Page 6 of Studs Up
“Move,” he hissed. I stepped back and let him take his turn. He sank three balls.
“You know,” he said as one ball dropped into the side pocket. “If you had a better command of your field, you might have won the final.”
That burned. He smirked, and my blood got raging hot and rushed to every part of my body. Every part. Especially parts that had no business accepting hot blood.
He took another turn, and the ball ricocheted to nowhere. He missed the next three turns. With each failure, the tension in his body mounted. The muscles in his neck and shoulders flexed.
“You let that ego get in the way, and you can’t sink the ball into the net on the field or the table,” I said cooly and took my turn.
He glared. I put another ball into a corner pocket and positioned another for my next turn. Monroe took his time looking for his next move. I leaned against the post and waited.
“Take your time,” I muttered. Prince leaned over and spoke into Monroe’s ear, then pointed to the blue-striped ball.
“Do you have to be a pain in the ass?” Monroe asked me.
“No, but it’s fun.”
He rolled his eyes and turned, bent over the table right in front of me, and took his shot. An uncontrollable urge to reach out and grab his ass caught me by surprise. We had never spent this much time so close together, and it was having this bizarre effect on me.
He struck the yellow-striped ball, which rattled around the table and ultimately went nowhere. Prince pursed his lips.
Monroe stood, steaming with anger, and moved away from the table. I let out a breath. I hadn’t realized I had been holding it.
I ended his misery with my turn, sinking the last three of my balls and putting the eight ball in the corner pocket.
“Fuck yes!” Marcel raised his hands, and his beer sloshed over him. He went in for a high five, which I accepted.
“Gonna suck for you living in my shadow for the next two weeks.”
Hate rolled off of him as he turned and stormed out of the bar.
…
The first day of training was a lot of team building. Monroe did his very best to stay as far away as physically possible.
He had skill, and he loved to show it off. The problem was that he couldn’t follow it up with goals.
He played like the only one who knew what they were doing.
“Do you like golf?” I asked as I stalked after him at the end of the day. He turned.
“Yeah,” he said and narrowed his eyes.
“Good,” I said as I pushed past him. “Maybe you should do that professionally since you’d prefer to play alone.”
“Fuck you,” he sneered.
“Is that all you got?”
He shoved me in the back, and I went with it.
“The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” I snapped.
“You’re a real son of a bitch,” he shouted as I kept going.
“I’ll give my mother the compliment.”
I left him standing there, furious and stunned.
