"Watch this," Tom said as he lined the pool cue up along the green fabric-lined table.
The pub smelled of alcohol—residue that could never be fully cleansed from the carpet. Five men stood around a pool table, two of them bearing pool cues—one being Tom, who was leaning over the table, lining up his shot.
There were six balls on the table: three yellow, two red, and one black. He needed to pot a red in the far corner. However, there was one big problem: a yellow ball stood like a wall between the cue ball and the red ball.
"There's no way he's hitting that," Connor chuckled to Danny, two friends of Tom.
"I think he will, you know, I'll bet you a tenner," Danny challenged.
"Go on then." Connor held out his hand—Danny met it with his own.
Tom cleared his mind. He slid the cue back, grazing the skin of his index finger and thumb. Then cleared his lungs. The glistening white of the cue ball sang to him.
Hit me. Hit me.
Have it, Tom yelled in his head as he forced the pool cue forward. It tapped the bottom of the ball with a satisfying click, chipping it up into the air.
The ball lifted.
And lifted.
Lifted.
Lifted.
A little too far.
It still kept lifting.
Eventually, the ball fell, landing on the floor with a loud clap.
"Tom, you're shit."
"Jermaine, you've never even met your dad."
He burst out laughing, from behind him, Danny and Connor.
"Pay up," Connor demanded, grin wide, holding his open hand in front of Danny.
Danny kissed his teeth, causing a sharp clicking sound. Slapped a ten-dollar note in Connor's hand.
"You fucked me here, Tom. You owe me a tenner."
"As fucking if. You think I'm happy with what just happened."
Connor finished the last of his pint. "Right, whose round is it next?"
"Yours, you div," Jermaine replied, potting a yellow in the far corner.
"Oh right," Connor turned to Danny, flapping the ten-dollar note in his face, "good thing I've got this tenner, eh?"
"Fuck off," Danny waved his hand—Connor pulled the note back.
"What's everyone want then?" Connor asked.
"I'm off after this one."
"Come on, Ryad, just one more," Connor urged.
"Mate, we've got top of the league tomorrow," Ryad replied, "don't you be going crazy now."
"Yeah, good point…" Connor placed his hand on his chin, "I guess I'll get shots then."
Tom snorted, "You're up front, Con, if I'm having to drag you along cause you're half dead, I'll finish you off myself."
"Relax, we'll just have one."
There was not just one.
There were two,
There were three,
Four,
Five.
It had gotten to the point where the night had blurred for Tom—shapes and colours swirling around him.
"I'm Tom, whachu sayin'?" He mumbled, leaning over a large wooden surface.
There were others beside him also leaning against the same surface. But most importantly, there was a woman, and from the vague shapes spiralling in front of him, she had long, silky black hair.
"Just getting a couple drinks, whachu sayin', Tom?"
"I'm sayin', don't worry about them drinks, luv… I'll gerrem."
Then came more drinks. The world spun around him. Eventually, everything went black.
"Let's go back to mine," a muffled voice whispered.
Tom opened his eyes.
The room was dark, dimly lit by the small slit of sunlight peeking in from the curtains. The room was unfamiliar to him. He rubbed his eyes.
"Oh god," Tom groaned as he rubbed his eyes, hoping the pulsing pain in his head would dissapear.
The bed rustled beside him. He carefully shot his eyes to the source of the sound. The bare back of a woman—black hair spread out along the sheets. Tom remained still for a moment—didn't make a sound. She didn't move.
"Fuck's sake," he whispered.
He rolled over—scanned the room for his possessions. Clothes were littered across the room: his and hers, tossed everywhere.
Bzzzzz.
The bedside table began vibrating. Tom scrambled—smacked the phone on the desk.
"Shut up, shut up."
He clicked the button on the side—it stopped.
A groan came from behind him. He stopped—dead still. Silence. He closed his eyes and let out a quiet sigh of relief.
He clicked the button on the side of the phone again to check the time. 8:21… the match starts at nine.
"Shit."
He raised slowly—sheets hissed. He slipped one leg out from under the covers. Then the other. Turned—planted both feet on the floor. Lifted.
He slipped on his underwear and socks,
Followed by his trousers,
Then shirt.
He crept along the wooden flooring. Creak—stop. He checked the bed—no movement. Continued. The air was hot and stuffy; there was a thick humidity to it. It felt disgusting as it stroked the walls of Tom's lungs. He wrapped his hands around the door handle and opened the door slowly.
Meandering through the door, he closed it behind him, taking care not to put too much force into it. He paused—leaned against the door. The splitting pain in his head forced his eyes shut. He wished the floor would swallow him whole.
Suddenly, he had the urge to move. His bladder felt as though it would burst at any moment.
He stumbled through the long corridor, checking room by room.
"Who designed this place?"
He pushed open the next door and found the bathroom.
The air inside was cool and light—smelled sweet, like strawberries mixed with something softer, almost like fabric softener. Velvet, he thought hazily, though he had no idea what velvet actually smelled like.
He staggered to the toilet, one hand braced against the tiled wall while he fumbled with his belt.
Relief came instantly.
A long stream rattled against the porcelain. Tom tilted his head back and closed his eyes. For a moment, the pounding in his skull faded, and his whole body loosened, like a knot finally untying itself.
"Jesus…" he muttered.
It felt almost euphoric. The kind of relief that made you forget everything else for a few seconds.
Just peace.
Until his phone began vibrating in his pocket. He sighed deeply, then reached for it, pulling it out and placing it to his ears.
"Alright, geez?"
"Yo, where the fuck you at?" Jermaine's yell muffled through the phone.
"Got a bit caught up, I'll be over soon."
"It's top of the league, bro. Get here quick-time."
