Page 38 of His Last Shot

“Good,” I answer. With a firm grip on Rachel’s hand, I pull her swiftly past him.

His narrowed gaze follows. But before we disappear into the recesses of the bar, I stop one last time, meeting his stare.

We stand locked in a standoff, the air thick and intense, punctuated only by the clinking glasses and the commotion of conversation.

“I enjoy looking my opponent in the eye and not seeing fear. It will make beating you that much more fun. ”

Let the games begin.

The finals game of choice: nine ball.

To win: best out of seven.

And it’s all tied up.

We are down to the final match. Whoever wins this game wins the tournament.

Each team has four players, and of course, both Drew’s team and mine have chosen us to play this game head-to-head.

Which means I am now staring at Drew while I rack the balls.

I’ve observed him these last few months, and he has improved … a lot.

Is he up to my level of play? Nope.

Is it necessary for me to stay focused and not provide him with any openings? Absolutely.

He’s chalking his cue and adjusting his glove, talking to one of his teammates.

The five rows of seats taking over the dance floor are full.

People have squeezed themselves together, sitting shoulder to shoulder.

The rest of the bar is standing room only.

The hum of the crowd is full of anticipation.

I have never played in front of this many people before.

A sense of anxiety is weaving into my stomach, a kind of alert pressure. I feel good, tense, but good.

And it’s more than just winning a free trip to Vegas. It’s Dexter. It’s his threats. It’s my family’s safety.

I glance at my watch—play begins in five minutes.

And that gives me five minutes with Rachel. She is exactly what I need to calm down.

She’s sitting in the front row of the viewing area, sandwiched in between Slick and Micah. Randy and Tiny are right behind them. Glancing off to the far corner, I spot Dexter. He’s watching and nods.

I know what he’s expecting of me. Mistakenly, he assumes I’m going to throw this match .

He’s wrong.

I grab my cue and march over to the most beautiful woman in the room. Her face breaks into a wide, radiant grin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You ready for this big guy?” Slick asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer and glance at Rachel, her smile now gone as she plays with a string hanging off one of the holes in her jeans.

Nerves are rolling off of her body.

“He’s really improved,” Tiny adds, pointing to Drew.

“I’ll give the loser credit. He has gotten better.” I look over, and Dexter has abandoned his perch and is now talking to Drew in low hushed voices. Both of them glance in my direction. “But not great.”

“That’s the spirit!” Randy yells out.

Rachel stands and places her hand on my shoulder, forcing me to face her. “You okay?” she asks.

I smile, trying not to let my anxiety show. “I’ll be fine. But I need a kiss, for good luck.”

She places her hand on my chest. “You don’t need any luck. I will give you a kiss, though.” A feather-light kiss grazes my mouth. She pulls back and gives my chest a slight shove, then smacks my butt. “Now go win.”

I smirk and tip my imaginary hat. “Yes, ma’am.”

Drew won the coin toss for the break, so he is up, ready to start.

Sliding his cue through his gloved hand once, twice, three, then four times, he readies himself to slam the cue into nine balls, neatly arranged in a diamond at the opposite end of the table.

A heavy stillness descends on the crowd, broken only by the soft hum of the light above, its warm glow a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere at the table.

Sitting in a high-back chair, off to the side, buying my time, I swallow hard as Drew bends over the table, bridges his hand, and aims. This break means everything. If the nine ball pockets on the break, the match is over. Drew’s team would win.

The crowd is dead silent as his left hand holds the butt of his cue gently.

Just as a violinist holds their bow, steady and with confidence.

He strikes, and the white cue careens down the table and collides with the nine balls.

The crack is deafening, scattering the colored balls across the table.

I zero in on the yellow-striped nine ball.

The break is good. But not perfect.

Plop.

Plop.

The one and five balls find homes in the pockets. The nine ball rests on the side rail.

I sigh in relief.

In nine ball, the shooter has to hit the balls in numerical order. Which means, since the one ball is already in the pocket, he needs to start with number two.

I examine the table, taking in the positions of all the balls, already knowing how the whole game will play out.

Drew is doing the same. He chalks his cue, looks me square in the eye, and smirks.

“Two ball, side pocket,” he proclaims. As he bends, for a fraction of a second, his eyes dart to Dexter. I glance over, and Dexter grins.

A silent communication between the two. A conversation only they are in on.

And they are secretly talking about me.

The shot on the table for the two ball is one of the easiest in all of pool. A ten-year-old, picking up a cue for the first time, could make it.

And that’s when I know he will miss it.

On purpose.

The blue ball rests on the edge of the side pocket. The cue ball? A good foot in front of it, lined up perfectly. If Drew hits it right, the two would fall in the pocket, and the cue would rest directly behind the three, positioned to land in the corner pocket .

As predicted, Drew hits the cue way too wide. The ball creeps along the nap of the green felt and misses the two while hitting the rail and bounces back. The crowd gasps. Dexter smiles.

Drew pushes himself up and backs away from the table, mock disappointment written all over his face.

“Well, damn. That’s too bad.” He waltzes around the table to sit on his stool next to mine, separated by a standing table.

“You’re up, Givens,” he says with entirely too much ease and calm for a man who has seen me play.

He knows what I’m capable of. He knows this is a piece of cake for me.

Which means he knows what Dexter expects of me.

But what he doesn’t know is that I am going to mop the floor with him.

