The phone behind him was still recording.
Trey turned toward the camera.
“Say hi to my followers, sweetie. We’re live.”
Nyla slowly crouched.
One ball.
Then another.
She crawled beneath the edge of the table to retrieve the seven.
People laughed.
Theo stopped wiping a glass.
His knuckles turned white around the towel.
Nyla reached beneath a chair.
Eight balls.
Trey leaned over the table.
“The nine is hiding.”
Nyla stopped.
Something about the sentence struck a memory so old she almost felt sawdust beneath her knees instead of carpet.
A man’s rough hand guiding hers.
A voice behind her.
Don’t chase the nine, baby girl. Let the table tell you where it wants to go.
Her father.
Walter Ashby.
Nyla found the nine beneath the rail.
She stood.
Trey smiled.
“Tell you what.”
He tossed his car keys onto the green felt.
A black luxury coupe sat outside the lounge.
Everyone in the room knew it.
Trey posted photographs of it constantly.
“Beat me one rack.”
He pointed toward the keys.
“You drive my car home.”
The room erupted.
“And if I lose?” Nyla asked.
Trey smiled.
“You work tonight for free.”
Theo stepped forward.
“Hey.”
Trey ignored him.
Nyla looked at the cue rack.
Then at the nine ball in her hand.
“I don’t play anymore, sir.”
Trey laughed.
“Anymore?”
He looked toward the camera.
“Like she ever did.”
He took her hand.
Nyla immediately tried to pull it away.
Trey held on.
“Look at those hands.”
He examined her fingers dramatically.
“Dish soap. Not chalk.”
Then he dragged blue billiard chalk across her white cuff.
“There.”
He let go.
“Now you look like a player.”
The room laughed again.
Nyla looked down at the blue mark.
Something inside her became very still.
She had once worn chalk on those fingers every day.
Not as decoration.
As a promise.
Before she became a waitress.
Before her father lost his shop.
Before she stopped playing the night before the biggest match of her life.
She placed the nine ball on the table.
Trey grinned.
“You changing your mind?”
“No.”
“Scared?”
Nyla picked up a house cue.
The laughter softened.
She rolled the nine toward the far end of the table.
Stopped it with one finger.
Then placed the cue ball near the opposite rail.
Trey folded his arms.
“What are you doing?”
Nyla leaned over.
The angle looked impossible.
The nine had no direct line to the corner pocket.
Three rails stood between the shot and success.
Nyla stroked once.
Twice.
Then struck.
The cue ball hit the first rail.
Then the second.
Then the third.
It contacted the nine at a thin angle.
The nine rolled slowly across the table.
