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If there was one thing Dan couldn’t stand, it was a hustler.
Games were an essential part of his life. When he was a kid, it was video games, games on the playground, board games or card games with his family. He had loved the attention then, the praise from his family for his cunning or the questions from his small number of friends about how he did it. It was that kind of feedback that kept him interested in getting better, though he learned quickly that it was important not to gloat too much: that was how you lost those friends.
As he got older, and the games became more complicated, he also learned how to read the people he was competing against. The craft of winning a game, in any game, relied on the ability to read your opponent and anticipate their next move. And the more skilled they were, the better. One of the joys of accelerating his talents was playing others who were at the same skill level, and in that striking against one another, iron would sharpen iron.
So where was the sportsmanship, then, in a hustler? What was the point of competing when your opponent couldn’t participate fairly, when the foundation of your win was based on a lie? Hustlers trapped you, played with you like a cat with a mouse. They had the audacity to act innocent, then smile when you lost. They were playing the physical game and the mental game, all the while, you could only play the physical game. It was half the fun, gone. And it wasn’t fair.
It was the sort of thing that boiled Dan’s blood just to think about. Hustlers won on lies. Dan won on skill.
That was why Dan spent his free time putting hustlers in their place. That was how he’d come to hone his skill as a pool player, how he’d come to be one of the best, competing in tournaments and making a living for himself as a professional. And when he had the day off, or when he needed to let off steam, he would walk into one of these bars where a hustler had been seen recently. He would wait around for them, wait until someone walked by with their description. He’d talk them up, gesture at the pool table nearby. Their eyes would light up, maybe with a bat of their eyelashes, and say Oh, I haven’t played in so long. Dan would let them bet as much as they wanted. And then, an hour later, he would walk out of that bar with all their wagers. He would beat them in their own game.
That was why, when Dan stumbled on a Reddit post from someone who’d been duped the previous night, he paused to read.
Greater London: If you ever see some blond skinny asshole bat his eyes and ask for a round of 8ball, tell him to fuck off. And tell him I sent you.
That was in his neighborhood, certainly. Or, enough of his neighborhood to catch his attention. The vitriol in the words was pretty palpable, too. Dan figured this guy must’ve been swindled for a lot of money and was still nursing the wounds.
The description wasn’t incredibly specific, though. He could do with a few more finer details.
Dan opened a direct message thread.
Hey, saw your post about the pool guy. You thinking he hustled you?
It didn’t take long to get a response.
Absolutely he fucking hustled me. Watch out for him.
Not very helpful, Dan thought, but at least they were headed in the right direction.
You said blond and skinny, right? What else does he look like? Where did you see him last night?
It took several minutes to receive a reply, but when he did, it was plenty to work with.
He’s tall. 2m at least. Skinny in a way you could damage him in a fight pretty easy. Kind of a big nose. Blue eyes. Pretty in his own way I guess. He’s not a natural blonde. Got roots showing. Average length for a bloke.
Dan furrowed his brows reading the message. That wasn’t the description he was expecting, especially from someone who was supposed to be angry.
Just as he finished reading the first message, a second, smaller message appeared.
Saw him at Marilyn’s.
Dan faltered. Marilyn’s was a gay bar. He wondered for a brief second if he should abandon this thread. The panic that rose up his neck was hot and prickly, overwhelming him for a moment.
He’d only come out a few months ago, and very quietly at that. After a lifetime of hiding, or telling half-truths, he’d thought he was going to end up with a psychotic break if he didn’t do something about it soon. So he’d come out to his family, and his close friends, and a few — a few — of his coworkers and friendly competitors in the league. It wasn’t exactly like he had the secret locked away, not in the way that it would be devastating if it got out. He knew it would get out eventually, he just wanted to take baby steps with it.
No. He shook his head, sending the doubts flying from his brain. This — this sense of justice, bringing hustlers to their place, humbling them for their sins against the game — that brought him more relief and gratification than he was willing to give up. Maybe it was a risk, walking into a gay bar, but it wasn’t like he was a high-profile celebrity. And even if someone did recognize him, which was unlikely, being in a gay bar didn’t make him gay, right? People shouldn’t assume that.
Thanks for the info. I’ll be sure to spread the word and stay away.
Even as he typed the message, he knew where he would be that night.
Dan walked into the bar feeling like everyone’s eyes were on him, and knowing they really weren’t.
The lights inside were fairly low, but not low enough to feel like a club. He didn’t mind it. He preferred to feel a little bit like he was in the shadows, especially somewhere like this. Especially as nervous as he was. He didn’t want anyone to recognize him as Dan Howell, the professional pool player, sure. But he also didn’t want someone from his personal life to notice, some acquaintance with a big mouth that would end up spilling the beans to the side of greater London he definitely did not want in-the-know.
Dan barely stopped himself from wiping his sweaty palms on his black jeans. Then again, maybe he wanted to look nervous. Maybe he wanted to look out of place, like the perfect prey.
After ordering at the bar, he took a seat and started to scan the room. There was no guarantee that the guy was here now, or would be here tonight. There was no guarantee that Dan would be able to recognize him, no guarantee that Dan could successfully get him into a game.
But if they got that far, it was guaranteed that he would win. He had no doubt about that.
Dan mused over it as he nursed his drink, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. He had a limit to how much he would bet — a couple hundred pounds, maybe, because he didn’t want to drain the guy, only teach him a lesson — but that was assuming that there would be a monetary wager at all. When he thought about it, the Reddit post hadn’t mentioned anything about losing money, though this was often the modus operandi for hustlers, especially in big cities. Dan was sure money would be involved.
There was always the worry that things would get violent, of course. A small worry, but something he always thought about. He knew this hustler was frail-looking enough that people would assume they could beat him in a fight, but assumptions weren’t everything, were they? Dan was tall, and mildly fit, and had a history of dealing with grade-school bullies. He could put in an effort if he had to, but he never had to.
