Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(25)

Finally, I manage to wrestle my mouth into submission. I stare at my hands and wish I hadn’t bothered using my ultra-expensive rose oil/lanolin/honey cream this evening.

Oliver gives me an odd look and gets up, and I take a quick swipe at my mouth. He picks up his ball from the little conveyor belt and goes into his windup. Just as the ball flies from his hands, he falls to the floor, writhing.

“Ow! Shit! Ow!”

I rush to his side, and the people from lanes twelve and fourteen stop what they’re doing.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “What happened?”

“My groin! I popped my hernia. Damn it!”

“You what?” I wince. His face is bright red, and he’s clutching himself rather graphically with both hands. Several people gather around us.

“I popped a hernia, okay? Just push on it, and I should be able to stand.” Though his face is red, his eyes are…calm. Hmm.

“Do you need any help?” the mother from lane fourteen asks.

“No,” Oliver snaps. “Just push on it, Maggie.”

My hands instinctively grasp each other. “Well…why don’t you push on it?”

“Because I can’t! You need leverage! Just do it, Maggie!”

“Push on where, exactly?” I ask. A prickle of mistrust crawls up my neck.

“My groin. Right there. Jesus, Maggie, I’m in pain here!”

Is he? Or is he faking? Would he do this just for some weird sexual thrill? I barely know this guy. I don’t want to push on his groin! Blech!

“Come on, Maggie!” he says.

“Right. Right, okay…it’s just that I never…you know…hernias? I don’t know anything about hernias. Maybe we should wait for a medic. I’ll call 911.”

“No! This happens all the time. For God’s sake, Maggie, just push.” His teeth are gritted now, and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or frustration that I’m not feeling him up. He certainly looks pissed off.

“Um, okay, so where exactly?” I say, biting my lip.

“Here.” He grabs my hand and shoves it on his…well, you know. His male place. The family next to us hustles their kids away.

“Go ahead, honey,” one of the male league players says. “Push.”

Grimacing, I look away and give a tentative push against his, um, flesh.

“Harder, Maggie! Harder!” Is that pain or sexual frenzy? I just can’t tell. “Push harder!”

Oh, crap, is this for real? He certainly isn’t good with pain, and that doesn’t make me like him any better. I push a little harder.

“Will you stop f**king around and do it?” Oliver snarls.

Years of lifting giant bags of potatoes and onions, wrestling economy-size sacks of rice and flour, endless bike riding and walking, have made me quite strong. It’s something I’m rather proud of, my strength. I look down at Oliver’s speculative eyes, and push with all my might.

His scream rips through the air, soaring over the clatter and smash of pins. Every single person in the place turns to look, reducing the racket of the bowling alley to the silence of an empty church, except for Ollie’s shriek. Then his voice breaks out of the range of human hearing, and all is perfectly quiet.

“Better?” I ask.

Twenty minutes later, Oliver is carried out by the ambulance people. “Good luck,” I call as he is trundled past.

“Bitch,” he chokes. His face has returned to bright red from the purple my great strength induced. I feel no guilt whatsoever. Harder he said, and harder he got.

“Well, if he didn’t have a hernia, I hope you gave him one, sweetie,” says a woman leaguer kindly. “I thought he was kind of a prick.”

I smile at her. “Me, too.”

I make a mental note on the drive home: thirteen is definitely bad luck.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ANOTHER GREAT STORY of the horrors of dating. I entertain half the town with Oliver’s Groin, the latest in a series of laugh-out-loud jokes that comprises my love life. Soon I’ll have enough for a daily calendar.

My second date from Father Tim’s list of eligible bachelors is Albert Mikrete. We meet at a steakhouse on Route 1, Al and I. And while he is a good-looking man, financially secure, considerate and pleasant, and while we agree that Maggie Mikrete would be an excellent name, and while he was apparently quite brave during his colonoscopy last month and his cataract surgery in January, we decide at the end of our meal that perhaps we aren’t quite right for each other.

“You’re a lovely girl,” Al says as he pays the check (at least there’s that). He puts away the pictures of his grandchildren and smiles. “And you’ve been so kind to an old man like myself, sitting here all night, listening to me go on.”

“I’ll probably kick myself for letting you go,” I say, horrified to realize that Al’s been my best date in years.

“Well, I can’t wait to tell my bridge club that I went on a date with a sweet young thing. Imagine! Me, dating a woman forty-six years younger!”

We laugh and hug and part as friends, and he drives with painstaking care out of the parking lot, another senior citizen fallen to my charms. When I get home, there’s a wheezing, laughing message on my machine from Father Tim. “Oh, shite, Maggie,” he says, and I smile at the rare curse. “You’ve already gone, then. Well, by the time you get home tonight, you’ll find that wires got a wee bit crossed…” He dissolves into more gales of laughter. “Ring me when you get in.”