Page 19 of His Last Shot

Drew Who?

Johnny

T hree weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve spoken to Rachel. Twenty-one days since the best kiss of my life—the pressure of her lips, the taste of her skin, the exhilaration of the moment. It’s branded into my brain and on my heart for all eternity.

I still show on tournament nights for my team, but I haven’t come in just because.

Just for her.

I can’t.

Being around her now is uncomfortable and as awkward as a cold weight that hangs heavy. One kiss, plus another rejection, and the world shifted from a blissful heaven to a fiery hell in her presence.

That kiss was my come-to-Jesus moment, let me tell ya.

And then, obviously, when I’m here, I help her at closing, of course. I’m not callous. I know she needs the help, and I will always be there for her.

Always.

But the ease we once had is gone. We barely speak, and I miss the intimate talks and time spent sharing a blanket beneath a star-filled sky in the bed of my truck.

I miss her .

But there is still this magnetic pull when we are together.

Somehow, we always find ourselves making contact.

A shoulder brush here or a finger graze there.

We mutter our apologies to each other awkwardly.

But somehow it happens again, and the electricity that courses through us has nowhere to go.

Eventually, though, this current will ignite.

She’s insecure and scared, for good reason. I could tell after our conversation and mind-blowing kiss in the kitchen that she was lying about Drew. Because there is no way she would kiss me like that if she were dating him. Rachel is too good of a person to cross that line. Period.

But also, I want her to trust me with this deeply personal part of her life. I pray that day will come sooner rather than later.

With that thought hanging in the air, I hit the nine ball into the corner pocket, giving our team the win.

Everyone celebrates with whoops and hollers, followed by high fives all around.

We all make our way over to the bar to get a quick drink before the next team arrives.

My teammates are already making small talk with the other bartenders.

Rachel notices me approaching and quickly fills a glass with club soda and plops a lime wedge inside.

She places it in front of me, the tension thick between us.

The OBGs observe us with their wise, knowing scrutiny.

“Thank you,” I say as she gives me a small, pursed smile. I take a quick sip.

“Welcome.” Her monotone response is like a knife to the heart.

A long silence follows.

“Brrrr,” Tiny says through a pretend shiver. Slick elbows him in the side. “What?” he asks. “These two went from sizzling-Miami-hot to Iceland-cold in just weeks.” He turns to address us. “What happened to you two?”

Randy chimes in next. “Tiny, leave them alone.” He leans over the bar to get a better view of us. “Unless you want to tell us what happened. Then we are all ears.” All three of them nod in agreement.

With a dramatic eye roll, Rachel turns her attention back to me, ignoring them .

“How’s play going tonight?” she inquires as she tidies her work station. I stare at her for a beat, blinking, because she’s attempting to make conversation. It’s a start, I guess.

“You know me … mopping the floor with these losers.” She chuckles, which sounds like a song as she rests her forearms on the bar, leaning in low, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Look, Johnny, there’s something you need to know about the next team coming in.”

“Uh-oh,” Tiny murmurs as he focuses on his drink.

My attention flashes to him momentarily, then back to the subject of all my dreams. “Oh, yeah? What’s going on?”

Just as she opens her mouth to enlighten me, the bar door opens, and a group of men walk in like they own the place.

A skinny bald guy, his shiny head held high as he leads the pack, surveys the tables and dance floor until his watchful eyes land immediately on the bar.

It only takes him a few seconds to locate her, finding Rachel amidst the crowd, and he grins warmly, followed by a silent ‘Hi.’

My stomach bottoms out.

“Who’s that?” I ask, my usual confidence betraying me. Did she meet someone else? Is that why she has been distant?

“That’s what I was going to tell you. The new team coming to play. Drew is on the team.”

Fantastic.

“I didn’t know he played.” My words are tight with uncontrolled irritation.

Scattered empty glasses litter the bar. She gathers them up, placing them in the sink behind her, crashing and clanking. She continues. “He does casually. But this is his first time playing in a league.”

I give Rachel a pointed look. “Come on. You can’t tell me the timing is a coincidence. I’m sure Dexter persuaded him. His pockets will be padded by the time everything is said and done.”

“Got that right—No doubt—For sure,” Tiny, Slick and Randy all proclaim in unison .

