Take Me Home (16 page)

When she walked into the Sportsman, the flash of neon, the sound of pinball machines clanging, and the scent of peanuts spun her back in time. It was still early, but there were enough
patrons to give the impression of a crowd. And they all knew her escort.

“Taggart, my man, let me buy you a beer!”

“Paulie, you old bastard! Who’s the pretty lady?”

“Watch your mouth there, Fred.” Paul’s tone was part jovial, part warning. He greeted everyone by name and introduced Claire while making it clear that she was not to be bothered.

The bartender put two chunky glass mugs of draft beer on the counter and, with a wink at Claire, said, “On the house. Next round, you make Taggart pay. He can afford it.”

“Oh, I plan to make him pay—at the foosball table,” Claire said.

The bartender chuckled and held out two quarters to her. “For the first game. If I was a betting man, I’d bet on you, pretty lady.”

“You’d lose,” Paul said.

“That’s not very gentlemanly,” Claire said, handing him the quarters.

“Foosball is not a gentleman’s game.” He unzipped his jacket and held it wide. His T-shirt read,
National Foosball Championships. Only the best arrive. Only the deadly survive
. A flaming foosball graphic left burn marks on the shirt.

“You don’t scare me.” In fact, Paul had always been better; his hands were stronger, and his reflexes were lightning fast. She could only hope that pushing paper for a living had slowed him down enough that she could make him work for his win.

“Let’s play,” he said, putting one hand on the small of her back and steering her toward the far room, where Brad Paisley competed with the clack and hiss of air hockey, the ping of pinballs hitting bumpers, and the thud and pound of the foosball tables.

“Clear the way for the king of foos,” someone shouted as Paul propelled Claire toward the center table. “The emperor of spin has arrived.”

The four men arrayed around the table grumbled but relinquished their handles when Paul slapped down the quarters on the machine. “Singles,” he called out. “Best of three.”

Claire walked around to the other side of the table and wrapped her fingers around the handles of the 5-bar and the 3-bar, flicking and rolling them to get a feel for their weight. The spectators erupted into hooting and cheering.

She looked across the table. Paul was smiling, but his eyes told a different story. They were narrowed and intent. She remembered that look so well, and suddenly, she was a teenager again, longing to be part of the crowd. Playing foosball with Paul had given her that, allowing her to be a different person for a few hours. It felt good to step out of herself, even now.

“Ladies first,” Paul said, ceremoniously handing her the heavy white ball.

She “foosed” it through the server hole, spinning it so it went to her man. She took a shot on Paul’s goal. He blocked it easily, and the game picked up speed.

Her strength had always been her moving defense, and she managed to keep Paul scoreless longer than she had expected. However, he baited her into committing her 2-rod in one direction before he executed a snake shot in the other. His shot streaked past her goalie and into the goal with a bang.

“First blood,” she acknowledged.

They played neck and neck up to a tie at five goals each. Winning foosball required a two-goal differential, so play continued. Claire could feel her wrists beginning to tire, so she called a time-out. Someone handed her a bottle of water, which she chugged gratefully before grasping the handles again.

Paul scored twice in succession to win.

“Good game,” he said. “You didn’t make it easy for me.”

“Get the little lady a beer on me,” someone shouted. “Hell, get her two of them. I ain’t never seen anyone that good lookin’ get close to beating Taggart.”

“Not until I win,” Claire called back with a grin. “I have to stay sober. Then I’ll take you up on your offer.”

Paul downed the rest of his beer in two swigs. She was pleased to note his T-shirt was sweat stained, proving she had made him work. She tried to step back from the table to stretch her arms, but found herself ringed in by a considerable crowd. Evidently, word had gotten out about the match, and folks had come to watch.

“Time,” a self-appointed referee called.

Claire gave her hands a couple of shakes and took up her position at the handles. “Your foos,” she said.