The call ended, leaving Tom without the chance to get a word in. He stepped back and braced himself against the basin. The mirror reflected the image of a worn-out man. His eyes were being dragged down by thick, dark bags; eyelids fighting back, just barely open.
"Fucking state of me," he mumbled under his breath.
He ran his fingers through his short hair, brushing it down with his hands until there was a perfectly straight line running across the top of his forehead.
"That'll do."
When Tom arrived at the ground, he was met with the faces of his teammates looking at him sideways. The pale-white clouds caused him to squint, but the smell of freshly cut turf felt refreshing to his lungs.
"Took your time, mate," Connor smirked.
"It's your fault, about took your time," Tom pointed back to the previous night with his thumb, "let's get shots in, he says, great fucking idea, that."
"But you disappeared, bro," Jermaine chuckled as he nudged Tom's arm with his elbow.
"It don't matter," Ryad, the ever-reliable captain, demanded, "go get your kit on, match starts soon."
The red polyester shirt hugged the muscles in Tom's torso tightly. The material was smooth; it felt as though he was wearing nothing at all. There was a white stripe that streaked down, connecting to the white shorts.
Tom squatted down and stretched one leg out. It burned, in a good way.
Zion up to Tom from behind.
"Win this, and I think we're genuinely in for promotion."
"Eh, step six here we come."
Ryad came jogging over too.
"Tom," he grabbed Tom's shoulder, squeezing gently, "gaffer (the manager) wants a proper performance from you today."
"Don't you worry about me, boss. The starboy won't disappoint," Tom said, still stretching.
"I think that's what you said before you sent that pool ball to the heavens last night," Ryad chuckled.
Tom snorted, shaking his head. Ryad patted his shoulder and jogged back to the manager on the sidelines.
Tom rose, moved his shoulders in circles as he stretched his neck on either side.
"Let's go."
Tom's team, Saint-Julien Town, played in step seven of the Troisine football pyramid (also known as soccer, for the less informed). Steps denote how far down they are in non-league football. Step seven is seven steps below professional football, which in itself makes up four divisions—the first division being the cream of the crop in the nation's football pyramid. The pinnacle that every young Troisine boy dreams of playing in. Mostly for Marleille United, the biggest and most successful team in the country.
The match finally started.
The cold air sent a chill down Tom's spine, but after a couple of seconds of running, the chill was gone.
Tom legged it forward, one of their players—clad in a white shirt and shorts—followed tightly.
"To me, to me," Tom pointed to his feet as he yelled to Danny, who had the ball.
Tom received the ball at his feet and swerved around the marker, tightly hugging his back. Taking gentle touches against the ball, he carried it forward.
Another grunt came sprinting to Tom. Within moments, they were face to face.
Tom dropped the left shoulder.
The defender followed the shoulder—wrong way.
Tom tapped the ball to the right with his left foot.
Tapped it forward with the right.
The man was left for dead as Tom progressed forward.
"Diag'! Diag'!" Danny yelled from behind.
Tom scanned the field in front of him. Up front were Connor and Ryad, leading the line. They were mere yards away from the goal—a good ball over the defence could create a good opportunity—but they were tightly marked. To the right was Zion, who was sitting a few yards too deep to the point where he would most likely get beaten by the fullback.
However, to the left…
Tom swept the ball wide to the man at the touchline.
Jermaine—the fastest man Tom ever met; he was only about 28, so he still had some pace on him.
Jermaine breezed past the defenders who raced him to get to the ball.
Futile.
He was too silky.
He stopped the ball dead in the air on his left foot. Cut in. His marker was left for dead. He kicked the ball precisely, curving it straight into the far corner of the net. Majestic.
1-0.
But it didn't last long.
They lost attention for a second, and all of a sudden, the ball had been sent over the defenders. The opposition striker cut through the line, causing mass panic; the whole team rushed back.
They weren't fast enough.
He tapped the ball.
Through the goalkeeper's legs—in the back of the net.
"Fuck sake!" Tom screamed, "Zion, eyes on your fucking man!"
"Tom, easy," Ryad said, waving his hand down, "It's fine, it's only one all, everyone stay focused, no silly mistakes now, yeah?"
"Got it."
Game on.
Another ball over the defence.
No worries, goal keeper's ball—he booted it.
The ball soared through the air to Ryad up front.
But he couldn't get it—the defender knocked the ball back off his head.
A tennis match ensued as the ball bounced from one head to another until landing in a hefty bit of space on the halfway line.
Without a second thought, Tom sprinted towards the ball and booted it.
"Have it!"
The ball flew—curved slightly to the left.
The keeper's never saving that.
Thump.
A satisfying bulge protruded from the back of the net. There were flabbergasted roars as everyone in red swarmed Tom.
But they couldn't catch him; he sprinted around the pitch. Waving his arms frantically as they chased.
Jermaine leapt on his shoulders.
"Get in, Tom! You maestro!" he screamed in Tom's ear.
The hard-fought battle ended in a 2-1 victory for Saint-Julien Town.
"Yo, Jermaine," Tom jogged to him, hand extended, "That touch, that finish…"
"Mate, that pass, bro." Jermaine met Tom's hand with his own, a satisfying clap echoed as their palms collided.
"Step six, ain't ready for us, bro," Tom exclaimed.
"I'm not sure why you're so gassed, with your skill, you should be playing in at least step three. Why don't you?
"And play with a bunch of amateurs who think they're big dogs? Nah, man. Here it's calm, I don't have to train, I can just come and have fun."
The cheers slowly faded as the team drifted back toward the changing rooms.
Boots thudded against the concrete floor. Laughter echoed through the narrow hallway.
The door shut.
Miles away, on the other side of the world, a woman stood in front of a door.
The sign on the door said, Superintendent Makoto Isamu.
Himiko Suzuki swallowed.
"Oh god."