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"Let's play," I tell her, grinning daringly, and we shake hands again, this time seeming slightly more reluctant to release each other. We take our places at the final table, staring each other down. A thrill runs up my spine, out of desire for her and a rush of adrenaline and testosterone to conquer her in every which way.
"Heads or tails?" the announcer asks Kaila.
"Heads," she calls, watching me from the corner of her eye.
"Tails," the announcer calls out after flipping the coin.
I walk around the table, past Kaila's intense eyes, trying to ignore her and the building ache in my pants. I take my shot, scattering all the balls evenly over the table, sinking two solids in the process. Managing only to sink one more before scratching the cue ball distractedly, I hand over the reins to Kaila.
"Your turn," I say, our fingers brushing together as she takes the cue ball from me. It may be my imagination, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her biting down on her bottom lip.
Kaila
I can't quite make out the expression on Max's face, but it's infuriating, almost as though he knows his victory is imminent. For some reason it is much more difficult than usual for me to control my emotions, caught off guard by Max's demeanor and confident swagger. He has every reason to be self-assured, given his pool skills and his sculpted body, all too evident in his white t-shirt and snug jeans. Still I hate when my focus is disrupted, least of all when it's my rival's fault.
Soon only one of my solids and one of his stripes remain, the eight ball waiting. I sink my ball but the angle for the eight ball is impossible, even for me, and I can't get it in. Now I wait with bated breath as Max encircles the entire perimeter of the table, biding his time, making me anxious. He sinks his remaining ball, and the dread clenches in my belly. Then Max looks up at me from the table, and my breath quickens. All eyes follow the eight ball into the pocket, then watch as the cue dangles from the edge, then slowly falls in.
My eyes widen. This means I've won, because he's scratched. But this bothers me immensely, since he should have made the shot. He was supposed to win. And I wasn't able to beat him properly.
"Congrats, that was a great game," Max tells me genuinely, extending his hand to shake mine.
I take it, squeezing him hard, angry. "I can't believe you scratched. You had that." I release him and he shakes out his hand, surprised at my strength.
"I guess I wasn't concentrating hard enough," he says, making me think back to the way he'd looked at me right before taking his shot.
"I'm not satisfied," I say matter-of-factly, my hands on my hips.
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