“Damn, didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered, flicking on the light switch to bathe the hallway in a fluorescent glare. After he’d left the Sportsman, he realized there was no chance he would be able to sleep. Adrenaline and arousal were still surging through his body. Walking quietly, he made his way to the extra room he had converted into a small laboratory, thinking he might do some mindless chores to help his body come down from its high. As immature as it was, he felt a fierce sense of triumph over the fact that he could have beaten Paul Taggart, the town’s famous foosball champion, had he chosen to. In truth, he knew that eight times out of ten, Paul would win, but for that one moment, Tim had been the top dog, the unsurpassed player in the bar, even if only he had known it. A grin spread over his face, and he did a silent fist pump to avoid disturbing the now quiet dogs. How ridiculous that he took satisfaction in that all these years later. It just showed how deeply your childhood marked you; being too tall, too skinny, and too brainy had doomed him to eternal dorkdom in his school years.
