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Fred Andrews doesn’t typically play pool. It’s just not his game, not since high school anyway. But FP hands out this olive branch and who is Fred to turn it down?
Fred jokingly tells FP he needs some pointers, and FP just raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Want me to pull out my old moves on you, Fred?” he asks, and Fred laughs but doesn’t say no.
He doesn’t object to bending over on the table cue stick in hand aiming for the stripes with FP’s body pressed against him, guiding his hands, his hips. It’s the same thing they pulled with Gladys and Mary back in the day. The same thing that Fred wanted to pull with FP, if he’d ever let him.
They’re both three beers deep and mostly shooting the shit rather than racking the balls up for another round. Fred’s aiming for hitting the eight ball in the corner pocket, and he looks up- FP’s knocking back the last of his PBR. But it’s the way he’s doing it. The leather jacket creaks as it bends, FP’s neck exposed, adam’s apple moving. The worst part is the tiny sliver of hip that shows as FP’s shirt rides up. It’s mouthwatering.
Fred wonders for a brief moment as he swallows if he’s so obvious to FP. If he’s always been this obvious. Fred turns back to the game and the cue ball clacks against the eight and it rolls listlessly to the corner and sinks in.
Fred stands up, smiling at his victory and FP looks at him, a strange glint in his eye.
“Nice shot,” FP says, and brings up the edge of his shirt to his mouth to wipe, revealing a wide, tattooed chest. His eyes are pinned to Fred, though- that glint now a gleam- and drops his shirt to show a smug look.
“What?” Fred huffs.
“You still thirsty?” FP asks, making his way around the table.
“I think I’m good, man,” Fred says. He raises his can of half finished beer. “Gotta sober up so I can drive home anyway.”
“I ain’t talking about the beer, Fred.” FP smiles, easy and slow.
Fred frowns, tries to think back on when he’s last seen this look on FP. Then it hits him: high school. Every time FP pulled the make on a girl he’d get this look, this confidence. “Uh, FP,” Fred starts, raising his hands, not knowing what to do.
FP leans in. “You can ride with me,” he says, grabbing Fred’s wrist. His eyes fall to Fred’s lips, his intent clear. FP bites his own lip.
Fred thinks about it, about hopping on the back of FP’s bike and holding tight, the possible rumble between his thighs, the wind whipping at them except for the space between their bodies, hot and heady.
“You’ve had three beers, FP.”
“Yeah? You wanna see how sober I am?”
“What, you keep a breathalyzer in your jacket?” Fred teases.
FP pulls Fred’s wrist, still in his grip to his mouth. Fred pauses, waits to see who pull out in this game of chicken. FP’s breath is hot on Fred’s wrist, his lips almost there.
Fred tilts his head and smirks as FP drops his wrist.
“Yeah you’re right,” FP says, backing off. “I’m a little tipsy- I’ll kiss you tomorrow- then you’ll see how serious I can be.”
Fred has never blushed so hard in his life.
Naturally, FP laughs, but he calls them both a taxi home while shooting Fred a wink.