She lets out a deep sigh, surrendering to my line of reasoning and the OBGs confirmation.

We are right, and she knows it. “Drew always loved fancy things, and if my uncle offered him a cut of the dirty money that comes through these doors, then I am sure he jumped at the opportunity. So, you’re probably right. ”

A sly smirk, hinting at mischief, plays on my lips. “I’m always right.”

She throws her rag at me, which I catch. “Oh, my God.” She snickers. I laugh, thrilled she’s joking with me again. A sure sign that things are getting back on track. “You’re so humble, aren’t you?”

“It’s one of my better qualities, yes.”

Slick chuckles and wags his finger between us. “Now, that’s more like it, you two.”

There’s no doubt that these three fine gentlemen are rooting for us.

I knew I always liked them.

Just then, Rachel stands straighter, her shoulders becoming stiff as she glances up. “Great.”

“What?” I follow whatever it is that catches her attention.

“He’s coming over here.”

I slowly turn my head, taking in the sight of this pathetic loser.

It’s Drew Foster—yes, I Googled him when Rachel first mentioned him—in the flesh.

The All-American guy who was the star quarterback in high school and also a womanizing loser. He saunters over to us, his posse right behind him, taking his time surveying the bar and probably still waiting for the applause he always got back in the day.

He’ll be waiting a while.

Rachel said he’s ten years older than her, which makes him forty. I glance at his bald head, which he obviously shaves because he’s losing his hair. Relief washes over me; I’m suddenly thankful that gene skipped my family.

I run my fingers through my thick mop as he strides over, locking eyes with me, trying his best to be intimidating .

The OBGs pierce him three distinct glares of disgust, each one more pronounced than the last. Rachel keeps shifting her feet as she tries to decide what to do with her hands, her unease speaking volumes.

The OBGs all whip out their payment and hefty tips, slamming them on the wooden bar. With that, they make their exit, muttering goodbyes on their rushed exit out the door.

Apparently, they find him as repulsive as I do.

As for me? This guy hurt the amazing woman standing in front of me. Therefore, the only thing he will get from me is a small greeting and a beat down on the pool table.

This should be fun.

He stands next to me, his stare unwavering, concentrating completely on Rachel.

“Hey, Rach. You look amazing tonight.”

Rachel ignores the compliment and folds the rag she was holding with aggression. “What can I get you, Drew?”

“The usual, baby.”

“I’m not your baby.” She grabs a bottle of scotch from behind the bar, and the fact that she knows what his usual is spikes a surge of jealousy in me I don’t like.

This is a new emotion for me. I’ve never been serious enough about a woman to experience jealousy. And that includes Julie. Which only tells me how special Rachel is to me. And how much I wish I meant the same to her.

Without so much as a word or a smile, she places the drink in front of him, and he takes a sip. Slowly, he turns to me.

“So, you must be the legendary Johnny Givens.”

“Nice. Glad to know people have their facts straight.” I extend my hand. “You must be Drew.”

With an actual snarl on his lips, he glares at my hand but doesn’t offer his own.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I retreat mine, then reach for my drink, my fingers brushing against the cool glass.

“You ready to play?” I’m cutting right to the chase because there is no way I am exchanging pleasantries with this guy .

He doesn’t answer me. Only grabs his cue and speaks to Rachel. “You didn’t call me after the wedding.”

No wonder Dexter likes this dude. He’s manipulative, just like his mentor. I’m sure Dexter has told him about me. And not just my pool skills, but also that there is something brewing between Rachel and me. So, obviously, he’s peeing all over his territory.

Good luck, man.

“I never said that I would,” Rachel claps back, and a small snicker comes out of me. Drew’s head snaps in my direction as I take a sip. She continues. “You didn’t get the message I sent you after you tried to kiss me?” She cocks her head to the side. “Tell me, does your cheek still sting?”

I choke on my club soda, coughing through my laughter. Drew drops his head as waves of anger roll off of him. It’s almost as if he’s shocked that Rachel—or any woman, for that matter—isn’t falling to his feet.

And I’m not blind; he’s a good-looking guy. I’m sure he was told his whole life how amazing and handsome he is. His mom likely reassured him that everyone envied him and he was never in the wrong.

Which is why he is the narcissist he is. He gives off a whole Lex Luthor, master of the universe kinda vibe.