That was the thing about hustlers, though. Their innocence and ignorance was part of the schtick. If they got angry, what would they do? Accuse Dan, someone open about having more experience than them, of hustling? That’s not how it worked, and they knew it. They always left it alone, sometimes angry, but always with their tail between their legs.
Dan smirked into his glass just thinking about it.
He’d told himself he was prepared to wait a while, but now, he was starting to get antsy. He was sitting there by himself, no phone in hand, drinking. He looked like he was looking for attention — a different kind of attention than he was seeking — and he knew it. And others were starting to notice. Dan could only avoid their eyes for so long before someone walked up to him, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Never mind the distraction that would be for his true intention.
He shot a look over at the empty pool tables. Maybe someone else would try to hustle him, even if he didn’t get this other guy. Maybe he could still have some fun.
Just then, the doors opened, and his guy — definitely his guy — walked in.
He had to give credit to the person who’d described him online; he looked exactly as described. Tall, but not quite as tall as Dan, bleached-blond hair with some roots showing, bit of a hook nose. Looked fragile enough that nearly anyone here could take him in a fight, which was a bold thing to be for a hustler. Dan wondered how he had gotten away with this for so long — or, if he had been in a fight, why he continued to do it.
However, Dan did not have to wonder how he’d managed to swindle anyone, especially here. He looked completely unassuming, polite, and mostly, incredibly attractive.
Dan followed him with his eyes as he walked to the bar, several feet away from him. He watched him as he smiled at the bartender, said “please” and “thank you,” and the bartender even smiled back. And he was entirely alone.
Dan adjusted his body language immediately, but subtly. Now, he was open, lonely, looking for someone to hang out with. Maybe someone to hook up with.
Maybe someone to play a game with.
It took a few seconds, but Dan could see him from his periphery. He saw the moment when his eyes lingered on Dan, then looked away, then looked back.
“Rough day at work?”
Dan suppressed a smirk, and at the same time, inwardly cringed at the line. How trite.
But this game, too, was one he was good at. He turned towards the man, face deliberately fixed into an expression of surprise and openness. He smiled, making sure it looked warm.
“In a way, yeah. Just needed to get out and be among people. Makes me…feel better.”
This was the first good look Dan had at the man, and he was more striking up close. All of the harsh angles in his face were framing it beautifully, especially when he was sat directly under the light. His eyes were certainly blue, yes, some of the bluest he’d ever seen.
His expression was so open and so kind. He would have to be, Dan supposed. It was part of a hustler’s craft to be so disarming. But on this man, it was like he was born with the look. Even his clothes were unassuming: they were colorful, almost garishly so, especially bathed as he was in the light from the ceiling lamp. Dan probably looked like a spider next to him, long and spindly and dressed all in black.
“Do you like people talking to you, or do you like being a wallflower?” The question seemed friendly, but genuine. “I’ll leave you alone if you prefer.”
There was a trace of something northern to his voice, probably worn away from years living elsewhere. For a moment, Dan was surprised by the question. He wished more people were aware of the value of being alone like that.
“No, I don’t mind,” Dan said, shaking his head. “You seem nice enough.” It was true enough, he supposed, though in his head, he put emphasis on seem.
“I’m Phil,” the man said, and looked at Dan with such a kind expression that, for a moment, Dan was worried about leading him on to something other than a round of pool. He tried to remember this man stood for everything he hated and tried not to think about his own, hypothetical interest level.
“I’m Dan,” he said, and stopped himself from offering a handshake. They were at a gay bar, he thought. No need for ubermacho postulating.
Phil turned his full body towards him, hand on his absurdly colorful drink. It was a deep blue, but not the same shade as Phil’s eyes. His eyes were more of a cue-chalk blue; the drink was a solid, deep 2-ball blue.
“So why here, Dan?” Phil asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
Dan schooled his face, refusing to flinch. He didn’t like something about his name in Phil’s mouth. It was the wrong type of sweet, the type of sweet used to lure ants and bugs into traps.
This was flirtatious, and boldly so. This was Phil gently tugging at a sexuality confession, despite something like that being alleged in a place like this, but not forcing it.
It was clever maneuvering, and Dan immediately understood why people fell for this guy’s tricks. The flirting was another layer, and on Phil, it was very believable.
Dan thought he was playing checkers; Phil was playing chess.
“I like pool,” he said, nodding to the still-empty tables behind Phil. Phil followed his gaze. “I used to play a lot in college.”
All true, though possibly lying by omission.
“Really?” Phil looked back at him, smile wide and excited across his face. “I love pool! I don’t get the chance to play much, and I’m not sure I’m very good, but it’s always satisfying to me. Especially the sounds.”
Dan was paying attention. All of those claims were subjective, like his own, but edged the listener towards certain judgements.
“Play a round with me, then,” Dan said. “My treat. I’ll get some coins from the bartender.”
“Are you sure I’m not bothering you?”
“Not at all,” Dan smiled. “You get first dibs on cue. I’ll be there in a second.”
Got him, he fucking got him, he thought, as he exchanged bills and coins with the bartender. He traced their conversation in his head. Technically, Dan was the one who’d brought up the game, but Phil’s language had all the markings of a hustler. I haven’t played in a long time, I’m not very good at it, ad nauseum. And he was good, too. If Dan hadn’t been paying attention — or if he didn’t spend his free time with con artists like this — he could’ve easily been fooled by the linguistic slight of hand and nice guy demeanor.
As he made his way to the table, Phil had propped his cue against the wall and was gathering the rack.
“Here, I can help set them up,” Phil said, offering his hand for the coins. “If you want to pick your cue, too.”
“Sure.”
When he turned back, cue in hand, Phil had gathered most of the balls and placed them in the rack. The 8-ball was in one of the corners.
Of course it was. A classic red herring. Dan leaned over the table and casually switched it with another ball, placing the eight in the middle.
“Oops, sorry,” Phil laughed at himself.
“It’s okay, I know you said it’s been a while,” Dan forced through a smile. He centered the rack with the table, then removed the frame. “Your break.”
