The sign outside read:

REIGN BILLIARDS CLUB

No cameras.

No bottle service.

Just twelve tables and people who came to play.

At the far table, an elderly man stood watching two teenagers practice.

His name was Henry Reign.

Everyone called him Mr. Reign.

He had been a professional player before tournament money became serious.

More importantly, he had been Walter Ashby’s best friend.

He saw Nyla.

Then saw the cue case.

His expression changed.

“Nine years.”

Nyla stopped beside him.

“You walk in carrying his cue.”

“I need a table.”

Mr. Reign looked toward the case.

Then toward the empty chair beside Table Six.

Walter used to sit there for every one of Nyla’s matches.

Sawdust still clinging to his sleeves because he came straight from the shop.

“Seven winners came through this room without him,” Reign said.

“And somehow the place still smells like his varnish.”

Nyla smiled.

“Why now, Sugar?”

She hated when he called her that.

He knew.

“Because they turned his name into wallpaper.”

Mr. Reign nodded.

“Then go take it back off the wall.”

Nyla opened the cue case.

The old man did not touch it.

He simply looked.

“Walter saved one cube of chalk for your final.”

Nyla frowned.

“What?”

Reign walked to an old locked drawer.

He removed a tiny metal tin.

Inside was a nearly perfect blue cube.

Wrapped in wax paper.

“He gave it to me before the shop closed.”

Nyla stared.

“He thought the Langfords would take everything.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You weren’t ready.”

“You kept this for nine years?”

“He told me not to let anybody touch it.”

Nyla picked it up.

Her hand shook.

“He saved me a piece of chalk for nine years.”

“He saved you more than that.”

Reign pointed toward her cue.

“He saved the best thing he ever made.”

Nyla chalked the tip.

Then approached Table Six.

Her first shot missed.

The second hit the rail short.

The third rattled the pocket.

Reign watched.

“Your eyes remember.”

Nyla frowned.

“My hands don’t.”

“Wrong.”

He moved beside her.

“You are aiming at the ball.”

“That’s usually the idea.”

“Walter taught you to aim at the pocket.”

Nyla became still.

Another memory.

Her father’s voice.

The ball is already there in your head, baby girl. You’re just showing it the road.

She tried again.

Ball down.

Then another.

Then another.

Two hours later, Theo entered carrying coffee.

Nyla looked up.

“You got fired.”

“Best towel I ever handed out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He gave her the coffee.

“Just win on Saturday.”

Nyla laughed.

“I’m not playing Saturday.”

Theo held up his phone.