Page 83 of His Last Shot
We both pivot back to Drew as I wrap my arm around her waist and tug slightly.
He clears his throat, and if I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am—fear flashes across his features. It’s fleeting, but I saw it. “As I was saying, are you ready to get beaten?”
He can’t be serious.
It flashes again. Fear. Small beads of sweat form along his upper lip. He’s trying so hard to appear calm and in control. But he’s failing. Miserably.
And I have no idea what kind of pressure Dexter has him under. But I am one hundred percent sure that Drew Who is in on this little scheme. Does he want to be? Don’t know. And frankly, it’s none of my business. The only thing I’m focused on is mopping the floor with this guy.
Standing in front of him, I cast aside any doubts about throwing this match.
Recoiling my arm from Rachel’s waist, I step forward. Despite Rachel attempting to pull me back, I am determined to send a message to this guy.
Standing almost eye to eye with him, he recoils and flinches just an inch. I scan his face, pausing before I deliver my question. “You aren’t afraid to play me, are you?”
Trying to gather himself together, he scoffs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nope,” he replies sharply.
Love that. Because I know he’s lying.
“Good,” I answer. With a firm grip on Rachel’s hand, I pull her swiftly past him. His narrowed gaze follows. But before we disappear into the recesses of the bar, I stop one last time, meeting his stare. We stand locked in a standoff, the air thick and intense, punctuated only by the clinking glasses and the commotion of conversation. “I enjoy looking my opponent in the eye andnotseeing fear. It will make beating you that much more fun.”
Let the games begin.
The finals game of choice: nine ball.
To win: best out of seven.
And it’s all tied up.
We are down to the final match. Whoever wins this game wins the tournament. Each team has four players, and of course, both Drew’s team and mine have chosen us to play this game head-to-head. Which means I am now staring at Drew while I rack the balls. I’ve observed him these last few months, and he has improved … a lot.
Is he up to my level of play? Nope.
Is it necessary for me to stay focused and not provide him with any openings? Absolutely.
He’s chalking his cue and adjusting his glove, talking to one of his teammates. The five rows of seats taking over the dance floor are full. People have squeezed themselves together, sitting shoulder to shoulder. The rest of the bar is standing room only. The hum of the crowd is full of anticipation. I have never played in front of this many people before. A sense of anxiety is weaving into my stomach, a kind of alert pressure. I feel good, tense, but good.
And it’s more than just winning a free trip to Vegas. It’s Dexter. It’s his threats. It’s my family’s safety.
I glance at my watch—play begins in five minutes.
And that gives me five minutes with Rachel. She is exactly what I need to calm down.
She’s sitting in the front row of the viewing area, sandwiched in between Slick and Micah. Randy and Tiny are right behind them. Glancing off to the far corner, I spot Dexter. He’s watching and nods.
I know what he’s expecting of me. Mistakenly, he assumes I’m going to throw this match.
He’s wrong.
I grab my cue and march over to the most beautiful woman in the room. Her face breaks into a wide, radiant grin, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You ready for this big guy?” Slick asks.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer and glance at Rachel, her smile now gone as she plays with a string hanging off one of the holes in her jeans.
Nerves are rolling off of her body.
“He’s really improved,” Tiny adds, pointing to Drew.
