Page 46 of The Seven Rings
“I think that’s golf,” Owen said.
“Kind of the same, but you don’t have to hit it as hard or walk as far.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Trey decided.
“Music won’t start for about another half hour. We’ll have a game first.”
“I guess you play,” Cleo said to Owen.
“Now and then. We’ll go easy on you.”
“Sounds like fun.”
They parked on the street and walked into Maloney’s, where the sound system played Led Zeppelin’s “Hot Dog.” Over the bar with its eight stools and mountain man–bearded bartender, the O’s and the Yankees slugged it out in the third. No score.
Tables crowded the space with a kind of bump-out for the pooltable and a juke. The walls—fake logs and thick gray mortar that possibly had been white once—were decorated with signs for various beers and clever sayings like:
sorry, i’m drunk.
Owen signaled a waitress with purple hair, a nose ring, and sleeve tats, pointed to a table. She sent him a wink and, pursing lips of dark, dark red, blew him a kiss.
“We’ve got a reservation if you want that game.”
“I love having friends in low places.” Cleo set a hand on her hip. “I’ll risk the wine. Coming into a place like this and not drinking—unless you’re the DD—is just rude.”
“Got you covered. Rack ’em, Owen.”
While Trey went to the bar, Owen began to rack the balls. “We’re playing eight ball. Simple rules. One team has solids, the other stripes. You have to sink all your balls into the pockets, then declare which pocket you’ll sink the eight ball in. Hit that in before you sink all your other balls, you lose. Sink it in a different hole than you called, you lose.”
“That’s a lot of losing. But you win,” Sonya qualified, “if you put all your balls in the holes, then the eight one. That black one.”
“That’s it. We play teams. We can do you and Trey, me and Cleo.”
“Girls against boys.” Cleo walked over to study the cues. “It’s classic.”
“Whatever. Let me show you how to hold that.”
“Can I knock at them first?” Sonya took down a cue. “It’d be like a handicap, right? With the black one in the middle, it’d be harder to get it in a hole right off, and maybe I’d get one of ours in to start.”
“You got it. Listen, but if you do hit the eight ball in on the break, that’s a win.”
“But why—” She broke off, gave a frustrated wave of the hand. “Never mind.”
“You don’t want the cue ball—the solid white one—to go in,”Owen explained. “Not on the break, that’s a loss. Through the game, if it goes in, it’s a scratch, and the other team shoots.”
“This is complicated.”
“It’s really not, once you get going. If one of the solids or stripes goes in on the break, you shoot again, and you can declare solids or stripes. Then you’ve got to hit a ball from that group with the cue ball, or the other team shoots. As long as you make a shot, get your ball in, you keep shooting.”
“What if I hit one of the others—not mine—in?”
“Once you’ve called solids or stripes, unless one of yours goes in, too, that’s a turnover.”
Cleo blew out a breath. “Maybe you can walk us through it as we play.”
“No problem. Sonya wants to break,” he told Trey.
“All right.” He handed Cleo and Sonya their wine. “Abby is bringing your beer and my Coke. You want to try to hit the cue ball right here, cutie.” He held his finger over the table. “With a good, solid smack.”
