The pool hall smelled of chalk and old whiskey, the kind of place where time didn’t tick—it clinked, in rhythm with cue balls colliding. The neon sign outside flickered Lucky’s, though luck hadn’t visited me in months.
I walked in carrying nothing but a ten-dollar bill and a promise to myself: tonight, I’d win back more than money.
Jake was already there, leaning on a cue like it was a throne scepter. He grinned that snake grin, the one that had haunted me since the night he took everything—cash, pride, and Marissa’s heart.
“Back for more charity?” he said.
I smiled like a loaded gun. “Rack ’em.”
We played in silence, save for the sharp crack of breaks and the occasional low curse when a ball kissed the lip and rolled away. My hands didn’t shake this time. The rhythm was back—tap, slide, strike.
On the eight-ball, I looked him dead in the eye. “This one’s for her.”
The shot curved sweet and slow, kissing the corner pocket like it belonged there. The ball disappeared, and with it, the weight I’d carried for a year.
Jake’s grin died first. My ten bucks became a hundred, but the real prize was the look on his face when I walked out under the buzzing neon, free for the first time since she left.
Tonight, luck didn’t matter. Skill did. And I’d found mine again.
Michael J McCluskey 