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“Deal. Let’s go,” Brewer responds.
“You heard them,” Tinker Bell says, loading up the rack with the last ball. “Eternal glory and respect are at stake.”
Yeah, so is my sanity.
“Do the honors,” I say, letting her take the first crack.
“Oh, you’ll regret this.” For the first time, her lips draw up in a smile. “I’ll take the stripes. You’re solids.”
“Sure.”
I’m liquid, more like.
She’s in another one of those tops that are too short, like the manufacturer got tired of sewing it halfway through. It rises up when she leans over the short end of the table. Even though I’m not standing right behind her, I can see the outline of a very narrow waist tapering to wide hips, the defined muscles working as she hits the balls, the thin scar running down her back.
Lord have mercy, for I am a weak, weak man.
With all the strength I have, I tear my eyes away from her and back to the table. It was a solid hit. Not the kind an amateur makes. I may be in trouble in more ways than one.
More than strength, the key to pool is precision, and that falters significantly every time she leans over the table. It takes me a couple of fails to really get my head in the game. A bigger prize than just sneaking peeks awaits if I win.
The race starts to get tight. For every ball she pockets, I follow suit. I catch chatter from the others—mostly consisting of insults—but Tinker Bell and I are so focused on winning that we don’t even stop to give each other crap.
And then the moment arrives. Sink or swim. We have one ball each, plus the eight ball, and it’s my turn.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me what you want?” she asks while I position my cue over the green. An obvious attempt to distract me.
I measure the angle of the strike very slowly, running the cue over my finger like a caress and decidedly not looking at her. “Afraid I’m gonna win?”
She scoffs. “Of course not.”
I strike the ball and pocket it. Her sharp intake of breath does not go unnoticed.
That’s when I make the potential error of looking up. Tinker Bell leans over the table, both hands holding up her weight over the edge. Her hair falls over her shoulders like this is some sort of pictorial. The frown on her face is supposed to make her look intimidating, but it doesn’t.
I decide then what I want from her when I win. It hadn’t quite coalesced in my head until this moment.
“Let me win first, Tinker Bell.”
“The pressure can yet get to you, you know?”
No. I’ll win this game even if it’s the last thing I ever do.
I lean over the table again. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of her abdomen contracting as if she’s holding her breath. I hit the eight ball. My heart beats so fast my smartwatch beeps on my wrist. The ball makes a careful trip toward the nearest pot. I will it to sink. A bead of sweat trickles down the middle of my back. And then?—
It sinks in.
“Yes!” I pump my fist in the air. The shout catches the attention of people nearby.
“You won, Cassiano?” Conor asks, frozen before throwing a dart.
“Yeah, baby.” I smile up at Tinker Bell.
If looks could kill…
“Nuh-uh.” I wag my index finger at her. “Don’t you go and say I cheated. It was a fair game.”
She folds her arms tight enough to cut off circulation. “What do you want from me, Cassiano?”
