confident that I can channel his ego and budget into the single biggest order ever placed with Learning Space, the company I work for.
Derek balances the cue and leans forward. He has a nice arse, I think offhandedly, but heâs not my type. Heâs too full of himself, too arrogant. Iâm not his type either, with my fiery hair, pale skin and eyes, and faded freckles smattering the curves of my cheeks. I look Celtic through and through and Derekâs taste in women, if his current girlfriend is anything to go by, runs more towards exotic.
He strikes the red in the wrong place and it stops short of the pocket. âClose,â he says with a wry grin.
Itâs not close at all.
I gulp down more of my drink before taking the cue from his outstretched hand. I draw a mental line between the white ball and the one Iâm aiming for, the green. It goes in, rolling along the underneath of the table with a satisfying rumble.
âWell done,â he says condescendingly.
Iâm perfectly lined up for my next shot and it goes in just as nicely.
Derek, embarrassed that Iâm better than him, looks around to see whoâs watching. âWhere did you learn how to play pool?â
âFrom my brother and his friends.â
âWith pints of Guinness lined up on the sides of the table and Irish ballads playing in the background?â he sneers.
âSomething like that.â
I scan the table. I could set up the last three balls, but that would piss Derek off even more. Itâs a fine line with him: he has to admire me, respect me; a little hate is good too, so that I can push him, like Iâm doing now. But there is a line.
I clip the yellow and leave it deliberately shy of the middle pocket.
He puts down his drink. He has a purpose now: to regain dignity. He struts around the table. Squats. Measures. Bends over and gives a group of girls standing close by a tantalising view of his nice arse. He makes the shot and gets it in but he isnât lined up for the next one. This doesnât stop him from being inordinately pleased with himself.
âHold on while I go to the bar.â Heâs gone before I have the chance to stop him. Iâm tired by now, my body aching for rest. Iâve been playing to his ego all evening. Over dinner. Over drinks. This game of pool. Now more drinks. Still, though, if this is what it takes â¦
Derek re-emerges through the haze, tall and confident. People move out of his way. He hands me a bourbon and Coke.
âDid I ask for this?â
âJust drink it.â
Sometimes heâs domineering and possessive with me, as though Iâm his girlfriend, which Iâm not and never will be. This do-it-or-else attitude is his way of flirting. He knows that I havehis measure, that I will only allow him to act like this to a certain degree.
I donât like bourbon but drink it anyway. It tastes of my determination.
âBlue or orange?â I ask.
âBlue,â he replies.
The blue is in a slightly better place but itâs still a challenging shot. I get the bridge and sit on the side of the table.
âOne legâs meant to touch the ground,â he states with ill-disguised competitiveness.
âThat ruleâs for people who are more than five feet tall,â I retort and cut the blue on the side. It spins into the pocket. The white draws back perfectly and Iâm able to send the orange into the same pocket. I slide down off the table, not missing the look of annoyance on his face.
âSo, Derek,â I begin as I size up the yellow that I left hanging by the middle pocket. âDo you have firm dates for the training rollout?â
âItâs scheduled for May,â he replies, mollified by my question: Iâm seeking his business; he has the veto, the power.
âDo you have a better idea of numbers?â
âApproximately three thousand employees.â
âDo you still think the program will
Derek balances the cue and leans forward. He has a nice arse, I think offhandedly, but heâs not my type. Heâs too full of himself, too arrogant. Iâm not his type either, with my fiery hair, pale skin and eyes, and faded freckles smattering the curves of my cheeks. I look Celtic through and through and Derekâs taste in women, if his current girlfriend is anything to go by, runs more towards exotic.
He strikes the red in the wrong place and it stops short of the pocket. âClose,â he says with a wry grin.
Itâs not close at all.
I gulp down more of my drink before taking the cue from his outstretched hand. I draw a mental line between the white ball and the one Iâm aiming for, the green. It goes in, rolling along the underneath of the table with a satisfying rumble.
âWell done,â he says condescendingly.
Iâm perfectly lined up for my next shot and it goes in just as nicely.
Derek, embarrassed that Iâm better than him, looks around to see whoâs watching. âWhere did you learn how to play pool?â
âFrom my brother and his friends.â
âWith pints of Guinness lined up on the sides of the table and Irish ballads playing in the background?â he sneers.
âSomething like that.â
I scan the table. I could set up the last three balls, but that would piss Derek off even more. Itâs a fine line with him: he has to admire me, respect me; a little hate is good too, so that I can push him, like Iâm doing now. But there is a line.
I clip the yellow and leave it deliberately shy of the middle pocket.
He puts down his drink. He has a purpose now: to regain dignity. He struts around the table. Squats. Measures. Bends over and gives a group of girls standing close by a tantalising view of his nice arse. He makes the shot and gets it in but he isnât lined up for the next one. This doesnât stop him from being inordinately pleased with himself.
âHold on while I go to the bar.â Heâs gone before I have the chance to stop him. Iâm tired by now, my body aching for rest. Iâve been playing to his ego all evening. Over dinner. Over drinks. This game of pool. Now more drinks. Still, though, if this is what it takes â¦
Derek re-emerges through the haze, tall and confident. People move out of his way. He hands me a bourbon and Coke.
âDid I ask for this?â
âJust drink it.â
Sometimes heâs domineering and possessive with me, as though Iâm his girlfriend, which Iâm not and never will be. This do-it-or-else attitude is his way of flirting. He knows that I havehis measure, that I will only allow him to act like this to a certain degree.
I donât like bourbon but drink it anyway. It tastes of my determination.
âBlue or orange?â I ask.
âBlue,â he replies.
The blue is in a slightly better place but itâs still a challenging shot. I get the bridge and sit on the side of the table.
âOne legâs meant to touch the ground,â he states with ill-disguised competitiveness.
âThat ruleâs for people who are more than five feet tall,â I retort and cut the blue on the side. It spins into the pocket. The white draws back perfectly and Iâm able to send the orange into the same pocket. I slide down off the table, not missing the look of annoyance on his face.
âSo, Derek,â I begin as I size up the yellow that I left hanging by the middle pocket. âDo you have firm dates for the training rollout?â
âItâs scheduled for May,â he replies, mollified by my question: Iâm seeking his business; he has the veto, the power.
âDo you have a better idea of numbers?â
âApproximately three thousand employees.â
âDo you still think the program will
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