5
Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Daniel:
It seems ridiculous to come to a private, members-only club in Manhattan to play pool, but there we are. That’s the kind of insanity that’s to be expected in my life. Still, at the Maxwell Club, absolutely no-one calls me Mr. Hartman in the deferential tone of voice that drives me crazy. People even disagree with me from time to time. It’s very refreshing.
“Good of you to show up.”
I grimace. Clark Ellis’ tone drips with passive-aggressiveness. If he’s going to chew me out for missing the opening three weeks of this season, then I wish he’d just man up and yell at me. Instead, I’m going to have to endure not-so-subtle digs about the importance of showing up all night long. Sebastian, my best friend and instigator of this pool league idea, owes me big-time.
“Do you want me to quit the team, Clark?” I look straight into his eyes, and there’s steel in my voice. “If you’ve found a replacement, I’m happy to withdraw.”
I’m being a dick. Right now, there’s only four of us and the league’s rules require five players in each team. Clark’s getting desperate. He’s managed to annoy most of last season’s players and three of them have flat out refused to come back. If he can’t get a fifth person to show up tonight, we’ll forfeit a game all season long.
I don’t care a shit about the pool league. I’m here strictly for relaxation purposes. My father died from heart disease and hypertension when he was only fifty-five, brought on by many years of stressful work heading up the family firm. The family firm is now listed on the Dow Jones, and I’m the CEO. The pressure is constant and unrelenting and to mitigate its effects, my doctor has mandated recreational activity. So I make it a point to hang out with Sebastian at least once a week, and we shoot some pool and drink some beer.
But I’d be damned if I’m going to listen to Clark’s bitching and moaning all night long, especially after listening to Uncle Cyrus all day long. Life is far too short for that.
“I found a fifth player,” he says smugly, ignoring my threat. “There’s this hot piece of ass that works with me, and she said one of her friends wants to play. One of her girlfriends.” He smirks. “I can’t wait.”
Seriously, who talks like this? This guy sounds like a dickwad that reads The Game and boasts about his imaginary conquests. Before I give in to my urge to punch him, Sebastian walks over. “I was going to the bar to grab a beer, Daniel,” he says with an amused grin. “Then I remembered you’re buying today.”
I laugh. “Of course,” I agree. “We cannot expect Manhattan’s newest star chef to pay for his own drink, can we?”
We walk away from Clark. “Thanks for the rescue,” I tell him. “Was it that obvious I wanted to hit him?”
“Not to everyone. What was Clark being a dick about tonight?”
“Some woman who’s joining our team.” I grimace in distaste. “He’s hoping she is, and I’m using his words, a hot piece of ass.”
Sebastian shakes his head. “Classy guy, Clark. Still, punching him isn’t going to do either of us any favors.”
“Sad but true.” I turn around to look at Ellis, who is shaking the hand of some young guy, his chest thrown out. No doubt he’s now introducing himself as the team captain. Good for him.
The bartender brings us a couple of bottles of beer without being prompted. We take a seat at the bar as Juliette steps forward to play the first match. “I'm glad you came out tonight,” Sebastian says. “For the last three weeks, I've just had Clark and Juliette for company. It’s been rough.”
I laugh. Sebastian has a very conflicted relationship with his business adviser. She’s relentless about making sure he’s in the public eye, and at heart, Sebastian’s a low-key guy. “Juliette's not that bad.”
“She's really gung-ho about this franchise idea,” he says. “What about you? How's the takeover going?”