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As much as Sam admired his older brother, it wasn’t often that he wished to be him. Except, maybe, on days like this.
“Alright, Winchester. Your move.”
Lining up his cue with the ball, Sam tried to wear a confidence on his face that he didn’t feel in his gut. It was a race to five, and they were currently at four-to-four. Because the other guy was a bit of a local pro (not to mention a show-off), he had given Sam an 8-ball handicap.
In other words, the only thing standing between Sam and $2,000 dollars was one black ball angled near the left corner pocket.
And Sam knew he sure as hell better win, because he didn’t have enough money in his wallet to buy a McSalad Shaker for dinner, never mind to square off a bet of that size.
The bar crowd — most of whom were friends with his opponent — pressed in around the pool table, screaming and jeering. He ignored their insults by picturing the one sweet face that made the potential ass-kicking he was in for feel worth it.
Deep breath. Stir up some of that Winchester bravery. Make the shot.
The other guy was pissed, but seeing how Sam was big enough to use him as a pool stick, he paid up without much fuss.
Once outside, Sam laughed, the cold night air filling his lungs, refreshing, sweet and deep. One step closer. One step closer to the life he’d dreamt of for years.
Two thousand might not be a lot to some, but it would be enough.
He could finally go shopping for that ring.