Page 22 of His Last Shot
Tiny flips his hand dismissively. “Whatever. Anyway, that’s so ridiculous. Don’t let his small opinion of you and his laziness in hiring any help around here stop you!”
“He’s right, Rach,” Randy chimes in. “You are totally capable.”
All three nod before sipping their beers. It doesn’t escape my notice that my brother has been awful quiet throughout this entire conversation. “What do you think, Micah?”
He studies me as he pulls his apron over his head, getting ready to start his shift as head of the kitchen. Micah has big dreams, as well. He wants to go to culinary school and someday become a chef and own his own restaurant. But just like me, he’s trapped.
“Tiny’s right.” Tiny sits a little taller in his chair, something he does any chance he gets. “But maybe you should wait just a little longer, you know, until these tournaments get started. Hopefully, Uncle Dexter will see that we needhelp, and that might be the right time to bring it up again.” He rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently, then makes his way to the kitchen.
As the OBGs delve into a political discussion, I refocus on preparing for my shift while trying to forget about my shattered dream.
The events of these last few hours whirl around in my head. The talk with nurse Renee, the renewed sense of purpose I had after, then the crushing defeat once I talked to Uncle Dexter. How the OBGs were supportive, as usual. How my brother knew my uncle’s reaction, even though he wasn’t in the room with us.
A stray tear tracks over my cheek when a voice cuts through the noise in my head.
“What’s wrong?” My gaze shoots up, and standing in front of me … is Johnny.
His nostrils flare. “Who made you cry?”
6
Watch and Learn
Johnny
Her head snaps up, eyes widening in surprise as the question hangs in the air. She gently brushes away the stray tear.
I’ve dated countless women over my forty-five years, yet the profound sense of protectiveness I have towards Rachel is unparalleled. I don’t know what it is, considering that I just met her. But her being upset right now, while she’s at work no less, I need to know what happened.
And how I can make it better.
Was it a customer who got too close and thought he had the right to touch her without permission? Is she sick? Did she get bad news at the doctor’s appointment I heard her brother mention to … I think it was Slick. Or maybe she’s just hormonal and emotional, like we all get sometimes.
I don’t care what the reason is. I just want to help and comfort her. And punch someone if need be.
After her initial shock wears off, her shoulders square, and she stands a little straighter, trying to compose herself and not show any emotion. The mask she wears is back on. “I’m fine, Johnny.” Her bartender persona takes over as she flashes me a smile, and a napkin appears in front of me. The small, strained smile that graces her lips is devoid of its characteristic brightness; it’s forced and stiff. “What can I get you?”
If she assumes I’m letting this go, she’s crazy. I perch myself on the barstool, the smooth wood cool beneath me, my pool cue resting beside my hand as Ikeep my attention glued to her. The rhythmic crack of pool balls mixes with Blake Shelton’s twangy voice bouncing off the walls as I study her. “Club soda with lime.” I peer around her as I remove my coat. “Unless you’ve installed an espresso machine back there since last week, then I’ll take a mocha with a double shot of espresso and vanilla sweet cream.”
This makes her chuckle. Good. Mission accomplished. I’ve lightened her mood.
She fills my glass and plops the lime inside. “You really love coffee, don’t you?”
“The sweeter, the better. Plus, it beats this garbage.” A broad grin stretches across my face as I tilt the glass, the crisp, clean fizz of the club soda exploding on my tongue.
With a slight head shake, an inaudible tone eludes her lips before she resumes meticulously wiping the bar. I love that I have an effect on her. “Back again so soon?” she inquires while trying to hold back a grin.
“I am.” A subtle upturn of her lips tells me she’s glad I came. “For a few reasons.” Turning, I watch the other players, their movements jerky and awkward, each missed shot accompanied by the pungent smell of desperation. “I told you I was going to join the pool league,” I explain, itching to hold the smooth pool cue in my hand. I take another sip as I observe some scrawny kid trying to make the nine ball in the corner pocket miss … by a mile. His stance is all wrong. His legs are too close together, his bridge isn’t tight enough, and his aim’s bad.
Lord help me if this kid is going to be playing with me. I’m going to be carrying this team on my back. I may need to step in and teach these boys a thing or two.
Her sweet voice pulls me from my thoughts. “You here to audition?”
What? Audition?This redirects my attention to her, away from the unpleasant scene unfolding at the tables.
When I checked out the BPA website, it listed the locations that house tournaments. Dexter’s wasn’t the closest, but I didn’t care. My goal with this whole thing hasn’t changed. Sign up for the league, and I get to see Rachel more.
But there was nowhere on the site to register as a player. The instructions gave dates and times to show up if you were interested. It never stated that you hadto audition. Granted, I’m not in the pool league circuit. But I have buddies who are and never have I heard of people auditioning. It’s strange, to say the least.
