Page 84 of His Last Shot
“I’ll give the loser credit. He has gotten better.” I look over, and Dexter has abandoned his perch and is now talking to Drew in low hushed voices. Both of them glance in my direction. “But not great.”
“That’s the spirit!” Randy yells out.
Rachel stands and places her hand on my shoulder, forcing me to face her. “You okay?” she asks.
I smile, trying not to let my anxiety show. “I’ll be fine. But I need a kiss, for good luck.”
She places her hand on my chest. “You don’t need any luck. I will give you a kiss, though.” A feather-light kiss grazes my mouth. She pulls back and gives my chest a slight shove, then smacks my butt. “Now go win.”
I smirk and tip my imaginary hat. “Yes, ma’am.”
Drew won the coin toss for the break, so he is up, ready to start. Sliding his cue through his gloved hand once, twice, three, then four times, he readies himself to slam the cue into nine balls, neatly arranged in a diamond at the opposite end of the table. A heavy stillness descends on the crowd, broken only by the soft hum of the light above, its warm glow a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere at the table.
Sitting in a high-back chair, off to the side, buying my time, I swallow hard as Drew bends over the table, bridges his hand, and aims. This break meanseverything. If the nine ball pockets on the break, the match is over. Drew’s team would win.
The crowd is dead silent as his left hand holds the butt of his cue gently. Just as a violinist holds their bow, steady and with confidence. He strikes, and the white cue careens down the table and collides with the nine balls. The crack is deafening, scattering the colored balls across the table. I zero in on the yellow-striped nine ball.
The break is good. But not perfect.
Plop.
Plop.
The one and five balls find homes in the pockets. The nine ball rests on the side rail.
I sigh in relief.
In nine ball, the shooter has to hit the balls in numerical order. Which means, since the one ball is already in the pocket, he needs to start with number two.
I examine the table, taking in the positions of all the balls, already knowing how the whole game will play out. Drew is doing the same. He chalks his cue, looks me square in the eye, and smirks. “Two ball, side pocket,” he proclaims. As he bends, for a fraction of a second, his eyes dart to Dexter. I glance over, and Dexter grins.
A silent communication between the two. A conversation only they are in on.
And they are secretly talking about me.
The shot on the table for the two ball is one of the easiest in all of pool. A ten-year-old, picking up a cue for the first time, could make it.
And that’s when I know he will miss it.
On purpose.
The blue ball rests on the edge of the side pocket. The cue ball? A good foot in front of it, lined up perfectly. If Drew hits it right, the two would fall in the pocket, and the cue would rest directly behind the three, positioned to land in the corner pocket.
As predicted, Drew hits the cue way too wide. The ball creeps along the nap of the green felt and misses the two while hitting the rail and bounces back. The crowd gasps. Dexter smiles.
Drew pushes himself up and backs away from the table, mock disappointment written all over his face. “Well, damn. That’s too bad.” He waltzes around the table to sit on his stool next to mine, separated by a standing table. “You’re up, Givens,” he says with entirely too much ease and calm for a man who has seen me play. He knows what I’m capable of. He knows this is a piece of cake for me.
Which means he knows what Dexter expects of me.
But what he doesn’t know is that I am going to mop the floor with him.
Because I’m Johnny Givens.
My fingers embrace the polished shaft of my cue, the softness of the felt always ready. My life is this rectangle of wood and slate covered in green or blue. Colored balls, solid and striped, spin and roll at my command.
It’s the color and shape of my world.
And I’m about to crush Drew’s world. And Dexter’s.
