“She’s meeting with some potential partners of mine,” Sebastian says.
Daniel raises an eyebrow. “She didn’t want you there?” he asks curiously.
“She did,” Sebastian replies shortly. “I declined.”
Daniel looks amused. “Of course.” He looks as if he’s going to say more, but he stops himself short.
I look back and forth at them, intrigued by this conversation. “Partners of yours?” I ask. “Other chefs?”
“No, these guys are investors,” Sebastian replies. “Juliette’s my business adviser.”
“Oh.” I feel a strange sense of relief that I’m unprepared to examine. Instead, I turn toward the pool tables, where Clark is, as predicted, losing to his opponent. He’s just scratched while trying to pocket the eight-ball - an automatic loss. For anyone other than me, it wasn’t really even a difficult shot. Had Clark not tried to be flashy, he would have made it without any problem. “Wow, he really can’t play against a woman, can he?”
“Nope,” the guys confirm. We watch in silence as he racks up the balls for the next game with bad grace, but the second game goes no better. His opponent has her foot on the throttle, and she doesn’t let up.
“If he doesn’t win the next game,” Daniel mutters next to me, “he’s going to lose the match.”
“Aren’t you bothered?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “It’s just a game,” he says. “I like to play, and I’m competitive enough to want to win. But if I start getting irritated every time Clark fucks up, I’m going to be angry all the time. It’s not worth it.”
“How very zen of you,” I quip, and he laughs. “Are you going to be this laid-back if I lose your bet too?”
“Is that any way to talk?” Sebastian chides from his spot on the other side of Daniel. “Have some confidence in yourself, Bailey. You can absolutely win. Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
That last exclamation was directed at Clark, who scratched on the eight-ball again. Yikes. Three-zero. Clark’s face is red with anger. He shakes hands with his opponent stiffly, and comes over to us. “Juliette not here yet?” he snaps. “Fine. Bailey, you’re up.”
Daniel gives me an encouraging nod. "Remember what we taught you," he says quietly, as Sebastian racks the balls for me. "Steady. Long strokes, nothing jerky."
I wink at him, hidden devilry appearing from nowhere. "I've heard that before," I joke. "Not quite in the same context though."
He laughs aloud. "Do me proud, Bailey.”
* * *
Clark’s not the only one who has dropped a rank. Not unexpectedly, my rank has fallen as well. Last week, I was a three, but after my abysmally poor performance, the league has downgraded me. I’m now a two - the lowest skill level of anyone in the league. You have nowhere to go but up, Bailey, I tell myself encouragingly, trying to ward off my nerves ahead of my match. Daniel and Sebastian are watching me, and I do want to do well for them. In one evening, they’ve taught me far more than Trevor’s taught me in months, and I’m really grateful.
My opponent is another two. He’s a geeky looking guy, and he’s a dead-ringer for Sheldon Cooper, on the Big Bang Theory. As I shake his hand, I ask him if people ever tell him that. “Who?” He looks blankly at me. “I don’t own a TV.”
It takes difficulty to keep from rolling my eyes. I don’t understand the hate some people have for TV. I like to escape reality by watching home decorating shows. Sue me.
I’m actually so busy getting annoyed by his attitude that I don’t tense up as I break, and because I’m not paying attention, I have the break of a lifetime. Well, my lifetime. This isn’t just a legal break. No, this time, when the balls scatter, one of them actually rolls into the pocket.
Little orange ball, I want to take you home and put you on a display shelf.
Even more shockingly, I follow up that opening shot, that miraculous exciting break, by sinking another ball, the solid green. I miss the next one, because sadly, no fairy godmother has been by sprinkling fairy dust on my pool cue. But still - two balls in a row? This is unheard of.