“Her cue is illegal.”
Kovac examined it.
“No.”
She rotated the shaft.
Read the mark.
“This is an Ashby cue.”
The commissioner looked directly at Nyla.
“Hand-built. Perfectly legal.”
Then recognition struck.
“Nyla Ashby.”
The announcer searched something on his tablet.
His eyes widened.
Kovac continued.
“Walter Ashby’s daughter.”
People began murmuring.
“The Midwest Open champion.”
Trey’s face changed.
The announcer looked up.
“And the national finalist who disappeared before the title match nine years ago.”
Nyla looked at the table.
“The national final I never got to play.”
The crowd erupted.
Trey stared at her.
For the first time, he was no longer playing a waitress.
He was playing the woman who had once been considered one of the most gifted young players in the country.
And she had spent nine years watching people play on tables built inside her father’s stolen shop.
Nyla chalked the cue.
Walter’s final cube.
“Let’s finish.”
Rack five.
Nyla broke with the heavy ball.
The cue ball reacted slowly.
Wrong angles.
Wrong speed.
Every pattern required adjustment.
She made the one.
The two.
Banked the three.
Safety on the four.
Trey attempted an aggressive return.
Missed.
Nyla cleared.
4-1.
The room changed.
Rack six.
Nyla won again.
4-2.
The livestream climbed past two million viewers.
Trey began moving faster.
Sweat appeared along his forehead.
Rack seven.
He had a clear run.
Then overhit the seven because he was still adjusting to the heavy cue ball.
Nyla took over.
Three balls.
4-3.
Sienna stopped smiling.
Trevor stood behind the bar like a man waiting for a sentence.
Rack eight.
Trey finally slowed himself.
He made four balls.
Played safe.
Nyla studied the table.
The nine was hidden.
Almost exactly as it had been Friday night.
Trey whispered:
“The nine is hiding.”
Nyla looked at him.
“Not from me.”
Three rails.
The cue ball traveled around the table.
Contacted the nine.
Pocket.
4-4.
The room exploded.
Final rack.
Race to five.
Trey stared at her.
“If you win this, you think everything changes?”
“No.”
Nyla chalked her cue.
“It changes one thing.”
“What?”
“My father’s name comes off your wall.”
Trey broke hard.
One ball dropped.
Then the three.
He continued.
Four.
Five.
Six.
The seven sat near the side pocket.
The eight blocked his path to the nine.
He attempted a combination.
Missed.
The cue ball stopped against the rail.
Nyla approached.
Two balls remained before the nine.
The shot on the eight was nearly straight.
Easy.
Too easy.
She studied the table.
Reign whispered from the crowd:
“Aim at the pocket.”
Nyla made the eight.
The cue ball rolled.
Stopped.
The nine sat near the opposite corner.
