Would You Rather

3 - WYR: lose miserably at pool or flirt in any normal way?

FINLEY

He is winning the next round. He's kicking my ass like he has something to prove. Every shot he's taken so far has gotten more than one ball in and I'm... honestly terrified. What normal person can play pool like this?

"I'm sorry, you said your sister was internationally good at pool?" I say, watching him line up another shot. The alcohol is starting to get to me, just a bit, and I know because I keep catching myself staring at the line of his shoulders or, and I am no better than a man but holy actual shit, staring at his ass.

The guy, maybe not so mysteriously now that I know what he does for work, has an abnormally nice set of legs, and despite the loose fit of his jeans. If he takes just the right type of step, I can see the definition of his quads above his knees and... well. I do like a man with good legs. He just happens to be at the top of the list of Men With Nice Legs.

It's doing it for me.

"Yeah." He's focused, muttering, not exactly audible over the music. "She practices with me when I'm home."

"Okay, so that explains this insanity, then." He sinks another shot, the first that isn't a double. I'd make fun of him for that but I'm not exactly in a position to be picking on him for his skill.

"I'm also really good at geometry." He stands, watching me line up, assessing me, tongue stuck to the corner of his mouth. I've realized he starts doing that when he's caught up in his head.

In the time it took for us to set up again, his friend Hugo and my roommate, Nat, have completely disappeared. I wouldn't doubt that they're currently crowding up the upstairs space in a booth somewhere making out. That was the only possible solution when he looked at her like she was on fire after she ripped that lime out of his mouth. His other two friends, Langley and Williams, though I think those are both last names, are playing a slow match of pool on their abandoned table.

It's just Fidan and I now, and he's racing me through this.

"You're playing this like the stakes are the same," I say. It throws him off completely and he misses his next shot, standing up, looking at me, confusion in those dark brows and thick lashes.

"They aren't?" He confirms, glory blue eyes squinting at me. I think he knows he's gorgeous. There's no real need to point it out. He's gorgeous in an off-center way, the type that sneaks up on you. Your first take is that he's alright looking and then you turn around and actually catalog his out-of-place features and sleek, lanky build and then you realize, oh, shit.

"Well, we're not playing with Nat and Hugo."

He leans his arms forward on the pool table and the wood creaks under his weight. If I had to guess, he's around eighty kilos. It's my best estimate, gauging off his significant but not insane height and his athletic build. He's not... hockey player big. Honestly, I was surprised when I made the connection and he confirmed it, especially if he's professional. He's skinny, injureable. One of my summer coworkers that I do EMS shifts with once taught me that-

I pause, remembering the summer gigs I've worked with Regina EMS. The same coworker standing out of the crowd.

"Hey, hold on." I wave my hand, clearing my head. "Do you know Jorgen Hadley? I'm pretty sure he's in your medical department."

"Oh, Daddy Haddy? Yeah, I do."

I balk at that nickname, startled, "Jesus, tell me you don't call him that."

"He's got an eight-year-old son and our social media audience is obsessed with him."

"He's a father?" The balking gets worse. I fully tried coming onto him two years ago and he's a father?