Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER ONE
PICKING UP THE SPARE

A month into summer, and Hyde itched for fall. Another night shift at the Fotohut meant another day of sitting in the Formans' basement. Watching intelligence-crushing game shows. With Jackie.

They were on the couch together, him wedged into the right-most corner. He'd moved to that spot last week, after his chair both bruised and numbed-out his butt. The cushion was too hard to sit on for long, but she didn't seem to mind his proximity. In fact, unless his monotony-dulled brain was hallucinating, she'd crept closer to him each day.

Only two inches of space existed between them now. Her perfume smelled like a spring hike in the woods, and when he inhaled deeply, he tasted the aroma of apricots. Had to be her shampoo. Sitting on the couch was an error in judgment, but he stayed put. Breathing her in bothered him but not the way he'd expected.

The basement was the coldest room in the house. It kept out the heat, but with Jackie so close, sweat had formed on his upper lip. His beard probably hid it. He hadn't shaved since the school year ended, but she wasn't looking at him anyway. She'd fixed her gaze on the TV—not that he resented it. The less she recognized her effect on him, the better.

"Evelyn Peabody," Johnny Olsen said through the TV speaker, "come on down! You're the next contestant on The Price is Right!"

The camera searched the audience. An elderly woman waved her wrinkled arms in the air, and she hurried to contestants' row. The camera cut to Bob Barker, who was standing on the main set. On a color TV, the studio was a garish sight. On the basement's black-and-white ... it was still garish.

"Another old lady," Jackie said. "She can't even reach the wheel!"

Hyde's knuckles began to hurt. They were pressed against his cheek, but the show's celebration of consumerism pressed in on his skull. "I can't watch The Price Is Right again. I just can't."

"This summer totally sucks. There's nothing to do!" The material of Jackie's blouse crinkled, as if she'd altered her position on the couch. He flicked his eyes in her direction. Even from behind his shades, the flush in her cheeks stood out. She was staring at him, and she ran her tongue over her lips.

The lust he'd been fending off for weeks cascaded into his bloodstream. Spending this much time alone with her hadn't been his plan, but he reflexively licked his own lips. The salt from his sweat coated his tongue. Her head-fogging aroma clung to his senses, and he turned toward her.

She'd broken up with Kelso in a letter. She was a free agent, and they had no witnesses. Kelso and Donna were in California. Forman was upstairs in his room, moping about "lost second chances," and Fez had gone to the public pool. Hyde would've been better off joining him. The pool was full of chicks he had no history with.

Jackie's bare foot nudged his leg. Her eyebrows rose. An invitation? Their last kiss had shoved him into a ravine, and she'd left him there with no way out. The sides were too slippery, too steep to climb. He'd begun to starve while she went to feed Kelso.

Hyde was still starving, not just for her body. For everything that made her her.

She leaned toward him on the couch, eyes partly closed, but he didn't meet her halfway. He stood up. "Don't you have friends you can hang out with?" he said and went to the TV. "An air-conditioned mall beggin' for your dough?"

"Donna's in California," she said. "My other friends are all busy, vacationing with their rich families or at cheer camp."

He changed the TV channel. Hollywood Squares came on. No better than The Price is Right, and he changed the channel again. The local news flickered onto the screen, some story about fishmongers in Kenosha. Good enough, and he plunked down on his chair. The bruises on his butt protested, but the pressure in his chest silenced them.

Jackie said nothing at the channel switch. She showed no reaction to his change in seats either, and he rubbed his jaw. His coarse beard scratched at his fingers. It would likely redden his skin, but his insides were already scoured raw.

"Steven," she said after a minute, and his breath squeezed through his lungs. It came out as strained laughter, and she glared at him. "What's so funny?"

"Why're you here, man?" he said between laughs. She lived in an air-conditioned mansion. Her parlor had a big color TV with cable. If anything, he should be over there. "It's just me and a crappy television."

