He wondered if Rafa had been able to find the old surfing book he’d recommended. Shane wished he still had his copy to lend, but it had gone in the fire. The twist of pain and guilt knotted him up for a few moments, dull and familiar. As it receded, he considered whether he should check the Amazon marketplace for it. But no, it wouldn’t be appropriate to buy a book for his protectee. Still, it was nice to talk surfing again. Rafa had no practical experience, but he was far more up to date on the current state of the sport than Shane was.
When Rafa appeared ten minutes later, he smiled anxiously as he wound one of the strings on his navy hoodie around his finger and scuffed the toe of his sneaker on the carpeted runner on the stairs. “Hey. I’ve got a seafood lasagna in the oven. Béchamel sauce. I thought in the meantime, I’d go bowling. And you’d have to come with me, obviously. I mean, if that’s cool.”
“Of course. You know you’re free to do whatever you want.” Shane realized that must be why Rafa was in casual clothes and not his usual buttoned-up, neatly ironed outfits. His hair was still slicked, though. Too bad he won’t let his curls down. Shane blinked at the strange thought. Why should it matter to him how Rafa wore his hair? Although he couldn’t help feeling it would do the kid some good to let go a bit.
Rafa led the way downstairs to the basement bowling alley as Shane radioed their new location to the office. As they walked by the open door, one of the agents on the night shift inside gave him a nod. There was a two-lane alley in the basement of the office building near the West Wing that Shane had heard hosted tournaments between White House staffers and the Secret Service, but here in the residence there was a narrow room with a single lane.
Rafa opened the door and flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. “It’s kind of lame, huh?”
Shane blinked. He’d been to almost every room in the White House, but not this one. “It’s very…patriotic.”
His nose wrinkling as he smiled, Rafa sat in one of the molded plastic chairs and untied his shoelaces. “When we moved in it was painted this gross coral color, with big cheesy bowling pins on the walls. So my dad asked Henry to get it repainted, and I guess his instructions were something like, ‘imagine what would happen if an American flag puked all over the room.’”
Shane couldn’t hold in his burst of laughter, and Rafa’s smile grew wider. Shane surveyed the stars and stripes painted over the walls—red, white, and blue everything. There was even an eagle taking flight at the end of the lane. “Sounds about right.”
“What size are you?” In his socks, Rafa crouched in front of a wooden cubby holding about twenty pairs of bowling shoes in various sizes.
“Oh, I can’t bowl. You go ahead.”
Rafa didn’t look up from the cubby. “You can’t as in, bowling is beyond your capabilities, or you can’t because you’re not supposed to?”
“The latter. If there’s an emergency, I can’t run out of here in bowling shoes. You go ahead. I’ll keep score.”
“The computer keeps score.” He stuffed his feet into shoes. “Come on, you can just do it without the right shoes. I won’t tell. Hardly anyone uses this bowling alley anyway. It’s no fun to play against myself.”
“Don’t you have any friends who could come over?”
Blinking, Rafa dropped his head. “I guess. Not really. Sorry, I know I’m bugging you.” He jammed his palm against a button on the wall, and the bowling alley came to life, the mechanism at the end resetting the ten pins and the computer screen on the wall flickering on. At a console on a little table, Rafa typed in his name and hit enter.
Shit. Shane hated seeing Rafa’s shoulders hunch like that. “That’s not what I meant. You’re not bugging me at all.” What the hell. “All right.” He walked to the console and added his name. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Rafa smiled tentatively. “Yeah? Okay. Cool.” He picked up a green globe and moved to the edge of the alley. Holding the ball up in front of him, he breathed silently for a few moments. Then he took three steps and gracefully unleashed the ball, his legs bending and his arm arcing up, his shirt pulling over lean muscles. The ball slammed into the pins, sending all ten scattering. He pumped his fist and spun around. “Beat that, old man.” His smile faltered.
Shane realized he’d been staring, and he could see the worry on Rafa’s face as the kid likely wondered if he’d gone too far. But Shane picked up his own ball and strode by him. “Watch and learn, Grasshopper.”