Page 1 of His Last Shot

Two Ball, Side Pocket

Johnny

I glide my pool cue through my fingers, studying the table.

Glossy numbered solid and striped balls sit idly on the green felt, waiting to find their new homes in one of the six pockets of this pool table.

A virtual kaleidoscope of angles and possibilities.

Flexing at my hip, I line up my shot, resting the shaft on the perfectly formed bridge of my right hand.

My left grips the butt of the cue. With laser focus, I zero in on my target.

“Seven ball, corner pocket,” I announce, claiming my shot.

I’m in my zone, and I love this exact moment.

Right before the tip of the stick contacts the cue ball, the entire world goes silent.

The other supposed players on neighboring tables disappear.

The lively chatter of this bar/pool hall, Dexter’s, fades into the background.

Silence falls as my heart stops. It’s pure adrenaline and power, all wrapped neatly with a bow.

There’s only this table and me. Nothing else exists.

As if it’s hanging on a pendulum, my left hand swings the butt of the stick.

I hold my breath. The blue tip comes into contact with the white cue ball, which cracks against the solid maroon number seven.

I watch with rapt attention as it speeds along the right rail and falls perfectly into the pocket.

I smile .

“Nice shot. How did you do that?” My cousin’s question snaps me from the moment, and it’s as if someone has turned up the volume in my head. Dexter’s comes alive around me.

Scott shakes his head in disbelief. “I have no idea why I come and play with you. Must be a glutton for punishment.”

I chalk my cue, carefully eyeing the pool balls, stalking them as if they were my prey. “You have to be here. I need someone to rack for me.”

The puff of air filled with annoyance that escapes his lips makes me smirk as I watch him from the corner of my eye. He downs a swig of his beer; his stick hasn’t left its resting position next to where he’s sitting. The high-top back chair more than likely has his permanent butt print on it.

Because let’s face it, that’s what anyone who plays against me does. They watch me dominate and rack the balls for my next break.

Yes, I’m that good.

Playing pool has been my thing since I was six years old. I remember listening to my dad practice in our garage in the summer. With my window open, I would fall asleep to pool balls cracking against each other and my dad yelling at himself because he missed a shot.

Then, one day, I asked him to show me how to hold a pool cue and shoot. The smile on his face was one that I will never forget. Man, I wanted to be just like him. Nothing was cooler.

I’ve never looked back.

The game became my life, my passion. My cousin and best friend Scott was the football and baseball guy in our family. Not me. While he was practicing on the field in high school, I was practicing in my dad’s garage. Hour after endless hour, learning this complex game.

Scott stands abruptly, the beer bottle hitting the wooden tabletop with a dull thud. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”

“What the heck, man.” I throw my arm in the air because I hate my flow and rhythm being interrupted when I play. “There’s only one ball left on the table. You can’t hold it? ”

He doesn’t answer. Just salutes me as I watch him walk away. I know he’s doing this on purpose. Hoping that it will disrupt the run of balls I have going.

It won’t.

As I wait, I sit on one of the high-top chairs against the wall and survey the other players, shooting around at the neighboring tables.

Out of the corner of my eye, a wave of brunette hair and curves catches my attention.

I do a double take, and it’s as if a truck has just plowed into me.

She emerges out of the shadows of a back hallway that empties behind the bar.

Her hips swaying as she pulls her dark hair into a messy bun. Her movements … angelic.

Suddenly, the world around me comes to a crawl, everything happening in slow motion. My heart stops beating.

With graceful, purposeful movements, she reaches for a bottle of Woodford Reserve from the back display of liquor.

She’s tall, at least six feet. Before she pulled it up, her hair, a rich dark chocolate brown, fell in heavy, shimmering waves, catching the light.

Each wave, silken and dark, begging for my fingers to run through it.

She’s wearing jeans with holes in all the right places and a black tank top that has Dexter’s scrawled across her chest. This bar is too dark, and I’m not close enough yet to take in the color of her eyes. But I have a feeling they are dark.

Which, just punch me now because I am a sucker for a brown-eyed girl.

I can’t tear my stare away as she laughs at something a group of three older men say. She plops two ice cubes into a glass and fills a two-finger pour, sliding the drink to one of the older gentlemen.

