By the time midnight rolled around, Mike and Foxy had finished their first game and then went on to bowl two more before deciding that was it for the night. Both of them had improved over the elapsed time, with Mike partially regaining his old skills, and Foxy having quickly gotten the hang of it in her own right. Nothing that could be called "professional level", but with as good of a night as it had been anyway—neither of the two really felt bad about that.

Foxy slid her own sneakers back on with a relieved sigh. The weeknight crowd had dwindled until only one other person still bowled on the opposite end of the building. With this in mind, Foxy felt no need to pull her lowered hood back up over her head as the two prepared to leave for the night. She stood, turning toward Mike, and asked, "Ya' ready?"

"Yeah, just about." Over on the opposite side of the table, Mike was just finishing his task of gathering all their trash onto the now emptied tray. Mike dumped it into the nearest waste bin, then he walked back over and sat down. "Now all we need is for the waitress to take this pitcher, then we can return these shoes and leave," he told her, his finger impatiently tapping the table's wooden surface.

Choosing instead to remain on her feet, Foxy nodded. She took a moment to just listen to the music playing through the bowling alley's surrounding speakers, still surprised with how they made the sound feel as if it came from nearly every direction at once. Thankfully her extra sensitive ears had long adjusted to the loudness. The speakers' high volume contrasted heavily with the tunes they released though, as they had been playing slow, more romantic songs nonstop ever since Mike and Foxy's...unique "moment". She still had shivers run through her body at the thought of it. Just what was that? thought Foxy. She snuck a quick glance over at Mike out of the corner of her eye, thankful he didn't notice. I know he was just helping me bowl, but that, combined with the hug was something...fuck, DIFFERENT, I guess. I can't say I didn't like it, she noted, some strange feeling rising in her gut. She shook her head, peeking over at Mike once more before deciding she would give this more thought another time.

Not too long after that, their waitress came to the table to pick up the pitcher. "Thank you two for coming tonight!" The woman—Kathy, Foxy recalled—offered them a weary, yet still friendly smile. "I hope you two had a wonderful time," she said, "and hey! Be careful on those roads out there! Weather's..." Her voice trailed off as she appeared to look at Mike through new lenses. Then, as if coming to some stunning revelation, the lady's tired eyes suddenly lit up with a newfound energy. She nearly knocked Mike and Foxy from their seats with an excited scream.

Having instinctively moved back in his seat, Mike looked with wide eyes over at Foxy, who had gripped the edge of her seat. An expression of white-hot anger overtook the initial horror on her face. She bore her teeth, leaned forward and roared, "What the fuck's your problem, lady!?"

The waitress didn't even so much as look in her direction. "Oh, my, GOD!" she exclaimed, followed by a squeal. "God, I—I can't believe it's actually Mike Schmidt of all people! Here—" She ripped a napkin from off of the table and shoved it toward Mike. "Sign this—pleasepleaseplease!"

Eying the woman, Mike blinked in bewilderment before his face quickly reddened a second later. He gulped, but took the napkin nonetheless. Quietly, Mike Schmidt signed his name and handed it back to her. Foxy noted that his hand had shaken throughout the entire process.

The waitress nearly wheezed as she squeezed the autograph to her chest. "I never a-actually thought I'd ever get to meet a dang celebrity in a—in a place like this!" she admitted, her mouth a toothy smile.

"I—well—"

"God, I gotta get g-going, Mike—i-is it okay if I call you that?—my uh, my shift's ending soon and I gotta get back there before my boss finds out," she blurted out.

Mike nodded without a word.

"Well, uh...see you!" Kathy strode a few steps away before almost tripping on her own feet trying to turn around. "Please, please kill Toy Bonnie next time, will you?!" With that request of violence, the waitress was gone.

For the next few seconds that passed, Foxy noticed Mike's face gradually shift from that stunned, nearly frightened expression into one of pride. An uncharacteristic grin stretched across his mouth, his eyes staring off into space. In the back of her mind, Foxy noted with empty disappointment that the starstruck waitress had barely even glanced in her direction. The look on Mike's face easily wiped that thought from her conscious, however, and she herself couldn't help but smile. Snickering, Foxy crossed around to the other side of the table. She pulled Mike out of his stupor using a series of snaps, then thrust her thumb over toward the door.

"Hm? Oh, uh...yeah. Right!" Mike hurriedly stood. Foxy heard him clear his throat as he turned away, and when he spun back around some of the color had briefly returned to his cheeks. Rental shoes now in hand, he motioned for Foxy's shoes, asking, "Ready?"

Foxy smirked. "Been ready," she reminded him. She bent down and grabbed her bowling shoes off of the floor, handing them over to Mike without even an ounce of reluctance. Good riddance to those ugly lookin' things, Foxy thought, sighing in relief as she stuffed her hand and hook back into her hoodie's pockets.

