Page 1 of His Last Shot
1
Two Ball, Side Pocket
Johnny
Iglide my pool cue through my fingers, studying the table. Glossy numbered solid and striped balls sit idly on the green felt, waiting to find their new homes in one of the six pockets of this pool table. A virtual kaleidoscope of angles and possibilities. Flexing at my hip, I line up my shot, resting the shaft on the perfectly formed bridge of my right hand. My left grips the butt of the cue. With laser focus, I zero in on my target.
“Seven ball, corner pocket,” I announce, claiming my shot.
I’m in my zone, and I love this exact moment. Right before the tip of the stick contacts the cue ball, the entire world goes silent. The other supposed players on neighboring tables disappear. The lively chatter of this bar/pool hall, Dexter’s, fades into the background. Silence falls as my heart stops. It’s pure adrenaline and power, all wrapped neatly with a bow.
There’s only this table and me. Nothing else exists.
As if it’s hanging on a pendulum, my left hand swings the butt of the stick. I hold my breath. The blue tip comes into contact with the white cue ball, which cracks against the solid maroon number seven. I watch with rapt attention as it speeds along the right rail and falls perfectly into the pocket.
I smile.
“Nice shot. How did you do that?” My cousin’s question snaps me from the moment, and it’s as if someone has turned up the volume in my head. Dexter’s comes alive around me.
Scott shakes his head in disbelief. “I have no idea why I come and play with you. Must be a glutton for punishment.”
I chalk my cue, carefully eyeing the pool balls, stalking them as if they were my prey. “You have to be here. I need someone to rack for me.”
The puff of air filled with annoyance that escapes his lips makes me smirk as I watch him from the corner of my eye. He downs a swig of his beer; his stick hasn’t left its resting position next to where he’s sitting. The high-top back chair more than likely has his permanent butt print on it.
Because let’s face it, that’s what anyone who plays against me does. They watch me dominate and rack the balls for my next break.
Yes, I’m that good.
Playing pool has been my thing since I was six years old. I remember listening to my dad practice in our garage in the summer. With my window open, I would fall asleep to pool balls cracking against each other and my dad yelling at himself because he missed a shot.
Then, one day, I asked him to show me how to hold a pool cue and shoot. The smile on his face was one that I will never forget. Man, I wanted to be just like him. Nothing was cooler.
I’ve never looked back.
The game became my life, my passion. My cousin and best friend Scott was the football and baseball guy in our family. Not me. While he was practicing on the field in high school, I was practicing in my dad’s garage. Hour after endless hour, learning this complex game.
Scott stands abruptly, the beer bottle hitting the wooden tabletop with a dull thud. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”
“What the heck, man.” I throw my arm in the air because I hate my flow and rhythm being interrupted when I play. “There’s only one ball left on the table. You can’t hold it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just salutes me as I watch him walk away. I know he’s doing this on purpose. Hoping that it will disrupt the run of balls I have going.
It won’t.
As I wait, I sit on one of the high-top chairs against the wall and survey the other players, shooting around at the neighboring tables.
Out of the corner of my eye, a wave of brunette hair and curves catches my attention. I do a double take, and it’s as if a truck has just plowed into me. She emerges out of the shadows of a back hallway that empties behind the bar. Her hips swaying as she pulls her dark hair into a messy bun. Her movements … angelic.
Suddenly, the world around me comes to a crawl, everything happening in slow motion. My heart stops beating.
With graceful, purposeful movements, she reaches for a bottle of Woodford Reserve from the back display of liquor. She’s tall, at least six feet. Before she pulled it up, her hair, a rich dark chocolate brown, fell in heavy, shimmering waves, catching the light. Each wave, silken and dark, begging for my fingers to run through it. She’s wearing jeans with holes in all the right places and a black tank top that has Dexter’s scrawled across her chest. This bar is too dark, and I’m not close enough yet to take in the color of her eyes. But I have a feeling they are dark.
Which, just punch me now because I am a sucker for a brown-eyed girl.
I can’t tear my stare away as she laughs at something a group of three older men say. She plops two ice cubes into a glass and fills a two-finger pour, sliding the drink to one of the older gentlemen.
As she takes an empty glass away, she quickly scans the noisy, dimly lit bar while still talking to the three men.