Phil picked up his cue, then came back to the table.
“It has been. Be gentle with me, okay?” He lined up his cue, winked at Dan, then shot the cue ball towards the cluster.
Heat rose behind Dan’s cheeks. He blinked when the balls scattered, clacking into one another.
“Stripes!” Phil cheered after one of the striped balls fell into a pocket. He moved around the table, making a show of assessing the different angles of possible shots. In any other circumstance, Dan would’ve found the tilted head cute. But this was Phil showing his hand. This was probably why he did this at a gay bar. Flirt with the competition, distract them by acting cute, then win and take their money.
Dan’s line of thought stumbled. Their money. He hadn’t placed any kind of bet with Phil before they started. The only money involved so far were the coins they used to buy the game.
When Phil missed his next shot, Dan waved the thought away. Maybe he got them hooked first. Maybe the stakes rose with each passing round.
“Damn, I’m shit at those middle pockets. I shouldn’t have gone for that,” Phil mumbled, though Dan knew it was for his benefit. “Your go.”
“The middle pockets are always kind of trash,” Dan said, and he found that he meant it. “But they’re a necessary evil. Like the first round or two after break.”
Approaching the table, he tried to turn off the part of his brain that was accustomed to tournaments, to winning the game as fast as possible. This sort of game required skill, but it was a different kind of skill.
He settled on simple shots, things that might look like accidents, for now. He would play pocket-for-pocket, not getting ahead of Phil, not yet, but maintaining his own ground to set up for the kill.
He had a feeling that Phil was doing the same.
“Why do you prefer the company of strangers over friends?” Phil asked.
Dan was startled out of his concentration. He’d just sunk a ball and was trying to figure out how to intentionally miss the next one without helping Phil.
“Oh, um—” He chose a target, aimed, and missed. Shit, that was too fast. That might give him away if he wasn’t careful. “I just don’t want to bother them. They have their own lives. Their partners and kids and everything. It’s not like I don’t ever see them, I just…hate to bother them out of the blue.”
“That’s true, I suppose.” Phil had shifted his attention to the table, then lined up for a shot. The light just above the table was doing wonders for Phil’s cheekbones and the angles of his jaw and neck. Dan preferred to stay out of that light when he could. “But doesn’t that get lonely?”
The ball he hit fell into the pocket. The question he asked hit home.
Dan slammed his walls up. Of course he was lonely. Of course. But now was not the time, and this definitely wasn’t the person to be talking to about that.
“Not necessarily,” he drawled, remembering that he should probably be flirting back. “I like being a bit of a lone wolf.”
Phil sunk another ball, then missed the next shot.
“I’ve always thought lone wolves get cold at night,” Phil said, stepping away from the table and leaning on the cue. “No one to keep them warm.”
Dan refused to make eye contact with him. Instead, he continued his charade of pretending to look for an opening, then leaning over the edge of the table to shoot the one he’d found.
“We keep ourselves warm,” he said, trying to sound distracted enough that there was no bite in the retort, but standing his ground. The ball sank.
Phil spluttered a laugh, looking at him with round eyes.
Dan caught on.
“Oh shut up,” he admonished, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He lined up for his next shot, eager for a distraction. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
As the game continued, they matched each other’s shots. While in theory, this was a great thing for Dan, it was also forcing his hand a little bit. Phil came to a point where he missed three turns in a row, and Dan was forced to keep up with that level of bullshit. He almost wished Phil had been one of those simple jackasses who flaunted their skill at the very beginning. That way, Dan could blaze through the game and get it over with. But this was demanding a level of patience and willful ignorance that was crawling up his skin.
Phil also seemed to love talking to him. Was he intentionally slowing down the game so he had more time to flirt with Dan, and possibly get into his head? Whatever it was, it wasn’t working like that. Dan was gay, but he wasn’t gullible or fallible. Phil was pretty, but he wasn’t a genius.
Nearing the end of the game, they both stood at one end of the table, nearly close enough to bump shoulders. Dan observed the surface. Two stripes, one solid, and one 8-ball. He had it, no problem.
But it was Phil’s turn first.
Next to him, Phil hummed softly. Then, seeming to come to a conclusion, he advanced to the table — directly in front of where Dan was standing — and bent over the edge.
Dan clenched his jaw. Phil was almost fully bent at the waist, contorted in a way that was entirely unnecessary to make a shot. There was an arch in his lower back, for God’s sake. The way he was holding the cue, setting up for the hit, brought his shoulder blades backwards, making his upper back look even more poised.
Fucking bastard, Dan thought, trying to look somewhere— anywhere, other than Phil’s round ass right in front of him.
Phil hit, sending the cue ball to bounce off the side of the cushioned edge, then hit one of his remaining stripes.
It sank.
“Nice back s— uh, bank shot,” Dan stammered. He closed his eyes for a moment and bit the inside of his cheek. He could feel his face turning red.
“Thanks,” Phil said, sending a smile back at Dan over his shoulder.
When Phil lined up for the next shot — across the table, and far less salaciously — Dan realized with dawning horror that Phil could probably win the game now if he wanted to. He’d lulled Dan into a sense of comfort with the slow pace they’d been going, forcing Dan to follow him along like a puppy. And he’d played right into it.
Phil shot. The striped ball bounced off the corner of the pocket, back onto the stretch of table.
He was still in play.
“Gonna finish us off?” Phil asked lightheartedly, with no trace of intentional innuendo. He seemed like some regular guy being friendly at a bar.
Right.
“I don’t know,” Dan played along, grinning. “This one is a doozy.”
It wasn’t. Not to Dan. It was probably what he would call an intermediate-level shot, one that he’d made dozens, if not hundreds of times.
He lined up for the shot, pretending to double check his angle, while Phil stood just to the left of his vision. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t being distracting at all. Not like he was earlier, bent at the waist like he was begging to get fucked, when his hands were wrapped around the cue—
Dan shot. The angle was slightly off.