"That's a whole lot more than what Michael left me with."

His laughter disintegrated. "So you're moping like Forman, but instead of holing up in your room, you're doin' it down here."

"No, I'm not."

"Come on, Jackie. You're hiding."

"I'm not," she said, but it had to be bullshit. He'd believed her once, a mistake he couldn't afford to repeat.

"Your friends on the cheer squad are probably gossiping a shitload about you," he said, sounding colder than he intended, "so you're avoiding 'em. You're lonely, and I'm all you've got..." That was why she'd leaned in to kiss him, to stay warm until Kelso came home. "If you're that hard-up for distraction, try Forman. You could be each other's rebounds 'til your exes get back."

She bent down and put on her shoes. "I'm over Michael, okay?" Her fingers fumbled with the left shoe buckle. "You of all people should—I'm not who you—damn." She shut up and managed to fasten both buckles. "Life isn't simple," she said and pushed herself off the couch. "I wanted it to be, but it's as complex as you are."

He cupped his mouth, pushing his palm into his lips. She'd either insulted him or given him compliment. Whichever it was, he'd tripped a wire, set her off.

"Being here let me think," she said. "My relationship with Michael was a dud. That's what my dad calls it. No matter how pretty it looked on the outside, the inside was rotting."

She was doing it again, exposing her depth, and his throat grew dry. If she could just remain superficial, he'd get out of that ravine, scrabble up its sheer sides to freedom. But every time she revealed her insight, he slid back to the bottom.

"Jealousy, selfishness, fantasy," she said, counting off on her fingers, "that's what Michael and I were made of. I'm not stupid, Steven. I know he's not pining for me in California. I know that our last few months together were a warning sign."

She strode to the basement door and grasped the knob. "We became friends." Her gaze was fixed on him, and her free hand splayed over her heart. "You and me. We never talked about it, but it happened. At least, I thought it had..." Her voice became higher, shakier. "Just like I thought we didn't have to talk to understand each other. We just innately understood."

"Jackie—" He swallowed. His throat was so damn dry, and he didn't want to cough. "We don't..." Innately. Maybe she'd sensed his need to kiss her. Her being unattached had opened him up to possibilities, but they were punishing ones, lacerating his brain as much as his guts.

"It's fine," she said. "You're obviously sick of my company, but don't worry..." She turned the door knob. "You can have the basement to yourself the rest of the summer."

She pushed open the door, but he said hoarsely, "Wanna go bowling?"

Her body froze. "Excuse me?"

"Bowling. Where ya hurl a heavy ball toward a bunch of pins."

"I know what bowling is." She made the barest of movements, and the door squeaked under her grip. "I'm not going to the grimy bowing alley by myself."

"Yeah, I'm sayin' I'll go, too."

"You'll go..." She released the door and faced him. He'd been talking to the back of her head, but the flush of her cheeks blazed redder. "You want to go bowling with me?"

He left his chair and walked to her. "We survived a date at Inspiration Point. Think we can handle bowling." He grinned. Her lips rose in response, and moisture finally reached his throat. "So...?"

"Sure," she said, and he opened the basement door wider for her.

Jackie had kissed six boys in her life. The first, David Sutton, had soft lips and a sweaty neck. He'd asked her to the sixth-grade spring dance. The kiss was little more than a peck, but her face tingled for hours.

The second boy was Joey McIntosh, pale-skinned, freckled, and the best actor at Performing Arts Sleepaway. Her parents had sent her to the summer camp after seventh grade. One week in, and Joey became her first boyfriend. He had a habit of cupping her shoulders while they kissed, as if she were a roller coaster, and he had to hold on. They experimented with technique, going beyond pecks to open-mouth kisses.

But on their three-week anniversary, his tongue pushed past her teeth. The slimy thing was coated in Sugar Daddy, and she gagged. Her palms slammed into his chest, shoving him off the giant rock by the lake, and he landed in the water. It was a wet break-up, but she didn't cry over him.

