Her second too heavy.

The third nearly right.

Theo kept all three.

“Evidence.”

“Of what?”

“That you were once bad at something.”

She threatened to fire him.

He reminded her he owned half the lease.

Every Sunday morning, children played free.

No reservations.

No dress code.

No expensive membership.

Mr. Reign sat in Walter’s old chair until his knees became too weak for the stairs.

Nala eventually became one of the best youth players in Illinois.

Whenever a nervous child asked whether billiards was difficult, she repeated Nyla’s answer.

“Only the first time.”

Then:

“After that, it’s just love and patience.”

Trey came occasionally.

At first everyone stared.

Eventually nobody did.

He lost most of his sponsorships after the switched-ball scandal.

Velvet Nine lost its professional tour license for a year.

His family sold part of the lounge.

For the first time in his adult life, Trey had to decide who he was without thousands of strangers telling him.

He began playing again without cameras.

He became quieter.

Not good.

Not bad.

Just quieter.

One evening, he entered Ashby’s carrying no entourage.

Nyla was cleaning a table.

“Want a game?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You sure?”

“No car this time.”

“Good.”

“I take the bus now.”

She laughed.

They played one rack.

Trey lost.

“Nine hiding again?” he asked.

Nyla looked at the table.

“No.”

“Where is it?”

She pointed.

“In front of you.”

He smiled.

“I guess that was always my problem.”

“What?”

“I kept looking for something hidden.”

Nyla thought about that.

Then sank the nine.

Straight pocket.

Later that night, after everyone left, Nyla turned off the lights.

Only Walter’s workshop lamp remained.

She touched the old Ashby plaque above the entrance.

It no longer held napkins.

Under it hung the photograph of Walter at his bench.

Sawdust on his sleeves.

Smile crooked.

Hands darkened from varnish.

Nyla whispered:

“Good night, Daddy.”

Then another voice came from the doorway.

“Boss?”

Theo.

“First customer tomorrow wants a custom break cue.”

Nyla smiled.

“Partner.”

“What?”

“Your name is on the lease too.”

Theo nodded.

“First customer tomorrow wants a custom break cue, partner.”

“Better.”

He switched off the last table light.

Then stopped.

“Your national trophy?”

“What about it?”

“You never put it in the case.”

Nyla looked toward the workshop.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Dad didn’t build cues for trophies.”

“What did he build them for?”

Nyla smiled.

“So somebody could pick one up and fall in love with the game.”

Theo nodded.

“Good answer.”

He left.

Nyla remained another minute.

The room smelled like maple.

Varnish.

Chalk.

For nine years she had believed that when the Langfords took the building, her father lost everything.