He missed.
Dan blanched, then quickly forced a humble grin on his face, sure it looked sour.
“What can I say. A doozy.”
Phil looked at him with raised eyebrows and an amused expression.
“Well, maybe I’ll be the one to get us going.”
The first one was simple, a shot Dan could predict from a mile away. It was a longer shot across the table, but he knew Phil was secretly skilled enough to be able to get it right. The ball was wide open, and Phil took it. The last striped ball fell into a pocket.
It was already over, and Dan knew it.
“I’ll go for the middle pocket again. Wish me luck,” Phil said with a shake of his head. Dan felt like kicking a chair over.
Dan watched him line up the shot, fingers flexed supporting the tip of the cue. Phil’s eyes were concentrated on the cue ball ahead, eyebrows slanted downwards into his eyes in an expression Dan had yet to see on him.
Phil hit the cue ball, and in a series of angled movements, the 8-ball was forced into the pocket.
The exact middle pocket Phil had chosen.
“Oh my god,” Phil exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I feel like I can breathe again.”
Dan felt like he couldn’t breathe at all. This was the first time a hustler had beaten him. The indignant rage that swelled up in his stomach was enough to blind him, but he tamped it down ferociously.
Dan couldn’t let this be over. He put on a smile.
“Heyyy, there you go! Nice reentry to the game, huh?”
“I remember why I love it so much. I also remember why I stopped — my shoulder is killing me,” Phil winced. Dan wondered how true that was, but as they re-racking the cues, Phil did look a little uncomfortable. “Are you sticking around? I can’t do another round of pool, but I can do a round of drinks.”
“Another time,” Dan said, and thought about another life, a life where Phil wasn’t such a fucking liar, where maybe he would enjoy having a drink with him. He smiled warmly at Phil to ease the blow, though what for, he couldn’t say. “Thanks for the game. For keeping me company.”
“Of course.” Phil tried to hide his disappointment, but Dan could see a bit through the cracks. “Come back and see us.”
“Will do,” Dan said, then turned towards the door with a small wave.
The smile slipped from his face as soon as he was on the street, drinking in the summer night air.
He would be back.
Dan couldn’t sleep. His duvet was in a twist with all of his tossing and turning on the mattress, and eventually, he kicked it down to the bottom of his bed.
What the fuck had happened?
Since leaving the bar earlier, he couldn’t stop himself from ruminating over the game. It was something he was used to, in a way, as someone who did this for a living. Review the game in your head, or on video, and look at your performance. Figure out what went wrong, then fix it next time.
But that sort of thinking was calculated and professional. This feeling he had now was laced with shame and anger.
At first, and very briefly, he wondered if he’d been wrong. Was this the same guy that that Redditor was talking about? Was Phil even a hustler? His doubt did not last long, but he felt better for having given Phil the benefit of the doubt for a moment.
No, he was too cunning, too open, too close to the description Dan received before he met him. There was no doubt that Phil possessed a skill in billiards that far exceeded what he’d allowed Dan to see that night. Phil kept it very simple, but underneath that simplicity was an inherent talent. It was like he had seen through Dan and had decided to play the same game.
Plus, the cheap tricks. Dan had never confirmed his attraction to men with words, but he was sure Phil had figured it out with his reactions to those fake advances. The innuendos? The seductive bend over the table? He may have had a bone to pick with the guy, but he was only human.
He paused, looking at it from a different angle again. Maybe these weren’t intended to be distractions. Maybe he was just…flirting with Dan.
But again, Dan waved the thought away. That line of thinking fell in too closely with “the hustler never lies” or “the stripper actually likes me.” Phil was just playing on a weakness he’d found, nothing more. Was Phil even gay himself, or just preying on gay men?
In a huff, angrier now than he was when he left the bar, he flung himself out of bed. If he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, the least he could do was be happy about it.
Making himself a decaf coffee in his kitchenette, he started his thinking from scratch, laying out the bare essentials.
Phil was a hustler. He was a skilled player, to some unknown extent. Dan had no proof that he ever swindled people for money, but he was lying about his talent. He wasn’t afraid to flirt with men, but the motivations were unclear. He was pretty. He was friendly. He wore colorful clothes and used vague language and white lies to get what he wanted, whatever that was.
The last drips of the coffee fell into his mug, and he wiped down the station before taking it to his armchair in the living room.
Dan had to beat him. Ideally, before Phil had the chance to dupe anyone else.
He looked at the clock on the wall, noticing for the first time that it was almost morning. No matter. He could sleep for the rest of the day.
He’d go back to the bar tonight.
When Dan walked into Marilyn’s, again, Phil was already there, and some dick was flirting with him.
Dan checked his anger, recalibrating. It’s a gay bar. Men are allowed to flirt with each other. He was going to look like a homophobe – or worse, Phil’s boyfriend – if he didn’t get his shit together.
Edging along the outer wall, hopefully out of sight from the both of them, Dan observed. This would be a great opportunity to watch Phil try to hustle someone else, see what his style was. He couldn’t hear anything that was being said, but he could watch body language. The guy talking to him had a smaller frame, a nice moustache, and a charming smile. He was laying it on thick, and Phil was eating it up. He kept giggling, covering his mouth with a crooked finger and batting his eyelashes at the guy.
It pissed him off, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe the whole thing just seemed like an act to Dan.
If anything, though, watching this interaction made Dan feel better about the question of Phil’s sexuality. This was a man who was definitely attracted to other men.
Dan watched as they seemed to exchange farewells, and then the other man was walking out the door. He wasn’t expecting such a sudden exit – in fact, he was about to take a table in the corner and order himself a drink – but now, Phil was alone again at the bar, taking small sips from his drink.
His back was to Dan, so Dan walked up behind him, then leaned against the spot at the bar right next to Phil.
“Rematch for a drink?” he asked, smiling. He didn’t want to waste any time.
He expected some degree of surprise, followed by a friendly greeting that he would have to tactfully bat away. Instead, Phil placed his drink down on the damp, square napkin in front of him, then turned to Dan with an equal smile.