Because I’m Johnny Givens.

My fingers embrace the polished shaft of my cue, the softness of the felt always ready. My life is this rectangle of wood and slate covered in green or blue. Colored balls, solid and striped, spin and roll at my command.

It’s the color and shape of my world.

And I’m about to crush Drew’s world. And Dexter’s.

Without saying a word, I rise from the chair and grab the cube of chalk, rubbing it across the tip. “Two ball, side pocket.” Leaning over the table, I line up my shot. With the perfect amount of English, the two ball falls.

Plop.

With no hesitation, I walk to the opposite side of the table and take my next position. “Three ball, corner.”

Clank.

The cue rolls back and comes to a dead stop behind the four. “Four ball, corner pocket.”

Clink.

“Six ball, side pocket.”

SMACK!

UGH! I hit this one too hard. The six ball lands violently in the side pocket, the cue banks off of the side rail, resting way out of position for the seven ball, derailing my entire plan of attack .

Adrenaline and nerves got the best of me. Murmurs from the crowd fill my ears.

Come on!

Like the bloodhound he is, Drew sniffs out my tension at seeing my predicament.

And he pounces.

“I thought you were better than that, Givens.” Ignoring him, I round the table, studying it, deciding on my next move. I lean over, meticulously tracing imaginary lines and angles in my head, the way a golfer carefully studies his putt, visualizing the perfect arc.

He continues his taunts, but this time, his objective is clear. He wants to get in my head.

And under my skin.

“Rachel is a great kisser, isn’t she?” My grip on my cue tightens as the temperature in my head rises.

“Does she still like it when you nibble on her ear?” My breathing grows ragged as I clench my teeth and circle the table, running my fingertips along the wooden rail.

Doing my best to allow this table’s energy to ground me.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “You know, she told me once, and I still remember the way she said it, all low and raspy, that nobody’s kiss ever felt as perfect as mine.” This stops me cold.

Why am I letting this guy get to me?

While I’m leaning over the table, I focus on Rachel.

A playful grin spreads across her face as she rolls her eyes, clearly amused and unfazed by his ridiculous words. Then she opens her mouth, inserts her finger, and makes a fake gagging face. Slick chortles next to her.

I hold my stance over the table but lower my head in amusement. It’s the exact playful banter I need to get my head on straight and finish this guy. His words are meaningless.

He’s meaningless.

With a playful wink thrown in her direction, I straighten as the chalk squeaks against the worn leather tip of my cue.

I’m ready to end this. “Well, Drew, I’ll be sure to ask her tonight if that’s still the case.

” I bend over the table, my cue in hand, ready to strike.

“When we are back at my place. Celebrating.” Before I hit the white cue, I glance back at Rachel. “Alone.” She gives me an air kiss.

“Seven ball, side pocket.”

The cue ball curves around the eight, hitting the seven and sending it down to the side pocket.

Clack.

“Eight ball, side pocket.”

Plop.

Drew squirms in his seat as he grabs his drink, taking a sip. Because this is it. The moment of truth.

I could do it. Right here, right now. I could throw the match, miss the nine ball, and give Dexter what he wants.

But I know that won’t be the end. Dexter would own me.

He would have this one secret and hold it over me and use it to get what he wants or needs.

Who knows for how long? By throwing this match, I am no better than Dexter.

I would be a cheat and a liar. There is no way I could live with myself.

That’s not the man Rachel fell in love with. That’s not the man I want to be for her.

I have no clue what happens next or what the consequences will be.

I only know that I have to do the right thing.

The temperature in this bar just rose about twenty degrees. A collective stillness hovers over the crowd, broken only by the occasional nervous cough as they anticipate, watching.

Watching me.

I stand over the table, resting my hand on the cool wood of the rail.

I squeeze my eyes shut, letting myself live in a world where Rachel is mine.

She belongs to me. We belong to each other.

A world before Dexter threatened me and my family.

A world where I walk into a bar my company remodeled and see her for the first time.

A world where I’m washing her hair, then kissing her.

A world where I’m wearing a cheerleading uniform, cheering for her success.

Literally. A world where we are in my family’s living room, sharing pizza, laughing, being a family.

A world that includes us.

Because as soon as I sink this nine ball, our world will be different. I don’t know how or why.

But different.

I open my eyes and look at Drew. He smirks.

I turn and take in Rachel. She mouths, ‘I love you.’

Leaning over this table for the last time, I bridge my hand, hold my cue, and line up. But before I pull back, I make eye contact with Dexter.

He shakes his head in warning.

“Nine ball, corner pocket.”

I hit the white, chalk-smudged ball. It connects with the nine ball … perfectly.

The crowd gasps.

Number nine rolls with a gentle, satisfying hum along the rail.

It catches the corner of the side pocket, oscillates, then it stills as it teeters on the edge.

A hush falls over the bar as everyone holds their breath, leaning forward, anticipating.

Some in the bleachers stand to get a better look. Then…

Plop.

Dexter drops his head as the crowd erupts in hysterics.

Rachel’s squeals are all I hear as I throw my cue onto the table and run straight for my love. I reach her, lift her up, and spin her around, peppering her face with kisses. My team rushes over, and the entire bar is now encircling us.

Spectator after spectator offers their congratulations.

My arm never leaves Rachel’s shoulder as I glance one last time over at Dexter.

But he’s gone.