Page 32 of His Last Shot
I’m like an out-of-control teenager when I’m with her.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks as she studies the jukebox, then punches in some numbers. Teddy Swims serenades us.
This is what Dexter’s does best. It mixes the old with the new. Vintage mirroring modern. An old-fashioned jukebox playing recent hits. New pool tables alongside old coin-operated ones. Weathered booths line the walls, mixed with new shiny fancy bar stools.
And maybe that’s why Rachel and I work. Me, old and vintage. Her, new, younger, and shiny. We mesh well.
“I’m good,” I say as I reach for the box of pool balls and the rack. She comes back to the table, me on one end, her on the other. Separated by felt and slate.
A divide. A barrier.
Literally and figuratively.
The weight of her stare burns into me, a heavy, silent pressure as I meticulously arrange the smooth, polished balls in the varnished triangle of wood. I shake them back and forth along the green felt.
Clack, clack, clack.
“You’ve done that before,” she says with a smirk.
I peer at her from the corner of my eye, noticing a subtle smile playing on her lips. “Once or twice.” Flinging the rack in the air, I step forward, catching it behind my back. She giggles. Freaking giggles. It’s so dang cute.
Having put my cue away for the night, I grab two sticks from the cue rack. I walk over and hand one to her, our fingers brushing slightly as I do. “I’ll break, and then I can show you a couple of things.”
“Okay.” Her hand settles on the sturdy rail.
As I slide the wood stick through my fingers, a confession blurts out of my mouth. “I’ve always wanted to teach pool.” I have never admitted this to anyone, not even Scott. For some reason, this woman brings out everything in me. Even my secrets.
Intrigued, her head tilts to the side, curious. “Why haven’t you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. No time, I guess. It’s always been something I have thought about but never followed through on. The game is life-changing, and I would love to show others how amazing it is.”
She pushes off the table and smirks while adding chalk to her own cue. “Well, let’s see how this lesson goes first.”
Oh, I’m sure it’s going to be just fine.
I bend at the hip, lining up my shot, but not before giving her one last glance. Breaking the pool balls when I play is by far my favorite part. The virtual unknowns, mentally preparing for whatever lies ahead, thinking on my feet as I watch the balls scatter across the table. The whole thing lasts only seconds, and it’s one of the biggest adrenaline rushes.
Well, that and the beautiful woman standing only inches from me. Her scent engulfing me, her presence igniting a fire in my belly.
With force, I slam my stick into the cue ball, sending it careening down the table. Rachel jumps and lets out a yelp, followed by a laugh. With rapt attention, I watch as the cue ball strikes the triangle of multi-colored balls, creating a resounding clack and sending them scattering across the table. Three of the pool balls find their homes in the pockets.
Once the balls settle, I look at her. “See any shots worth taking?” She glances at the table and begins to circle it, trying to decide. Me, I already know how this whole table is going to play out.
She uses her cue to point. “Two ball, corner pocket,” she announces proudly. I knew she would pick that one. It’s the obvious choice, but not the best one.
I wiggle my finger at her. “You would think. But if you take that shot, the cue ball will rest here”—I point to the spot with my cue—“behind the twelve and three, with no shot available. Try again.”
She frowns and examines the table again, and I watch her every move. Her shoulders, tan and smooth, reflect off of the light overhead, the Dexter’s tank top clinging to her body in all the right places. Her eyes, big, brown, and bright, study the table. All she’s doing is focusing on pool balls, and I am completely taken by how magnificent she is.
She points to the seven ball. “Seven, corner pocket.”
I grin because it’s the perfect shot for her to learn with. “Alright, line it up and shoot.”
She bends at the waist and stretches over the table, but it’s all wrong. Her legs are way too far apart, her hips aren’t square, and she’s too high.
Darn. I guess that means I am going to have to touch her.
Before she pulls back her arm, I grab her forearm to stop the momentum. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say as I slide my hand over to her delicate wrist.
