Violet and I as well as friends Greg and Tasha were halfway through a jug of beer and one terrible basket of jalapeño poppers when Violet pointed at the pool table and said, “Couples match. Losers do a dare.”

I should have known then and there that Violet had a plan. She always had a plan.

Greg leaned back, cracking his knuckles. “I’m basically a pool shark.”

“You once scratched five times in a row,” Tasha said.

“That was part of the strategy.”

Violet raised a brow. “You mean losing was the strategy?”

Greg looked like he was going to protest, then decided it wasn’t worth it and just poured more beer.

And so, the teams were set:

Myself and Violet — self-titled Team "Hot Streak"

Greg and Tasha — who insisted on being called “The Stick Whisperers”

Round One: Misfires and Trash Talk

Greg opened the game with what could generously be called a "break." The cue ball bounced off the side and barely tapped the triangle of balls, which barely moved.

A nearby patron clapped slowly.

“It’s called finesse,” Greg mumbled.

Tasha sank one of the solids with a decent shot, then turned and curtsied like she’d just performed at the Royal Opera House. “You may applaud now,” she said. Someone did.

Violet, not to be outdone, stepped up next.

As she lined up her shot, you heard murmurs from the bar — mostly appreciation for her outfit, which today included her signature short skirt, tight top and a wink that could disarm a navy fleet.

She leaned in, tongue poking out in concentration — and completely missed the ball she was aiming for.

“I… was calibrating,” she said with a straight face.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Babe, you messed up a pool shot.”

“It’s called the phantom touch,” she replied.

Mid-Game Chaos: Sabotage and Snacks

Halfway through the game, strategy went out the window.

Greg began attempting “trick shots” that ended with balls flying off the table.

Tasha got distracted and accidentally hit a cue ball backwards.

Violet started narrating in a fake British accent:
“And here we see the majestic Greg, attempting a wildly inaccurate shot while talking about his glory days in high school bowling.”

"That's sledging" Greg said, missing again.

Meanwhile, I carried the team with actual aim and a touch of luck. Every time I sank a ball, Violet clapped like you’d just proposed all over again.

Then she leaned in and whispered, “Win this for us, I get a double milkshake and Tasha will clean you up after.”

I paused "A double milkshake” I said with a surprise, "And Tasha and Greg agreed to this?" I said "Perhaps Tasha was hoping her and Greg would win" Violet said and winked as she walked away.

I immediately sank three balls in a row.

The Final Showdown: One Ball, Four People, No Dignity

It all came down to the 8-ball.

Greg and Tasha had one ball left. Violet and I were on the 8.

Violet lined it up. Everyone gathered around the table. The jukebox randomly chose Eye of the Tiger, which felt weirdly appropriate.

She squinted.

She breathed.

She shot.

And she missed. Spectacularly.

The cue ball bounced, ricocheted off the edge, and smacked into Greg’s untouched beer, knocking it all over his pants.

A full ten seconds of silence.

Greg looked down. “I deserved that.”

Now it was Greg and Tasha’s turn.

Greg lined up for the final shot — confident, focused, eyes narrowed. This was it.

Then Violet sneezed.

A loud, dramatic sneeze.

Greg jumped and misfired, launching the cue ball across the room and directly into the jukebox, which promptly stopped playing Eye of the Tiger and started Careless Whisper.

A pause.

Tasha turned slowly toward Greg.

“Did you just scratch on the final shot?”

“I panicked,” he said, holding his hands up.

Violet and I screamed in triumph. “Winners!” Violet shouted, spinning her cue like a baton.