In Eighth grade, she dated Matthew Delveaux. He was the tallest boy in school and played on the basketball team. He kissed so well that her toes scrunched in her socks. Classmates sometimes gawked as they walked down the halls together, hand-in-hand. He had over a foot on her in height, but she loved it.

At her house, she often sat on his lap while they made out. The sensation of his lips on hers shot into her stomach and throbbed even lower. His erections, the first she'd ever felt, pressed into her under-thigh.

They broke up before the summer. His dad was a research scientist, and he'd left his job at a Kenosha pharmaceuticals company for academic research in Madison. That meant Matthew and his family was moving. As a going-away present, Jackie let him get to second base. Unlike his skilled kissing, however, he had no idea what to do with her breasts. They hadn't developed much yet anyway, but they were tender for days because Matthew's inept, pinching fingers.

Ninth grade was spent secretly lusting after Michael. Transitioning to high school had taken most of her focus—getting into the most popular clique, being in the cheer squad, coping with double the homework requirements—so she didn't pursue him. A week before sophomore year, though, they met at The Hub. He asked her out in the cashier line. It was the happiest moment of her life … until they kissed.

His lips were so wet and cold on their first date she reevaluated her crush on him. He'd smeared spit on her cheeks and chin, and her attraction withered. But one look at his perfect face, with its chiseled cheekbones, thick eyelashes, and shiny hair, and she had to give him another chance.

She lectured him on kissing technique, using all she'd learned from Matthew. Michael progressed slowly, but he eventually kissed the way she liked.

The fifth boy, Fez, had kissed her without permission. The roll of his tongue in her mouth was a startling and exciting experience, but he'd forced it on her. It was also fit a pattern of behavior. He'd constantly pushed himself at her, not physically but romantically. But she got to choose who she dated, not him. No matter how badly he wanted her.

The sixth boy had her permission and needed no instruction. Her first true kiss with Steven was also her last, but it was like three kisses in one. He'd welcomed her tongue toward the end, letting her deepen the contact. She cupped his cheek before pulling away, kept her lips pressed to his, waiting for her toes to scrunch … for her stomach to heat up … for her body to throb with the need for more.

Yet she was numb. Physically and emotionally. Or she'd simply exhausted herself by chasing him so long. How could she possibly hope to keep someone like Steven? He'd say, "Sayonara," the instant he was done with her. No sentimentality. No interest in reading Cosmo to work on their relationship.

He wasn't the type to fall in love, especially not with her.

"Come on, baby!" Steven's voice reached her through the noise of the bowling alley. She lifted her head from the scoring table as his bowling ball soared down the oiled lane. It smashed into the pins, scattering all ten of them. A strike.

He returned to her with a satisfied smile. They were six frames into the game. He'd scored seventy-three points so far, not counting his latest strike. She, on the other hand, had a score of twenty-six. Pathetic, but ruining her manicure wasn't worth it. She didn't grasp the ball tightly or throw it all that hard, and she was so distracted that aiming wasn't even a concern.

Steven had ignored her signals for days. She'd sat closer to him in Eric's basement. Gotten a pedicure and showed off her creamy, delicate toes. Worn a perfume that smelled like the most romantic of summer nights. The aroma blended amber, lilac, and jasmine, but he hadn't noticed. He was so oblivious to her she might as well be invisible.

He took her place at the scoring table, and she went to the ball return. She'd chosen a pink, seven-pound ball that glided down the lane more than rolled. But it knocked down three pins on her next throw.

"Not bad," Steven said from the table. "You could pick up the spare."

Her spine stiffened. She hadn't been completely honest with him today. She'd said she was over Michael, but she was over being with Michael. He'd shattered her heart enough. Shattered her illusions.

But Steven's growth was no fantasy. He'd gotten a few inches taller the last few months. His biceps were bigger, and some of his smaller T-shirts strained against him, showing off the muscles of his chest. Not intentionally, of course. He wasn't vain, but he resembled a man now.

