Page 34 of Santa's Girl
The cue ball snapped against the rack, the balls exploded apart, and somewhere in the middle of that sound I realized:
This wasn’t about Christmas anymore.
I let him break.
He leaned over the table, easy confidence in every line of his body. The cue cracked against the rack, balls scattering, two dropping clean into the corner pockets. He straightened, flashed me a grin that saidyour move, city girl.
“Not bad,” I said. “You sure you don’t play tournaments?”
“Wouldn’t be fair,” he said, voice smug. “You sure you want to keep that bet?”
“Oh, I’m sure.” I chalked my cue, took my time lining up my shot, and sank a stripe so smooth it could’ve been luck.
It wasn’t.
I played dumb for the first few turns. Let him get comfortable.
He’d lean close to call a shot, glance at me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out.
Meanwhile, I was already two steps ahead, counting angles in my head, letting the rhythm come back like it never left.
After he missed an easy side-pocket, I leaned against the table, cue balanced loosely in my hand. “So, Bear… what’s a man gotta do to get one of those big bad biker patches?”
He looked up from resetting his stance, distracted just long enough for me to walk around and call, “Two ball, corner pocket.”
It dropped.
Then another.
And another.
It didn’t take long before his smirk started to fade.
By the time I cleared half the table, his brows were pulled tight and he’d stopped trying to talk.
I spun the cue in my hands, tried not to grin too big. “You look surprised.”
He leaned on his stick, eyes narrowing. “You played me.”
“I played pool.”
“You hustled me.”
I shrugged. “Huntley taught me a few things. Figured I’d put ‘em to good use.”
He huffed out a laugh—half disbelief, half admiration. “You let me think you didn’t know what you were doing.”
I lined up my last shot, the cue sliding smooth through my fingers. “Yeah, well… you seemed so sure of yourself. Didn’t want to bruise your ego right away.”
The eight ball dropped with a clean, satisfying thunk. I straightened, tapped the cue against the floor, and grinned. “Looks like it’s Christmas, Grinch.”
Bear stared at the table, then at me, and finally shook his head. “I should’ve known.”
“You should’ve,” I said, grabbing my beer.
He pushed off from the table, voice low. “You conned the president of the Iron Forge MC for tinsel and Mariah Carey?”
“Yep,” I said. “And you, sir, have to live with it.”