“I already have a drink,” he murmured. He spoke so low that Dan could hardly hear him.
Without warning, and without breaking eye contact, Dan picked up Phil’s drink and drained it in three gulps.
He tried not to break as the taste caught up with him – he really wanted that to be a cool move – but he couldn’t help but wince when the sickly sweet flavor overwhelmed his tongue.
“What the fuck was that,” he wheezed, picking the glass back up and looking into it, as if for clues.
“Blue lagoon,” Phil responded evenly. “With extra blue.”
“Well that’s…great, then.”
“What, do you prefer the real stuff? Big macho drinks like beer?” Phil asked, though there was a small amount of acidity behind his smile.
“Hell no.” Dan grabbed a handful of peanuts from a nearby bowl to get rid of the taste in his mouth. “Fuck macho drinks. That shit doesn’t exist. Drink what you want. Just…” he floundered “...surprised you can stomach it is all.”
Some of the tension disappeared from Phil’s shoulders, and the shine returned to his smile. This was closer to the Phil that Dan remembered from the night before.
“Well, then, I look forward to watching you buy me the next one.”
Dan could have shouted with success, but settled for a smile, leading them back to the same table they’d played on the night before.
He noted, as he set up the table, that Phil hadn’t raised the stakes at all. Dan was thinking maybe that initiating the wager would egg Phil into putting more on the line, but by the time they had their cues and began the game, Phil hadn’t made any such offer.
“You break this time,” Phil said. “Maybe I had an unfair advantage last night.”
“Sure,” Dan said lightly, fantasizing about punching a wall.
Dan broke, a clean shot, and ended up with solids again. His first turn lasted two rounds: the break, then a double.
“Oooh!” Phil cheered. “Someone’s been practicing.”
Yeah, Dan thought sardonically. He wasn’t here to play around.
Deciding not to push his luck and reveal his hand too much, Dan intentionally missed the next shot. He wanted Phil intimidated. He wanted him to be forced to show his skill off a little bit more, floundering to catch up, asking himself what went wrong the same way Dan had been doing all night.
Did he want him aroused, too? He thought about it as Phil played out his turn, sinking one of his striped balls. He could try to pull the same shit Phil had. Bend over the table provocatively, stroke the cue, flex his hand around a shot. But he dismissed the thought almost as soon as it arrived. He wasn’t like that. Those were cheap tricks, first of all, and he was more than confident in his ability to win based on skill alone.
He also wasn’t quite sure he had it in him.
“Ah!” Phil hissed when a ball missed the pocket. “Your move.”
When Dan returned to the table, he saw that most of his shots were blocked. At least, they would be for the everyman, a character he was still trying to partially embody. One shot was open, though, so he took it, sinking it no problem.
Still, with the second shot, he deliberated. On one end, he could sink a ball with a massé, something his character didn’t have the skill for. In the middle, there were a few he could make bounce, but again – not his purported skill level.
He glanced down towards the other end of the table, closer to where Phil was standing. There were two balls down there, somewhat equidistant from the corner pockets and the cue ball. He could sink one and get an extra turn for the other, he was sure of it, he just had to figure out the order.
“Top or bottom?” Phil asked.
Dan blinked, then looked up at Phil in surprise.
“What?”
“Spin,” Phil said evenly, then slowly put on a polite smile.
Dan stared at him for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, then shook his head. He huffed a laugh as he resumed his position over the table.
“You’ll see.”
He wasn’t about to let this asshole into his head again. He took a moment to clear his head, narrowing his focus on the exact part of the cue ball he needed to hit to get this right.
He struck just above center, a perfect top spin, watching as the 2-ball sank into the pocket. The cue ball followed, but stopped before it got close to the hole. It was in the perfect position to sink the other ball on the next strike.
“Hm, top,” Phil intoned, just loud enough for Dan to hear. “I knew it.”
This was the closest Phil had come to admitting the breadth of his knowledge, all for the sake of a joke. Dan filed away the information in his brain, then attempted to wave off the flirtation just long enough to get the next one.
Sent the next ball into the other pocket with a perfect bottom spin, the cue ball returning to Dan after its strike.
“Nice!” Phil cheered, the normal glow returning to his face.
In spite of the way he felt about Phil, Dan couldn’t help his response to the praise. He smiled softly, muttering a thanks and gearing up for the next shot.
There was no way to sink without a trick shot, so he missed intentionally, scattering most of the balls on the table with the nature of his attempt.
Phil stepped up without sparing any time to assess the board, then sank a striped ball balanced perfectly between the cue ball and a pocket.
Fuck, Dan hadn’t meant to set him up like that.
Phil travelled around the table, eyes still fixed on the green. He was mumbling to himself, something that sounded like “I’ve got a hunch, fat man, I’ve got a hunch.”
Phil shot, a simple maneuver that sank another ball.
He was quoting The Hustler. Even more, he was quoting the actual hustler from the movie, The Hustler.
When he lined up for the next shot, he looked even more careful and calculated than before. As much as Phil’s personality seemed to revolve around a bubbly demeanor – and lies – Dan had to admit that he looked particularly attractive when he was so focused on the game. The way his furrowed brow changed the shape of his eye, slanting into the blue of his iris, made him look competent and intimidating. It thrilled Dan.
He shot. Not a single ball fell into a pocket. Still, for a second after the balls stopped rolling, Phil observed the table with quick eye movements, then stepped back. Dan could almost swear he looked happy, or satisfied, but the expression was too small and too quick to make a fair assessment.
“For you,” he said.
Dan stepped up, observing the layout for the first time with a critical eye, and paused.
Each of them had sunk most of their set, though at this point, Dan was still ahead. There weren’t many left when he looked at the table, but the way they were calibrated was messy. Many were lined up on the edges, and those that weren’t were in harsh angles. Looking at the position of his final solid ball, he realized, with dawning horror, that he had two options.
