Page 36 of His Last Shot

The Choice Is Yours

Johnny

I t’s been a wild week!

Everything started on Monday with the quarterfinals.

My team and I sailed through those with flying colors.

But once we made it to the semis, several of the guys tripped up.

Nerves got the best of them, and it came down to the wire for two games.

I was a nervous wreck the whole time. Because somehow, along the way, winning this whole thing became important to me.

And it’s not just for me, it’s for them.

I’ve been teaching these guys the game, and I want their hard work to pay off.

With tournament play, our plan of attack has always been the same. Win and get me to the last match. I guess you can compare me to the anchor leg of a swim team. Kinda like Michael Phelps.

And I never lose. Kinda like Michael Phelps.

Thankfully, we made it to the finals, which is tomorrow, and if we win, we earn a trip to Vegas for the national title.

I mean, let’s face it, we are shoo-ins.

Which is why I’m here early at the bar, shooting around, getting in some practice on the table that will be the center showcase of the tournament.

Rachel isn’t here yet. She had a checkup at her doctor’s this afternoon. So it’s just me, the music, and … Dexter, apparently.

Because here he comes, approaching me as I lean over the table, ready to take my next shot.

With shoulders back and head held high, arms swaying with each step, he appears to be on a mission.

His eyes, intense and unwavering, lock on me.

I abandon the shot I had in my sights and stand, leaning my weight on my pool cue, the table separating us.

“ Dex . What can I do for you?”

“It’s Dexter,” he replies through gritted teeth. I grin. “Actually, yes. There is something I need you to do for me.”

Dear Lord. A favor? He can’t be serious.

“I’m pretty sure I’m doing a lot for you as of late. Loving your niece being at the top of that list.”

God, I love throwing that jab out there and reminding him he no longer controls her.

He clicks his tongue. “It’s true. I’ve never seen her happier.”

“You’re welcome.” I lean down and take the shot that was ready and waiting for me. The three ball careens along the green felt, but Dexter’s meaty paw stops it.

“I need you to throw the final match tomorrow,” he deadpans. As if he said a statement so mundane, instead of something that is entirely out of the realm of possibility for me.

Standing abruptly, I huff out a laugh. “You can’t be serious?”

“I’m very serious.”

“And let me guess. If our team loses, you get a nice hefty payout, am I right?”

“I always knew you were smart.”

I grab the blue cube of chalk and rub it over the tip of my cue, not sparing him a glance as I examine the table. “Absolutely not.”

He doesn’t take my dismissal of his plan as his cue to leave. He continues to stand and watch me play as patrons wander into the bar, oblivious to our standoff.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m not asking.”

“No, I don’t think you understand.” I round the table to get closer to him.

“I have never lost a match on purpose in my life, and I don’t plan on starting now.

What happened, Dex? Short on funds, so you need people to bet on me, then when I lose on purpose, your purse becomes heavier?

Not happening. I will not rig this match for you.

Your poor and shady bookkeeping isn’t my concern.

Find a new lackey to do your bidding because you’re barking up the wrong tree. Maybe Drew is available.”

“I don’t like to call it rigged. It’s more of striking a balance,” he taunts.

I wave my hand at him dismissively. “Call it whatever you want. Keep me out of it.”

He’s silent for a few beats as I continue to shoot. He won’t go, his gaze never leaving me, full of tension, analyzing. He has more blows to hit me with; I know it.

Within a single beat, he does. “Now, now, Johnny. Shutting me out isn’t in your or your family’s best interest.”

This grabs my attention. My back goes ramrod straight as the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

The anger builds. I throw my cue on the table, storm toward him, and stand over this puny excuse of a man.

“What did you just say? Are you threatening my family?” My blood is boiling, hot as lava.

“Throw the match, and your family will be just fine. If you choose not to”—he shrugs—“well, you won’t want to know what happens.”

I see red.

With little effort, I grab onto his suit lapel, pick him up, and slam him onto the table.

As his back hits the rails, a loud thud echoes throughout the bar, catching the attention of the handful of people that are here.

Their yelps of surprise fill the bar. Leaning over him, my face inches from his, I issue my warning.

“Stay. Away. From. My. Family.” The words come out full of venom.

Spit flies out with each word, coating his face.

He laughs. Actually laughs. “The choice is yours,” he taunts.

Rage is pulsing through my head, beating in my ears. All of my focus is on Dexter, which is why I don’t hear her.

“JOHNNY!” Her voice, shrill, raw, and urgent, slices through the anger clouding my mind, snapping me back to reality. She’s running toward me, her face a mask of terror, eyes wide with fear, and hair flying behind her.

With a shove, I let go of Dexter and step away, observing his panting from what just transpired.

He stands, tugging hard on his suit jacket and meticulously smoothing out the front.

The rustle of the fabric a contrast to the nervous beat of my heart.

Rachel reaches us, out of breath from her sprint.

I can’t imagine how that must have looked.

Suddenly, disbelief at my reaction sinks into my gut, weighing me down.

She grabs my arm. “Are you okay?” I nod, lying. Her attention pings to her uncle, searching for answers. “What is going on?”

“Ask lover boy,” Dexter answers as he walks past her, confusion painting her features. He takes a determined step toward me. “You know what to do.”

With his same overconfident swagger, he waltzes out of the bar, patrons gawking, leaving behind the scent of his cheap aftershave.

I grab Rachel’s wrist and practically drag her to the back of the bar, where the tables remain covered, and the light is dim, shrouding us in darkness.

Tugging at my hair from its roots, I pace. My lungs can barely keep up with my labored breaths. Rachel just stands and watches me. “Johnny … what’s going on?”

I plant my hands firmly on my hips, the weight of what I need to tell her pressing in on me. “Your uncle wants me to throw the final match tomorrow.”

“What?!” she screeches out, then glances around, realizing how loud she was. She lowers her voice. “But that makes little sense.”

“Think about it, Rach,” I implore. “He knows everyone will bet on me. I’m the sure thing. Then, when I lose, on purpose, he—”

“Walks away big,” she says, realizing the situation for what it is. “Why would he do that?”

With a frustrated sigh, I cycle through the possible reasons. “I have no clue. Greed, financial troubles, power, control, take your pick.” She stares at me, her frown tight. “But that’s not the worst part.”

“What? What’s the worst part?”

The words catch on my tongue because I’m still in shock myself, my senses still dull from what happened. “He … he threatened my family if I didn’t do it.”

A strangled gasp breaks out while she wraps her arms around her body. “Do you think he would actually follow through on that threat? ”

I throw my arms in the air, a silent scream building in my chest, then smack them on my legs in frustrated defeat.

“I don’t know, Rachel!” I rub my hand down my face, wishing for any sort of escape from this madness.

“You’re the one who told me people disappear with Dexter.

So, yeah … I kinda believe him. I have never thrown a match. ”

With determination, she stalks over to me and cups my face.

Her touch is already doing wonders, bringing down my blood pressure.

She’s my center. My north star. “Win. Do you hear me?” I scan her face, her eyes focused yet stern.

“Win. I am done letting that man have an ounce of control over us. He’s trying to intimidate you, control you.

Don’t let him. There is no way he would hurt anyone that I love. He’s full of empty threats.”

She’s right. I know she’s right.

But… “You have said yourself that people who have crossed him have disappeared. What if—”

“Shh,” she whispers as she places her index finger on my lips, the smell of her lotion wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Suddenly, my shoulders relax, my thoughts come into clearer focus.

My arms coil around her waist, and I pull her into me. “Okay. I’ll win. For us.”

“For us.”