She pulled every trick out of her bag to bring the score to 4–3 in her favor. Then a fluky bank shot sent the ball rolling past Paul’s out-of-position goalie and into his goal.

Claire threw her hands up and yodeled her triumph to the skies as the room erupted. Even Paul was grinning, despite being on the losing end of the celebration.

“You know you got lucky with that last one,” he said.

“Better lucky than good,” she declared.

The crowd parted as the bartender shouldered his way through, carrying a tray laden with beer bottles. “You’ve got a lot of admirers,” he said as he held out his burden to Claire.

“You said you’d take a beer if you won,” a voice called from the crowd.

“Yes, but I’d like to have a chance to at least stand up through the third game,” Claire said, surveying the tray in laughing dismay.

“Hey, I won the first game,” Paul pointed out. “Where are
my
admirers?”

“We’d go broke buyin’ you beers every time you win,” Claire’s vocal friend shouted. “Besides, you ain’t wearing a pretty pink T-shirt.”

That sally met with loud catcalls and several comments on Paul’s beauty, or lack thereof. Claire laughed along with the crowd.

“Time!”

All humor drained from Paul’s face as he took hold of his rods. “Your foos,” he said.

The ball went to her man, she faked Paul out with a dink, and scored. Paul met her eyes over the table, and she knew she was in for it. He bombarded her with shots from all angles, at all speeds, and from all rods. All she could do was defend for her life. The spectators began to coach her, shouting warnings and suggestions.

The score was 4–2, with Paul in the lead. The muscles in Claire’s hands were screaming with exhaustion. She tried a palm roll and lost control of the ball.

“Watch his two-rod,” a deep, familiar voice called out.

Claire forced herself not to look away from the table, but she felt Tim’s voice like a long, slow caress down her spine.

As Tim had predicted, Paul took a shot with his defensive rod. “Time-out!” she yelled after she barely managed to block it with her goalie.

Wiping her palms on her jeans, she scanned the crowd. Tim’s height made him easy to spot; his shoulder was braced against one of the columns dividing the bar area from the game room. As soon as she found him, he sent her the slow smile she was coming to anticipate.

As she watched his lower lip curve, she remembered the way his mouth had slid over her skin. Another ripple of awareness shivered through her. Having Tim in the room was not going to help her concentration.

“Nice block,” Paul said, yanking her attention back to the table. “I thought I had you.”

“My guardian angel saved me that time.” She methodically stretched the fingers of each hand backward, playing for time to
rest her muscles and her brain. “If I asked nicely, would you consider calling it a draw?”

“What incentive would you be offering when the score is four-two in my favor?” Paul grinned evilly.

Claire rested her elbows on the edge of the foosball table and leaned forward. “The satisfaction of knowing that chivalry is not dead?”

“I already told you there’s no chivalry in foosball.”

Tim’s voice cut through the hooting. “Perhaps I could defend the lady’s honor.”

“D
R
. T
IM
?” T
WISTING
around to look at his challenger, Paul wore a look of incredulity. “You play foosball?”

“So what do you say?” Tim asked as he made his way through the crowd to the table. “The lady has played hard and well, but she’s worn down. Will you accept a new opponent to finish the match?”

Paul’s eyebrows drew together, and he gave one of his rods an irritated spin.

“If I had a gauntlet, I’d throw it down,” Tim persisted.

The man standing beside him took off his cowboy hat. “I don’t rightly know what a gauntlet looks like, but you can use this here ole hat. Hittin’ the floor ain’t going to do it no harm.”

Tim took the hat and neatly sailed it onto the two 5-rods in the middle of the foosball table.

Claire watched, fascinated, as Paul and Tim faced each other across the gleaming metal bars.

“What about it, Claire?” Paul asked, shifting his gaze to her. “Are you willing to let a stranger take over your hard-fought match?”

