Her father held up his hand, and they slapped a high five. “You know,” Connor grumbled, “it’s a lot less cool when you look so fucking pleased with yourself. Fast Eddie would never have giggled.” “I don’t know who that is. And you’re just pissed that a girl is kicking your ass. Troglodyte.” “Blue! She doesn’t know Fast Eddie?” Connor turned to Faith. “The Hustler. Paul Newman. Coolest pool player ever. And I’m letting you win, because I am a gentleman. What’s a troglodyte?” “You are, butthead.” She lined up her next shot and felt a gentle nudge of her foot on the floor. Looking down, she saw her father’s scuffed cowboy boot pushing her foot toward the proper position under the cue. She grimaced. Connor was distracting her. She stood up to reset her stance, and she decided to show him just how good she was. Her daddy had taught her well, but he didn’t let her play at the clubhouse often; he didn’t like her bending over the table here.
