Page 37 of His Last Shot

It Will Make Beating You That Much More Fun

Johnny

I t’s the day of the final.

I’m in my truck, the engine humming beneath me, on my way to Dexter’s, as a thousand and one thoughts race through my mind like a runaway train. The sheer number of them overwhelms me; I can’t keep them all straight.

My pool cue rests beside me on the passenger seat, and as much as this stick of maple has been my constant companion for most of my life, I wish it was Rachel sitting next to me right now.

She was beside me last night, though. After Dexter’s, she came back to my place, and we snuggled on the couch, talking through what might happen today.

I actually contemplated throwing the match, just to keep my family safe. But she wouldn’t allow for it. Her exact words were, “If you throw this match, I will never speak to you again.”

Well, that was that. Because not speaking to Rachel again is an option that is never on the table.

Having her in my arms made everything better. She eventually dozed off, looking like an angel. It was in that moment that I knew I was going to ask her to be my wife. I have no clue when it’s going to happen. But the thought of waking her so she can go home was tearing me in two.

Because I want it.

The life.

I want to see her, a vision in white, walking down the aisle.

I want to feel the weight of her gaze as she approaches me, like the goddess she is.

I want to wake up next to her every morning, the warmth of her skin against mine, for the rest of our lives.

I want to see her, fresh from a shower, her skin glowing, still damp, and smelling faintly of her body wash.

I want to watch her with our children, holding their tiny hands as infants, then chasing them as giggling toddlers.

I want her hand in mine, sitting close, while our daughter says “I do.” I want us to create beautiful memories with our grandchildren together.

Then, as the years turn us old and gray, I want to sit with her on that porch swing outside, our wrinkled hands clasped, sharing memories of our wonderful life.

I want it all.

When I kissed her goodnight, I was already making plans to buy a ring this weekend. The sooner, the better, if you ask me.

At the light right before the block where Dexter’s sits, I shoot out a text to her.

Me: Almost here

Rachel: Can’t wait to see you. heart emoji

Nerves twisting in my stomach, I pull my truck into a parking spot, the tires crunching on the gravel. And, look, I am a guy that never gets nervous. Well, except when I wanted to talk to Rachel for the first time. Other than that, I am calm and collected in just about any situation.

A final exam that I have to pass in order to graduate? No big deal.

A first date with a beautiful woman? Easy.

Waiting in a jail cell in Daytona Beach for my cousin to bail me out? Cool as a cucumber.

Throwing my life savings at a new construction business with no idea if it will be a success or failure? Whatever .

Getting ready to play in a pool tournament final I have to throw or the pool league’s owner may or may not do God knows what to my family? Yep. That will do it.

The smell of exhaust mingles with the night air as I sit in my truck. The flickering neon sign of Dexter’s casts an eerie light, and I wonder what awaits me on the other side of that door.

Killing the engine, the sudden ping of my phone notification slices my thoughts. A nervous smile touches my lips as I reach for the phone, half-expecting to see Rachel’s name again.

It’s not.

Unknown Number: Remember our deal.

Yeah, thanks for the little reminder, Dex.

A reminder that I don’t need or want. But he knows what he’s trying to do here. Intimidate me into throwing this match.

But I’m calling his bluff.

And, man, am I glad Scott isn’t coming tonight. He knows it’s the finals; I didn’t offer for him to come and watch, and he hasn’t expressed any interest. After everything that has transpired since I first joined the league, it’s better that he’s in the dark about it all.

With a deep inhale for courage, I grab my cue, shoving my phone with Dexter’s text—unanswered—into my back pocket, and walk inside.

A flurry of activity smacks me in the face as soon as I open the door.

Geez. This place is packed!

Country music blares from the speakers. Dexter has transformed the dance floor into a sitting area for spectators to watch the match with portable stadium seating for everyone.

It’s wall-to-wall people. Some I recognize as players from other teams, here to watch the finals.

Some are patrons I’ve never noticed here before.

The OBGs are on their usual perches at the end of the bar, waiting for the action to start.

Irene is off in the corner, taking bets.

But none of them are the one person I need more than anyone .

With a sense of urgency, I scan the bar, searching for Rachel. As I do, I zero in on a group of men emerging from Dexter’s back office. Impeccably dressed in suits, all of them laughing and chatting with Dexter himself. My grip tightens around the handle of my cue.