Claire couldn’t imagine Tim’s slow, deliberate way of moving would be much of a match for Paul’s lightning reflexes. She didn’t want Tim to be embarrassed by getting beaten too easily. Nor did
she want to humiliate him by turning down his offer of help. She felt stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“If the good doctor can score even one more point for me, I’ll be eternally grateful,” Claire said, hoping that would save face for Tim.

“Okay, Doc, let’s see what you’ve got.” Paul flicked his 5-rod, sending the cowboy hat up into the air, where he caught it and tossed it onto the antler of a stuffed deer’s head hanging on the wall. “I’ll give you a couple of warm-up shots.”

“That’s mighty generous of you, but I’m ready.”

“Suit yourself,” Paul said.

Someone had positioned a barstool at one end of the foosball table and waved Claire over to it. She scooted onto the well-rubbed wood without taking her eyes off the game table.

The contrast between the two men seemed to disappear as they took identical stances, the same electric intensity vibrating in both of them. In Paul, it was familiar. In Tim, it sent a deep thrill of nerves and excitement zinging around inside her.

“Your serve,” Paul said.

Tim pinched the ball through the hole, and the contest began with a slam and bang of the rods. Claire held her breath until she realized Tim knew his way around a foosball table. She didn’t believe he would beat Paul, but he was not going to be a pushover. As she let some of her tension go, Tim executed a double bank shot that clanged decisively into Paul’s goal.

A raucous cheer rose from the crowd. Paul nodded to Tim in acknowledgment. “Nice shot.”

Claire slumped back in her chair with relief. Tim’s honor would stay intact; he had scored on the town champion.

Her loyalty was divided; careful not to voice support for either, she found herself rooting for both men internally. However, when Tim scored again to tie the game at 4–4, Claire had to slap her hand over her mouth to muffle her whoop of triumph.

Once again, Paul gave credit to his opponent. Tim showed no jubilation; his gaze remained on the table.

Paul foosed the ball and walloped it at Tim’s goal. Tim slammed his goalie over and, incredibly, kicked the ball off a corner of the plastic man’s boot. It caromed around the table and somehow got behind Paul’s goalie, rolling slowly but inexorably into the goal.

“Pure luck—good for me and bad for you,” Tim said. “If my memory serves, it’s your foos.” Since he needed only one goal to win, custom dictated he offer his opponent the ball.

“There’s nothing wrong with your memory or your skills,” Paul said, his smile a quick baring of teeth. “I think Claire got herself a ringer.”

As Paul sent the ball rumbling across the table, Claire found herself even more torn. On the one hand, she wanted Tim to triumph, both because he was the underdog and he was playing out her match. However, Paul had earned a certain respect for his skill at the game table, and she hated to see him brought low in his hometown.

She held the armrests of her barstool in an iron grip when Paul shot at Tim’s goal, hoping it would go in and hoping it wouldn’t. Tim made the save.

Time seemed to be suspended as the ball zigzagged back and forth among flashing silver bars and blurs of red-and-blue plastic. Suddenly, Claire saw a gap in Paul’s defense. She watched Tim brush-pass the ball to get in position. Then she watched him hit it to the opposite corner, where it rattled around harmlessly.

He had deliberately blown the shot
.

Her eyes flew to his face, but it showed nothing except alertness.
Had she imagined the opening or anticipated it just because she knew Paul’s style so well?
She shook her head. It had been there, and Tim had seen it too. She could tell by his setup. She was sure he had misfired the ball on purpose.

She looked around and realized she was the only person who’d noticed. The crowd had been drinking, so their powers of analysis were clouded. Paul was immersed in the game; he didn’t have time to worry about whether Tim missed intentionally or not. Only she was in a position to understand what had happened.

She took her eyes off the table and watched the vet instead. She began to see how fluid his movements were, how easily he controlled the rods, how relaxed his stance was. Yes, his eyes were locked on the game, his face wearing the mask of fierce competition, but he wasn’t struggling to keep up with Paul’s onslaught. He was directing his play as strategically as his opponent was.