“Yeah, just about every Friday and Saturday night. I’ve been thinking about doing open-mic nights during the week too.”

Ryan was distracted. “Yamaha,” he said in an amusing voice, drifting his fingers down the keys. “Your piano?”

“Yes.” I nodded. For some unknown reason I followed him over to the stage. “That’s my baby grand. It was a birthday gift from my grandfather.”

“Cool. Looks like you have a pretty impressive sound system. Lighting and everything.” His hand pointed and waved in the air.

Ryan’s eyes flickered over to the opposite wall and he strolled away to investigate another part of the pub. Something else had captured his

attention.

“What do you say to a game of pool?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at me as he stood in the brick archway that led into the poolroom.

“You want to shoot pool – with me?” I actually looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else, even though I knew full well

there was no one else here.

“Sure! That is if you’re up to it. I haven’t been able to play in a long time.” His voice trailed, a hint of sadness etched his words.

I shook my head, wondering why he would want to spend any more time here than he had to. Maybe he is just being polite?

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Come on, please? Just one game. I’ll even let you win.”

“Why, don’t you think I can beat you on my own?” Does he think all girls suck at shooting pool or is he just teasing me?

“Well, I don’t know. Are you really good? You’ll probably kick my butt,” he conceded. “But I think I’ll take my chances. Come on, one game. I just

need to get my mind on something else.”

“Okay, one game.” I nodded and proceeded to pick out a pool stick. He was rather irresistible when he pleaded like that.

“I’ll rack, you can break,” Ryan said, placing the billiard balls in the wooden triangle.

I leaned over the table in my breaking stance and cracked the stick into the cue ball, pocketing a striped ball.

“Huh, I think I’m in trouble!” He chuckled.

I made the next shot, but missed the third. It was his turn.

“So you’re a lefty?” he asked while he chalked the tip of his pool stick.

“No, not really. I’m ambidextrous,” I shyly admitted.

“Ambidextrous?” He smiled. “Very interesting.”

His reaction made me feel like I had to explain. “I’m mostly right-handed, but I shoot pool and I throw with my left.”

“I tried to write with my left hand once when I had my right arm in a sling, but it was nothing but scribble. Can you write with your left hand?” He

motioned as if he was writing on paper.

“Yeah, but it feels awkward and I can only print. I think I would have been a lefty, but I remember the teachers in grade school forcing me to use

my right hand instead. I was always slightly confused with which scissors to use.”

He smiled at me again. After all these years, he was the first guy who ever noticed that about me.

“Sometimes I wish I could write with both of my hands. It would probably make autograph signing more tolerable.” He smirked.

Ryan tried to make a bank shot, but missed. His beer glass was almost empty so I quickly walked over to the bar and tapped a pitcher of beer

and got a glass for myself. I always shot pool better when I was relaxed, and I was anything but relaxed at this moment.

“May I ask what you did to get your arm in a sling?” I glanced up at him while lining up for my next shot.

He smiled innocently and laughed. “It’s a funny story, actually.”

“I like funny stories.” I shrugged a bit.

“Ahh, when I was around nine years old - my brother Nick was eleven, we had this bright idea to make a go-cart. We super-glued one of my

mom’s laundry baskets to a skateboard and a…”

I couldn’t help but make a silly face at him.

“Wait, it gets better,” he said with a laugh. “At first we just tied the basket to the back of my brother’s bicycle and I, of course, got to ride in the

back. But we couldn’t get up enough speed. So we rolled the basket to the top of 12th Street hill. I climbed in and Nick gave me a shove. Did you

know that you can’t steer a laundry basket on a skateboard?”

I could picture him as a kid careening down a hill in a laundry basket. I started to laugh.

“That’s how I got this scar right here.” Ryan twisted his right arm to show me the mark on his elbow.

“Twenty stitches.” He grinned proudly.

I shook my head and smiled, imagining him being an adventurous little daredevil when he was young.

“Hey, it sounded like a good idea at the time!”

I noticed another scar across his right forearm. “How did you get that one?” I pointed to the mark in question.

“Ahh, fishing accident.” He laughed. “Nick again. Caught me with a hook once while we were fishing with our dad. I yelled, he yanked, and I got

more stitches. To this day I stay far away from him when we’re fishing. What about you?” he asked. “Got any good scar stories?”

“I have to think about that one for a minute. Wait, I have one - on my right knee.”

“Well you know you have to show it to me now,” he teased.

I hesitantly pulled up the leg of my jeans to reveal the dime-sized circular scar on my kneecap. I was relieved that I had shaved my legs this

morning.

“I don’t remember if I was six or seven, but I got this the day my dad took the training wheels off my bike,” I admitted. “I think there’s a cinder or

two still stuck in there.” My finger pushed on the spot.

“Ha! It’s a good story, but that’s not a very good scar. It’s barely noticeable,” he added after rubbing his finger over my faint mark.

“Sorry, it’s all I have. I usually go right for breaking bones instead of getting simple scars.”

“How many?” he asked while taking his next shot on the table.

“What? Broken bones? Two - left wrist and right ankle.”

“And are there good stories that go along with the broken bones?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

“Right ankle isn’t that exciting. I slipped and fell on some icy steps at college.” I took a sip from my beer glass. “Left wrist, however, has a better

punch line. Let’s just say that’s the day I learned that tequila and rollerblading should never be used in the same sentence.”

Ryan started laughing. “That’s something I would have liked to see!”

“What about you? Did you ever break any bones?”

He looked at me and nodded. “Quite a few actually. Mostly fingers and toes, but I had my left arm broken once in high school. I was playing

baseball and got taken out by the third baseman.”

While he was telling me his story, I missed my shot; it was his turn.

“Thanks! Thanks a lot!” he quipped. “You’re killing me here! Do you think you could have at least left me a shot?”

I could tell he was just teasing me. He walked around the table looking for an angle as I had tucked the cue ball behind the eightball.

I noticed that I was able to look at him now for more than two seconds at a time. I watched as the fingers of his left hand formed into a bridge

while he was lining up to take his next shot. He had really long fingers. The muscles on his forearm flexed when he stroked the pool stick in his hand.

From my current angle, I took in the visions of his long legs and how the back pockets of his jeans curved on his shape. And when he leaned

over the table, my blue T-shirt separated from his body, exposing some tight flesh on his stomach. I could see what the big draw was for his fans…

and it wasn’t his pool-playing skills.

“Eightball in the corner pocket,” I stated as I drew my stick back to make the shot that he had missed. With one precise movement, I tapped the

cue ball and pocketed the eight.

“Good job!” Ryan held his hand up and gave me a gentle high-five hand slap. I started to put my pool stick back on the wall when he interrupted