The two walked over to the service desk. Having spotted them approaching, Jeremy turned the background music down a few notches. Slight wrinkles formed on the man's cheeks and forehead as he grinned at the two of them, arms spread wide. "You both have a good time tonight?" he asked.

Foxy nodded an affirmation, a slight smile tugging at her lips. Mike simply stared back at him with an unamused expression, asking, "Lionel Richie, Jeremy?"

The aforementioned man took a step back, throwing his hands up in feigned shock. Gasping, he asked, "What, me?" His hands came back down as a cocky grin took over. "I'd never."

Mike rolled his eyes, but he returned the gesture anyway, setting both of their shoes on the counter in front of him. "Sure," he said with no attempt made to hide his sarcasm.

Taking the shoes, Jeremy disappeared into the backroom for a few seconds to put them back, then he walked back out. "Ah, well," he began, shrugging. "You caught me, I guess. What can I say, though—it worked for your mom and your old man, after all!"

This was new information to Foxy. It worked for his mom and dad? ...what worked? she pondered, that last thought running through her head a couple times before her curiosity finally got the best of her. "What do ya' mean by that?" she asked, breaking her silence.

Mike and Jeremy exchanged looks for a moment—something Foxy wasn't particularly fond of—then they apparently came to some silent agreement, as just then Mike spoke up. "I'll explain when we hit the road," he told her, scratching the back of his neck.

"You better," Foxy shot back, her voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the toned down music. She let out a puff of air. Or else...

Repressing a chuckle behind tightened lips, Mike smiled and looked back at Jeremy. "But yeah, we had fun tonight," he told him, finally answering the man's initial question. "I mean, she'd never bowled before and I was super rusty at the start, but...we got better, at least. Good time."

"I gotcha, that's good to hear. Anyway, I hope you two have a goodnight," he said, looking at Foxy briefly, then back at Mike. Suddenly, as if reminded by something, he pointed a finger and added, "And hey—stay safe on the road out there, okay? That storm from when you got here hasn't cleared up any, doesn't seem to be leaving any time soon, and it's looking pretty dang nasty."

Hearing this warning, Foxy felt a chill run through her mechanical veins. She grimaced. The roads had already been pretty shitty by the time they got here a couple or hours ago, and if that winter storm had continued at the same intensity for over two whole hours... Foxy clenched her jaws, looking over to gauge Mike's reaction. Unsurprisingly, his expression seemed to mirror hers, though as per usual it was more subdued. Whether that was because he was genuinely less worried than her, she couldn't tell.

"Thanks, and I uh...I will," Mike replied, swallowing.

The conversation seemed to have ended there, so with that said he and Foxy turned and started out toward the exit. Before they even reached halfway toward the door, however, Jeremy called out to Mike—still from behind the desk, of course—asking if Mike could let his dad know he said 'hey'. With a stiff thumbs up over his shoulder, Mike continued with Foxy walking past the various vending machines. Not even a second passed before the duo reached the door. They stopped. Through the glass, the falling snow looked akin to the static seen on old-school tv sets, with a solid black background seen briefly, yet consistently behind the moving white. It had apparently continued accumulating atop the pavement over the course of two hours, and this left about five or six inches of the stuff piled up against the outside of the door. Thankfully enough, this door opened inward.

Foxy didn't exactly look forward to another trek through the storm, but the anticipation of it didn't feel much better to her. "Ugh...let's just get this over with already." Stepping past Mike, she yanked the door open. Immediately, a wave of frigid air crashed its way into the narrow hallway, and it took all of Foxy's willpower not to yelp and jump back. She gritted her teeth in defiance, taking her first step into the snow that had piled in along with the door opening. Then she took off at a sprint. The whipping wind stung like a bitch as she ran in the direction of where she vaguely remembered Mike parking his car. Though with only three others left in the parking lot, it wasn't that difficult.

Foxy was several feet away from the parked vehicle when she realized she had left Mike behind. She pushed that concern to the back of her mind for the moment though, nearly tearing the poor car door off of its hinges as she eagerly launched herself into the passenger seat.

It took a moment for Foxy to regain conscious thought. Though once she did, her mind instantly returned to the whereabouts of Mike. Before she could even so much as consider a viable course of action, Foxy then heard a loud noise to her left. She turned her head to find a pink-skinned Mike already turning the car on, his hand immediately moving from the ignition to a couple of dials on the dashboard. The radio blared. Seconds later, the heater reluctantly sputtered to life. It of course died an instant later, but that was solved by a swift punch to the top of the dash.

"Thank god..." Foxy moaned, turning slack from the ball she had instinctively curled into upon escaping the storm. She didn't instantly have feeling return to every part of her body, but the rushing of warm air from the vents worked wonders for her.

Even though Mike wasn't a huge fan of the cold himself, he couldn't help but grin at the exaggerated reaction. "Ready to go?" he asked, pulling the car out of the parking spot.

"No shit," Foxy replied.