He could miss, forfeiting his turn, or he could attempt a power massé with a bank shot – something he’d often tried in tournaments when he was cornered into it, but had never successfully pulled off.
He looked up at Phil briefly, with no expression, to find him idly chalking the tip of his cue.
This fucker was playing offense.
“Another doozy,” Dan murmured. He was watching Phil’s face for a sign. “Might have to try a trick shot for a chance at this one.”
“Oooh,” Phil intoned, tossing the chalk back over to the bench. He smiled at Dan. “Think you can do it?”
Dan gave a polite smile back, then shook his head. “Probably not. We’ll see.”
He tried. He actually, really tried. But in the end, the massé wasn’t powerful enough to achieve the bank shot he needed to actually sink the ball.
Phil looked impressed. “Wow, nice arch.”
Dan waved away the innuendo, intentional or not. “Thanks.”
He swapped with Phil, who stepped up to the table with intention. Dan noted the position of his final two stripes, made a quick assessment, then threw caution to the wind.
“Top or bottom?” he quipped back at Phil, an attempt to use his own flirtation against him.
Phil didn’t look up at Dan, or smile, but leaned over the table and fixed his eyes on his target.
“Bottom.”
He struck a perfect bottom spin to sink one of his stripes, then watched as the cue ball returned almost perfectly to his hand. He changed the angle slightly, then executed another perfect bottom spin, sinking his final remaining stripe.
“Top left pocket,” he said, gesturing to the exact one with his cue, then sank the 8-ball into that very pocket.
It happened so fast that it left Dan speechless, mouth slightly agape.
Phil stood, cracking his back and rubbing at his shoulder, before assuming his friendly demeanor once again. He looked over at Dan.
“I like vodka crans.”
Stunned, Dan propped his cue against the table, then walked over to the bar in a daze. He ordered Phil a vodka cran before he could think about it, before he could let himself ruminate over the fact that he had lost. Again.
When he returned with Phil’s drink, Phil had reracked the cues and tidied the general area. Dan looked down his nose and wordlessly held out the drink, which he took with a polite smile.
Phil raised the glass to his lips, but before taking a sip, looked up at Dan through his eyelashes.
“I also like pretty boys.”
Dan gritted his teeth, but let one corner of his mouth lift up into a small smirk.
“You’ll have to hustle me a little better for that one,” he muttered.
Phil sipped, his eyes relaxing into something more blasé, then placed the glass on the edge of the table.
“Same time tomorrow?”
In lieu of a response, Dan levelled a look at him, then turned on his heels and left without a word.
Behind him, he heard a giggle float into the air.
Amazingly, and perhaps due to a now-botched sleep schedule, Dan fell asleep as soon as he got home.
The thoughts that haunted him when he woke, however, were merciless, and he took his morning shower on autopilot.
He has never, never in his life, had this problem before. Not with a hustler, and certainly not with another player, who would be far more open with their skill level and reserved with their flirting. The anger that he felt only last night about his first loss was much sharper than this – this semi-shock, this confusion of shame and frustration and, regrettably, a little bit of attraction.
What did Phil even do for a living? How long has he been playing pool? How long has he been a hustler?
Again, the doubt resurfaced in his mind, and he questioned just how much of a “hustler” Phil could be for someone who didn’t seem to be making money from this. So far, the only thing he’d gotten off of Dan was a drink, and that was something Dan had offered himself. He almost wanted to reach out to the guy on Reddit again to check the source of his anger. Had Phil won money off of him? Or had he just…sexually frustrated him?
Regrettably, he could understand if it was the latter.
Dan clenched his jaw, feeling the drops of water cascade down his skin. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of consciousness.
Something compelled him back to the bar, back to Phil, but Dan was terrified to face what was actually so magnetizing. It could be the lack of information; he didn’t know why Phil was doing this, what he wanted, what his true motivation was. It could be a sense of revenge, the need to win as a professional against some guy in a bar that he’d already lost to twice. Beyond that, or maybe more simply, maybe it was just his petulant need to be the best and win a game.
The hand traveling to his cock knew that it was more than that.
Dan closed his eyes, taking steady breaths of the hot, steaming air. He shoved his ethical code down the drain, silenced his inner vindication. In the empty space, memories of Phil rose, images where he’s competent, concentrated. He’s focused on the shot in front of him, knobby knuckles clutched around the tip of the cue, eyes in shadow cast from the light above.
Dan’s breathing picked up, and he supported himself with his off-hand against the shower wall.
He couldn’t stop the images from flying into his mind then, the sight of Phil clutching that cue, making his teasing comments and flirtations at Dan, bent over the edge of the table like that. He knew exactly what he had, and he knew exactly how to play Dan like a fiddle.
Dan really didn’t have to imagine anything much beyond his memory before it was over, embarrassingly fast.
When he got out of the shower, his thoughts were even messier than they were before.
Dan got to the bar first, much earlier than he had been on previous nights. He wanted time to think. He wanted to be able to sit in the space and meditate with a light drink.
It was a bit of a mistake. As closed off as he tried to appear, he was still a decently attractive man sitting alone in a gay bar. There were several men who tried to chat him up in the hour or two he sat there, waiting for Phil. Sometimes he would politely tell them that he was waiting for someone. Sometimes he would just communicate as distractedly as he was. But all of them left at one point or another.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he arrived, but someone else took the seat next to him. Dan prepared himself to let another down easy, but he was interrupted before he could speak.
“Surely you’re not such a lone wolf that you would willingly turn down so many attractive men.”
Dan looked over at Phil, who was looking at him with an amused expression.
“Or maybe you’re just that competitive.”
Dan smirked, letting his expression relax, but throwing his walls up.
“How long have you been here?” Dan asked.
“Long enough to wonder if you’re actually gay, or if you just have a target on my back for some reason.” Phil leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “But now I think it’s both.”
Dan narrowed his eyes at him, but didn’t respond. The bartender came by then, and Phil caught her attention to order one of the fruity horrors he always did. Dan could hardly tell what was happening around them, so focused as he was on Phil.
