Page 63 of Played
"That's hot. You go to Cumberland High?"
"No." I edge away, clutching the cup like a shield. "Just visiting."
"Oh, sick. Well, if you need—"
"Thanks, I'm good." I slip past him before he can finish, my pulse hammering.
Dylan's photo burns in my mind—dark hair buzzed, sharp jawline, intense tattoo curling up his neck. I've memorized every detail. If he's here, I'll know.
I just need to find him before my nerves give out completely.
The basement reeks of mildew and spilled beer. My ankle boots stick to the concrete floor with every step. A group clusters around the pool table, whooping and trash-talking, backlit by a single bare bulb swinging overhead.
And there he is.
Dylan leans over the table, cue balanced in his fingers as he lines up the shot. He sinks the eight-ball with a sharp crack, and his opponent—some kid in a backwards cap—groans and tosses a crumpled dollar bill at him.
I edge closer, heart in my throat. "Can I play the winner?"
My voice comes out breathy. Flirty. Nothing like me.
Both guys do a double-take. Dylan straightens, his gaze dragging over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. But he's smiling. They both are.
"Sure thing." Dylan twirls the cue, cocky. "Break's yours."
I chalk my cue, hands steadier than I expected. The green felt stretches before me, familiar. Comforting, almost. How many hours have I logged at the pool hall on slow shifts? Hundreds, probably. I could give this kid a run for his money if I wanted.
I don't want to.
The game flows easily. I sink a few stripes, miss a couple on purpose. Make it look accidental. Dylan's decent—better than his buddy, anyway. He works the table with casual precision, calling his shots, grinning wider with each ball that drops.
"You're pretty good," he says, circling to where I stand.
"You too."
"Wanna make it interesting?"
I pause mid-chalk. "What'd you have in mind?"
"If you win, I'll take you out. Dinner, whatever." He leans against the table, eyes glinting. "If I win, you owe me a kiss. After the game."
My stomach drops.
The boys around us hoot and holler, egging us on. Someone wolf-whistles. I force myself to laugh, to play along, even as everything in me screams to run.
"Deal."
The rest of the game blurs. I miss shots I could sink in my sleep. I let him win by two balls. When the eight drops into the corner pocket, the basement erupts—cheering, hollering, slapping Dylan on the back.
He grins at me, victorious.
I want to crawl under a rock and die.
But I know I gotta do this. For Claudia.
Dylan doesn’t waste any time. He quickly guides me toward the back of the basement, past the water heater and stacked paint cans. A bedroom door stands ajar, revealing rumpled sheets and band posters peeling off the walls.
"Come on." He tilts his head toward the room.