With a chuckle, Mike turned out of the building's lot and started their drive back to the arena. A frown quickly returned to his face. Since the roads had slushed over along with a layer of ice, he had to drive a lot slower than he usually did. Plus, even though his wipers were frantically working to clear the windshield of the flurry of incoming snow, his headlights—and more importantly, the road—were only marginally visible to him. Regardless, he drove on.

"...hey, slugger?" Foxy asked, breaking a growingly uncomfortable silence that had been building over the last few minutes.

Though he almost caught himself in the act, Mike refused to let his gaze stray from the road ahead. "Yeah?"

Foxy carefully considered her next words, staring out her window for a number of seconds before asking, "How'd the date go tonight?"

"W-what?" asked Mike. He coughed to clear his throat, then he allowed himself a glance at Foxy out of the corner of his eye.

"Like, how'd dinner with...ya' know, Toy Bonnie go? Anything interestin'?"

"Oh, right. Well," Mike began, "it went about as okay as you expect, I think." He briefly scratched his chin with his palm before returning it to the wheel, noting, "I mean, I'd never ridden in a limo before, so that was pretty neat. Aside from that it was boring. And...let's just say I'm still not at all fond of that rabbit, all things considered." Allowing himself to once more let his eyes leave the road, Mike looked over at Foxy with a slight smile. "I did learn something, though."

"What's that?" asked Foxy, quirking a brow.

Flashbacks of his explosion at Foxy and those feelings of cold, murky hopelessness came roaring back into Mike's head. A sickening taste of bile came to his mouth. He forced both of these down and told her, "I still have a chance at beating Toy Bonnie if I rematch her."

Foxy gawked at him incredulously. "Mike...did—did ya' seriously not know that? You were able to challenge that fuckin' chicken again, so why would Toy Bonnie have been any different?"

Mike blinked, staring blankly through the windshield before sloooowly tilting his head forward onto the wheel. "Ugh, I...it just...just..." No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't think of a way to properly explain why or how he had forgotten that. How could he have? Had the shame of still losing after they had spent all that time training overcome any kind of rational judgment? Could it have just simply slipped from Mike's mind, or hell—maybe not even occur to him at all? At the moment, Mike was too embarrassed with the whole 'freaking out at his closest friend for no good reason whatsoever' realization to really even be able to seriously consider any of those possibilities. So he just sort of gave up with even trying to explain it. He shook his head, resorting to looking back out at the road. "I'm sorry. That was dumb of me."

"No, no—it's fine, Mike," Foxy interjected. "I guess now I just more understand why ya' were so damn upset after losin'." She gently grabbed his arm. "...you thought ya' were done with."

Realizing from his lack of response that Mike didn't want to talk about it any further, Foxy quickly considered other conversational topics. Soon enough, she recalled something she had tried asking him earlier, but which he had had no time to properly answer. She was still just as curious about it. In fact, since they had spent the last couple of hours bowling, Foxy was probably even more curious now. "Since we're talkin'," she started, retreating her hand, "can I ask ya' something else, too?"

"...as long as it doesn't have anything else to do with Toy Bonnie, sure," Mike replied, with a soft smile.

Foxy snickered. "I'm just still wonderin' why you and your dad stopped bowling all those years ago. Never gave me an answer to that one."

The music in the car continued uninterrupted for the next handful of seconds. It seemed as if somebody had suddenly snuffed out any remaining sparks of cheerfulness within the vehicle, a feeling that didn't go unnoticed by Foxy. Looking over at Mike, she saw that his expression had subtly changed. The man's brows were furrowed only a couple degrees deeper, but his jaw was clenched. To put it bluntly: Mike looked uncomfortable.

Gulping, Mike let out a breath through thin lips, his hands tightening around the wheel. He still stared straight ahead, yet as Foxy looked even closer she saw his pupils blankly darting about, as if his mind was tangled deep in consideration. "It's a long story," he eventually murmured.

Something about the forced monotone to his voice shook her. Foxy's ears lowered in shame as she said, "If...if ya' don't want to tell me, Mike, it's fine—I-I swear."

"No," blurted Mike, "it's just—"

The track playing through the radio abruptly stopped. Her ears suddenly perking back up, Foxy also heard the hum of the engine fade from existence moments later. Her breath caught in her throat. Then, the car shut off completely.

"Shit, shit!" Mike stomped his foot down on the gas pedal several times, but it was to no avail. The vehicle, essentially just a box on ice at this point, continued its slow deceleration regardless. "Damn it!" he shouted, slamming a fist against the wheel.

"M-MIKE!?"

"Not now!"

Quickly realizing he had no other options, Mike growled in frustration and turned the wheel to try and steer the car safely to the side of the road. Fortunately for him, the car responded to his commands—albeit slowly—gradually careening toward the right side of the road. A pause, then the ride changed into a rough bumpiness as the wheels sloshed atop the snow-covered grass. Mike struggled to see a single thing through the windshield, but he managed to just barely catch sight of a tree in time to narrowly avoid it. Seconds later, the car slid to a complete stop.