Phil turned back to Dan, paused, then spoke.
“If you win – and you probably won’t – what do you want? You obviously want something from me if you keep coming back.”
Dan faltered, unused to Phil being so straightforward. But, this is what he wanted, right? They’d obviously shown most of their hand to each other, so there wasn’t much that was still in the dark.
“When I win,” Dan began, evoking a smile from Phil, “I want you to cut this shit out. Tell people the truth about how good you are before you rob them blind.”
The bartender came back with Phil’s drink, and he thanked her warmly.
“Okay,” Phil said, taking a sip from his neon orange drink. “If I win I want a kiss.”
Dan’s pulse quickened, and he could feel the bubbling sensation of his carotid artery slamming against the side of his neck. He should’ve expected this, he supposed, for all Phil’s history of flirting with him during a game. But somehow, the wager took him aback.
“A– kiss?”
“Mhm,” Phil hummed around a mouthful of cocktail.
Dan took a few even breaths, then intentionally tampered his anxiety. Whatever. He was one of the best there was. He didn’t have to hide anymore. He wasn’t about to lose this game, not when they had everything on the table.
“Fine,” he said, resisting the urge to glance at Phil’s lips. “This should be pretty quick, anyway.”
“Of course. Your break or mine?”
“Yours,” Dan said, standing. “Enjoy your turn while it lasts.”
Phil hissed a laugh, oblivious to Dan’s general mood or else not bothered by it in the slightest. They worked around each other, grabbing and chalking cues as well as getting the table set up, before Dan raised the rack and placed it to the side.
Phil’s turn. He broke. A solid purple ball raced to the corner pocket.
“Solids,” Dan muttered.
“What did you mean by ‘robbing people blind?’” Phil asked, circumnavigating the table. He didn’t look at Dan, who, for a moment, didn’t understand what Phil was referring to.
“What?”
“Your claim against me,” Phil continued, bending over the table for a shot. He sank one of his solids with a perfect massé. “That I’m robbing people blind.”
For all his experience taking down a hustler, Dan wasn’t used to having an open conversation with them. Usually, they danced around each other’s secrets for the duration of a game, then he got to watch as they got red-in-the-face over Dan’s win. He left before it got nasty, before they could talk or ask him questions about himself.
He reoriented.
“Well, surely that’s the point of a hustler, isn’t it?” Dan deadpanned. “You lie about your ability, you trick people into betting more than they should, and then you walk home with their money.”
“Yeah?” Phil retorted, sounding genuinely amused. “And how much money have I taken off of you, then?”
Dan was silent. He should’ve seen that coming.
“Right,” Phil chuckled. He was taking longer between his turns, and Dan was sure it was a ploy to get more time to manipulate him, or work him for money. Even now.
Phil looked up from the table, straight at Dan.
“It’s not easy being gay, is it?”
Dan stayed perfectly still, meeting Phil’s eyes. There was a tense moment of silence between them, something that felt like a thrown gauntlet and a comforting hug at the same time. He could deny it. He could still refuse to engage with this guy and walk home with his win and his secrets.
He didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but he shook his head slowly.
“You know it’s not,” he muttered.
“I know it’s not,” Phil echoed, voice laced with kindness and sympathy. He walked closer to Dan along the table, then positioned himself for another shot. “Especially, I imagine, as a professional player.”
The crack of the balls on the table banging into each other synchronized with all the breath leaving Dan’s lungs. He felt like he couldn’t move.
He swallowed. Blinked.
“How did you know?” he choked out.
“I googled you the night we met,” Phil said, setting up another shot. Dan was too focused on their conversation to realize that he’d yet to have a turn. “It was pretty obvious that you were better than how you were playing. Just searching ‘Dan British pool’ was enough.”
Just then, Phil missed his shot, the ball hitting the corner of the pocket and bouncing back onto the green.
“Your go,” he said, then looked back up at Dan.
Dan wasn’t sure what was written on his face, but it must’ve been at least a trace of the panic he was currently feeling. Phil’s face fell, and he was in front of Dan in three steps.
“Hey,” he said firmly, “look at me.”
Dan remained as perfectly still as he had been for the last several minutes, but let his eyes meet Phil’s. They really were an ungodly shade of blue.
“I know you think of me as a liar and a cheat, and I definitely am a little bit, but I’m not an asshole.” He placed a hand on Dan’s arm, and the touch grounded him. “I’m not going to out you. You’re safe.”
Dan exhaled, then nodded, looking down. That would have to be enough, but he was grateful for the reassurance.
Phil smacked his arm once. “Alright then, show me how it’s done.”
Recalibrating, Dan stepped up to the table. Phil wasn’t finished speaking.
“I only mean,” he began, “that people start to underestimate you a little bit, don’t they?”
There was a clean shot on the table, and Dan took it, sinking his first ball. Locating another, he meandered to the other side of the table.
“How do you mean?”
He sank the next one, all without looking back at Phil, and moved on to the next.
“Well, there’s just your boring homophobe. I’m sure you’re familiar with those. Even straight boys can’t get through life without bumping into a homophobe. But apart from that, or even a little bit part of it, there are people who look at you, think, ‘Well there’s a twink who likes it up the ass,’ and love to act like you’re a useless damsel in distress. Never mind the layer of misogyny they have wrapped up in there.”
Dan had been sighting the ball down the cue while Phil was speaking, not wanting to interrupt his monologuing. He shot now, and the glossy ball plopped into the middle pocket.
“Doesn’t it just get a bit…tiring?” Phil asked.
Dan stood up straight, finally looking back to where Phil was standing, half-slumped over his cue. His bright demeanor was still laced in his tone, in his posture, but there was a set to his eyes that was begging Dan to understand him.
“You don’t want their money,” Dan said, realizing what Phil was getting at. “You just want to prove them wrong.”
Phil smirked.
“I don’t really care what they think. I don’t need them to like me. I just want to embarrass them, maybe make them think twice about shoving someone in a box.”