I can’t let him notice me. Not before I see Rachel.

Arms snaking around my waist bring me back. My shoulders relax at the familiar contact. Her comforting scent, which is literally summertime, envelopes me.

Calming.

Soothing.

Loving.

Her.

The gentle weight of her fingers on my abdomen triggers a primal response; my hands shoot out, gripping her wrists as I whip around to face her.

She. Is. Gorgeous. “Hey, handsome. Are you new here? I don’t think I have ever seen you before,” she says with a playful look in her eye.

She’s being cheeky. More than likely trying to put me at ease.

It’s working.

How does she know exactly what I need when I need it?

And, my God, she’s a vision. Her long, silky chestnut hair is cascading over her shoulders, smooth and sleek.

She’s wearing her usual work attire. Ripped jeans, a Dexter’s tank top; this one is green, my favorite color.

Her long eyelashes flutter over her brown eyes, and the pink lip gloss on her lips is an invitation for a kiss.

So I oblige.

Softly, my mouth floats over hers, and she returns the affection, letting me know she is with me. Present. As she always is.

I pull back, a sticky, sweet smear of pink lip gloss now all over my mouth. “Is this the greeting you give all new customers because, if so, this is my new favorite bar?” She grins at my teasing.

She runs her hand down the buttons of my maroon untucked shirt. Pressed to perfection, as always. “Are you here with anyone?” she purrs, still playing make-believe.

“I am now.” I flash my dimples as she wraps her hand around my neck and draws me in for another kiss. Any and all nerves I had are now gone. Swept away by Rachel and her presence.

We break apart. “How are you feeling today?” I ask, my concern for her health trumping anything else.

“The usual. Achy all over, my elbows are on fire, and my hips are locking up. But nothing four Tylenol can’t handle.”

I run my hand over the side of her neck, empathy and sadness filling my chest and squeezing. “I’m sorry, love.” If I could, I would take this burden from her and transfer it to me. In a second. No questions asked.

She shrugs as if her pain is no big deal. “It’s fine, and I’m used to it. Besides, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

I pull her in for another kiss, the taste of her lipstick still lingering. A thank you for always being there for me, cheering me on. As our lips stay locked, a presence looms near us. Watching.

“Johnny,” the voice starts, “nice of you to show.”

With a jolt, Rachel and I separate, our gazes instantly drawn to the source of the interruption.

It’s Drew Who.

My opponent for this final match, my girlfriend’s ex and all-around nemesis.

I loathe the man.

His eyes narrow into slits, the muscles around them tightening with irritation. He’s more than likely drunk on jealousy; you can practically smell the fumes of resentment rolling off him. Good. I hope he vomits, passes out, and wakes up with a hangover.

He tries to continue the conversation I didn’t ask for. “Are you ready to—”

My finger shoots up, a quick, sharp motion, to cut him off. “One second.” Turning to Rachel, I run my thumb across her mouth, the slightly sticky, sweet residue of the gloss coming away. A wicked grin stretches across her lips .

“You have a little right here,” she says, her fingers brushing lightly against my lips, wiping away the glossy shine. “I’ll make sure to add more later,” she whispers with a knowing smirk.

Oh, she better.

We know what we are doing. And we don’t care.

We both pivot back to Drew as I wrap my arm around her waist and tug slightly.

He clears his throat, and if I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am—fear flashes across his features. It’s fleeting, but I saw it. “As I was saying, are you ready to get beaten?”

He can’t be serious.

It flashes again. Fear. Small beads of sweat form along his upper lip. He’s trying so hard to appear calm and in control. But he’s failing. Miserably.

And I have no idea what kind of pressure Dexter has him under. But I am one hundred percent sure that Drew Who is in on this little scheme. Does he want to be? Don’t know. And frankly, it’s none of my business. The only thing I’m focused on is mopping the floor with this guy.

Standing in front of him, I cast aside any doubts about throwing this match.

Recoiling my arm from Rachel’s waist, I step forward. Despite Rachel attempting to pull me back, I am determined to send a message to this guy.

Standing almost eye to eye with him, he recoils and flinches just an inch. I scan his face, pausing before I deliver my question. “You aren’t afraid to play me, are you?”

Trying to gather himself together, he scoffs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nope,” he replies sharply.

Love that. Because I know he’s lying.