As she takes an empty glass away, she quickly scans the noisy, dimly lit bar while still talking to the three men.

She stalls, her eyes catching mine briefly before darting away. I stare as a subtle smile plays on her lips, her attention settling back on the older men. Pivoting to another customer, she falters mid-swivel while giving me another lingering look.

She noticed me. Cool. I love it.

My throat is going completely dry, like sandpaper. I swallow hard .

The high-energy atmosphere of the bar dissolves around me, replaced by the heavy pounding of my heart as I watch her.

She’s the only person I see; her face is the only one I can make out, all else is a blur.

I’m disoriented and drunk on attraction as something like fog fills the surrounding air.

I watch her effortlessly glide behind the bar, avoiding the two other bartenders as her gaze flicks to me every so often.

Mine? Focused only on her.

“Okay, they killed the design of those bathrooms. They are amazing. And super clean, too.” Scott’s words cause the buzz of the bar to return, and I shake my head of the lust haze it was just in.

Lord. What just happened?

I clear my throat, trying my best to compose myself. “I wondered what took you so long. Did you reapply your lipstick, too?”

He sits and takes a lazy pull of his beer. “Cute.”

Refocusing on the table, I line up my next shot, but not before flicking my gaze to the bar. She’s still there. Still cute, still smiling. Taking in a much-needed calming inhale, I refocus my attention on the table and call the last shot of this game. “Two ball, side pocket.”

The blue ball glides into the pocket, leaving the eight ball all alone on the table and sealing my cousin’s fate. And making him fifty bucks poorer.

He whips out his wallet and fishes out the money, slapping it on the rail. I walk around the table, the scent of stale beer lingering in the air, gathering the last of the balls from the pockets. “Wanna go again?” I ask as I pocket the fifty.

“Are you kidding me? Laura will kill me. I need to get home. She already thinks I’m crazy playing for money against you.”

“Your wife has always been smart and beautiful.”

“As much as I would love to be humiliated again, I need to get home,” Scott says as he unscrews his pool cue.

He grabs his case, sliding the cue inside while checking his phone.

“My Lyft should be here soon.” Scott always grabs Lyfts when he plays with me.

A few years ago, when his kids were infants, he and I went to a different pool hall with me driving.

It was an amazing time, so we stayed and played for three hours longer than he felt was necessary.

Needless to say, he wasn’t happy, and neither was Laura. So now he finds his own way home.

I’ll admit, Scott is a decent player. He can hold his own against guys and gals who believe they know a thing or two about the game.

But he’s only beaten me once. A huge chunk of my savings account I owe to him.

Actually, I owe a lot to him. We have been each other’s ride-or-die our whole lives. Growing up an only child, I was close with Scott. Everything we did, we did it together. Honestly, now that we are older, nothing has changed. His family is my family.

He finishes his beer, sits it down, and glances around the newest addition to Dexter’s. An addition our construction company spearheaded.

Givens Construction.

Scott and I started this company together. It’s grown quickly. We have both worked extremely hard at it to become successful. It’s supported his family and has given me purpose and something in my life to be proud of.

I slap him on the back. “Thanks for meeting me here to check this place out. It’s nice to see it all put together with the tables.”

“A far cry from what it looked like before, that’s for sure,” Scott says with an amused chuckle.

Prior to the renovation, the bar was literally falling apart at the seams. It was last renovated in the seventies, and it showed.

Now, the rustic cowboy feel this place has is infectious.

The dance floor is bigger, the bar is longer, and the massive new addition houses two rows of pool tables. Ten tables on each side.

When Dexter Jr. approached us about a reno and an addition to this place, we were skeptical.

Dexter’s dad, Dexter Sr., had a reputation in our area for being a shady businessman.

Since this is the most popular bar on this side of town, it makes one wonder what Dex Sr. did with his money because he didn’t put it back into this place.

Now, it’s the stuff of bar dreams. After his dad’s death, Dex Jr. took over, and the rest is history .

We kept it all above books, demanding documentation of everything to cover our own butts. On the outside, Dexter Jr. seems more trustworthy than his dad. But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.