No, Dan didn’t personally understand this, at least not yet. He wasn’t public enough with his sexuality for anyone to brush him off because of it, or to underestimate his skill. But he had been put in boxes for nearly his entire life. To think about how much that already enraged him, combined with this level of stereotyping in a competitive setting, had Dan’s brows creasing in anger.
As he leaned back over the table, he began to think, with dawning bewilderment, that he couldn’t really blame Phil for his actions. In fact, under different circumstances, Dan could see himself doing something similar. Hustling for justice.
In a way, wasn’t he already?
“Plus,” Phil continued lightheartedly, “I usually get a free drink out of it.”
Dan smirked, listening to the balls crack after his shot. Another one fell into the pocket.
“Do you fuck them?”
Dan wasn’t sure where the question came from, but he was dying to know. His entire perspective of Phil had just shifted, and he was left scrambling to try to figure this guy out.
When he looked up, Phil was giving him a withering look.
Dan laughed, holding up his hands.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did, you know. Maybe they saw the error of their ways and apologized. And maybe they were hot and bought you lots of drinks. I don’t know. No judgement from me.”
“No, I normally don’t fuck them.”
“No?” Dan said, bending seductively over the table, then contorting his body in a way that showed off the few toned muscles he had. “Not even after you’ve teased them all night?”
Dan watched Phil’s smile falter, pupils blowing wide as he took in the way Dan’s body had stretched over the edge. He slowly raked his gaze back up to Dan’s eyes, then returned his polite smile.
“No, not even then. Gets them embarrassed, angry. And now I’ve shown them that I’m not only more talented than they assumed, but I’m also not some sex object.”
Dan thought about the guy online. He’d sounded so righteously pissed off, but he definitely didn’t say Phil had taken his money. Was he just pissed that Phil had beaten him in a game and then refused to fuck him?
Now, he really felt conflicted. He was beginning to think he’d been playing for the wrong team for the whole endeavor, like a man who didn’t realize he was stripes and spent his turns hitting solids.
He looked at the table now, their remaining balls somewhat even in number. There were a few trick shots he could go for, nothing crazy for him, but he hadn’t landed on anything.
“So, that’s it?” Dan asked.
“What?”
“You’re not swindling people, you’re just embarrassing some assholes and giving them blue balls?”
Phil’s face brightened, and he smiled.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fun.”
“Right,” Dan muttered, for lack of anything else to say.
“And you…” Phil arched a brow at him. “You’re a pro player who spends his free time, what, taking down hustlers? Or cruising for guys at the pub?”
“The former.”
“Ah,” Phil said, and Dan was sure he caught a trace of disappointment in his expression before he turned back to the table. There was a good bank shot he could go for, so he sighted the angle in a moment of silence, then sent the cue ball flying. His target plopped into a pocket.
“Well,” Dan sighed. “Any more tricks you can show me?” He caught sight of a nice shot in a corner, though the cue ball was farther away. The 8-ball was lined up perfectly to the corner pocket, but just a small distance away, another one, a striped ball, was open. Other than the Eight, there were no obstacles other than a slightly odd angle. When Dan leaned over his cue to sight it, he found that they were almost lined up, but not so much that he couldn’t work around it.
He glanced up at Phil, who hadn’t responded.
Phil was smiling softly. He shook his head.
“I’m all out of tricks.”
With a feeling similar to regret, Dan realized that this would be over soon. Very soon. He’d swept the board so far, not allowing Phil a chance to get a leg up, and he only had two more before he went for the Eight.
But really, he’d just started to get to know Phil. For the last several nights, Dan had been operating under the assumption that Phil was a bonafide conman, robbing the people of London and tarnishing the reputation of a good game. He’d felt like a dog on a hunt, unable to even rest properly until this guy was brought down to size.
But here was a man with the same ambition, almost. Maybe he didn’t go hunting for targets like Dan did, but he seemed to act with the same level of righteousness, the same sense of using his talents to make the playing field a bit more even.
And Dan thought about the very bet they had on the line now. If Dan won this game, he’d asked Phil to stop. He would take away some part of Phil’s ability to fight back against the system, something that would destroy Dan if it happened to him. Really, what was Phil doing wrong? And he was risking it for…what?
Without thinking about it too much, Dan moved. With a slight adjustment, he pivoted his cue and his body towards the 8-ball, then shot.
It sank.
Dan stood, his eyes still stuck on the pocket where the Eight ball had disappeared. He propped his cue against the edge of the table.
“Well, that’s—” Phil started, confused, before Dan reached over and pulled him into a kiss.
Phil grunted in surprise, but after a heartbeat of still softness, Dan could feel him relax a bit more. He could feel the slight prickle of stubble on Phil’s chin, invisible under the lights of the pub and from so far away. The texture swirled patterns into Dan’s head, like a shark smelling blood in the water, to feel and smell another man this close to him.
He hadn’t really known what he was doing, but with the feeling of Phil against him, he knew he had to act. He had to keep this.
Dan pulled back with a deep inhale, unintentionally catching the trace scents of Phil’s hair, Phil’s deodorant, Phil’s clean shirt. He found himself wanting to drown in it.
Phil’s eyes remained closed, a look of surprise still written across his features. This was the first time Dan was able to really see him like this — not a con man at all, but the disarming, goofy rat who liked drinks that were too sweet and putting men in their place.
When his eyes fluttered open, Dan spoke, quietly.
“Hello,” he said, stepping back. He was sure there was some chagrin laced in his body language. He stepped back, holding out his hand. “My name is Dan. I’m a professional pool player. I’m recently out, and you are rather attractive. Can I buy you a drink?”
Phil looked down at Dan’s hand in confusion, then back up at him with a smile, understanding.
Phil grabbed Dan’s hand, then shook it.
“Hello Dan,” he giggled, and Dan found that he would do anything to hear that giggle again. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m rather good at pool myself. And yes, I would love a drink.”