Especially with his beard. It was full but not bushy. Michael's patchy attempts at facial hair had turned her on, but Steven … whenever she looked at him lately, her mind and body pulsed with want. The feelings she'd expected from their first kiss had finally emerged. She hungered to touch him, to be touched by him, and forget Michael ever existed.

Was that picking up the spare?

The ball return spat out her ball. She hefted it up and approached the lane slowly. Steven had no problem with meaningless, sexual flings, so why couldn't she be one of them? A few weeks of making out, maybe doing more.

Serious relationships caused only pain. Her parents' marriage was decaying, and Michael had abandoned her. Even if he hadn't, she needed more than he could give. More than who he could ever possibly be.

"Would you throw the ball already?" Steven said.

"I'm trying to figure out how to pick up the spare!" she shouted back.

"Aim for the right side, where most of the pins are."

"If I do that, the ball will go into the gutter!"

He clutched the scoring table with both hands. "I'll freakin' show ya how to do it, all right?"

She hugged the bowling ball to her chest and nodded.

He reached her in moments and gestured to the lane. "See those arrows? Use them as aiming guides. Alls you gotta do is position your feet like this..." He demonstrated by backing up and running to the lane and mimed throwing the ball. His movements were graceful, not clunky, and they set a craving deep in her stomach.

She clamped her mouth shut. She was going to say something stupid, something she'd regret. He'd laugh at her, spot the leggy blonde three lanes over, and Jackie would have to catch the bus home.

"Still not getting it?" he said.

"Not really."

He inhaled and cleared his throat. "Put the ball down."

"Why?"

"This'll be easier without you holding it."

She did as he said, and he eased himself behind her. Her muscles tensed at the heat from his body. This much of him had never been so close to this much of her, not even during their kiss. Her eyes closed as his fingertips brushed down her right arm. He grasped her wrist gently, and his other hand slid over her left hip.

"This okay?" he said.

The woody aroma of Old Spice drifted into her nostrils. She was inhaling his scent, and her legs were dissolving, and this was totally, utterly not okay. Her reaction had to be purely physical, but her heart beat faster the more she thought about him. He was brave and smart. Funny and compassionate. He'd protected and comforted her. Mostly laughed with her nowadays rather then at her.

And he was waiting for her permission.

"Go ahead," she said, and he positioned her feet on the lane. He drew back her right arm, told her to focus the arrows, and swung her right arm in a mock throw. He did this two more times, and when he let her go, her skin was buzzing.

"Think you've got it?" he said but didn't stick around for her answer. He sat at the scoring table. His boots tapped on the floor, and he twirled the pencil in his fingers. Any other boy would've been turned on, such was the effect of touching her. Steven, however, just wanted to get to his next turn.

She grabbed her pink bowling ball. He'd always seemed immune to her beauty, but surely he appreciated her personality. Otherwise, he wouldn't have invited her bowling.

A chill skated across her skin. He did like her—as a person, not an object of desire. He'd never asked anything of her, unlike Michael and Fez, except to leave him alone. And a few minutes ago to take her turn.

She threw the ball as he'd taught her. It glided between the arrows, began to roll halfway down the lane, and crashed into the remaining pins. Six of them fell, but the seventh wobbled on its base.

"Come on," Steven said behind her. "Come on, come on..." His voice was growing louder, and when the pin finally tipped over, his cheer warmed her neck.

"Oh, my God—I did it!" She'd picked up the spare, and she turned toward him. He was standing inches away. His arms spread open for a double low-five, but she thrust herself at him instead. She wrapped him in an embrace, anticipating a complaint or him prying her off. But he said nothing and closed his arms around her.

She shut her eyes. His heartbeat was ticking against her cheek, and her body quivered with a strange kind of music. The impossible had happened: for the first time ever, Steven Hyde was hugging her back.