. HONKHONKHONK.

Alex groaned. "Mom, please—"

"Is he always this… loud?" Claire winced as Marco's voice carried through the window again: "ALEX! I'M AGING OUT HERE!"

"Yes. Always." Alex tried to duck under Claire's arm, but her mom held firm.

"You know, your father and I would like to meet him properly at some point—"

HONK.

"—preferably when he's not disturbing the entire block—"

Alex finally squeezed past, backing toward the door. "Noted! Love you! Bye!"

She sprinted outside before Claire could protest further, the honking mercifully stopping as she yanked open Marco's passenger door.

"Took you long enough," Marco said, grinning as she collapsed into the seat.

"My mom was interrogating me," Alex huffed, buckling in.

"Aw, she worried I'm a bad influence?"

"You are a bad influence."

"Fair." He revved the engine. "Buckle up, princesa."

Twenty minutes later, Marco pulled into the parking lot of "Strike Zone Lanes", a neon-lit bowling alley that looked like it hadn't been updated since the '90s. Alex stared.

"…Bowling?"

"Yep." Marco killed the engine. "You said you've never been. Time to fix that."

"I also said I have no hand-eye coordination."

"Even better." He winked. "More fun for me."

Alex groaned but followed him inside, where the scent of greasy fries and synthetic shoe cleaner hit her like a wall. Marco marched up to the counter, slapping down cash for a lane before she could protest.

"Alright, mami," he said, handing her a pair of hideous rented shoes. "Prepare to get destroyed."

Alex eyed the shoes with disdain. "I'd rather wear your old sneakers again."

"Too late." He tossed them at her. "Suffer."

As they laced up, Alex couldn't help but glance at Marco—his stupid grin, the way his eyes lit up like a kid's at the thought of beating her. And despite herself, she felt that familiar, annoying warmth in her chest.

God help me.

———

The neon lights of the bowling alley buzzed overhead as Alex scowled at the scoreboard. Marco was annihilating her.

"This is rigged," she muttered, grabbing her ball.

Marco leaned back in his chair, smug. "Nah, mami, you're just bad."

"You're too good. Do you practice this? Is this your secret hobby?"

"Nope. I just touch grass. You should try it."

Alex flipped him off before lining up her shot. She took a deep breath, swung—

Clunk.

The ball veered hard left and dropped into the gutter with a pathetic thud.

"Wow," Marco said, hand over his heart. "That was… tragic."

Alex groaned. "I hate this."

"Aw, c'mon." Marco stood, stretching. "You just need a teacher."

Before she could protest, he was behind her, his chest pressing against her back as he guided her arms into position. His hands settled over hers on the ball, his breath warm against her ear.

"Okay, first—stop death-gripping it like it owes you money," he murmured.

Alex stiffened. "I'm not—"

"You are." His fingers loosened hers gently. "Hold it like you're cradling a baby bird. Or, y'know, me that night."

Alex elbowed him. "Focus."

Marco chuckled but adjusted her stance, nudging her hips forward with his own. "Now, eyes on the pins. Not the gutter. Pins."

Alex swallowed, hyper-aware of every point of contact between them.

"Now, swing back—slow—and let it roll off your fingers like you're ditching a bad text."

She followed his lead, releasing the ball—

It rolled straight down the lane, wobbled dangerously close to the gutter… then hooked at the last second, knocking down seven pins.

Alex gasped. "I DID IT."

Marco grinned, squeezing her shoulders. "See? Grass. Works wonders."

Alex turned to glare at him—but he was right there, his face inches from hers, that stupid smirk tugging at his lips.

A beat.

Then Marco kissed her, quick and grinning, before pulling away. "Next lesson: how to celebrate a win."

Alex rolled her eyes—but she was smiling. "Just bowl, Rivera."

(Final score: Marco 120, Alex 98. But she'll never admit he helped.)