The Champion's Comedown

The lingering scent of pepperoni pizza hung in the air, a mundane aroma that felt strangely discordant with the day's high drama. Kaizer sat on his bed later that Saturday evening, the cheap plastic trophy gleaming under his desk lamp, the envelope with its crisp two hundred dollars resting beside it. He turned the trophy slowly in his hands. "Northwood Junior Nine-Ball Champion." It felt surreal.

Just yesterday morning, he'd been scrambling for bus fare and terrified about meeting PoolShark88. Just last night, he'd been bluffing for his metaphorical life against Vince in Benny's grimy garage. Today, he had a tournament title, a couple hundred bucks in prize money, a significantly better cue leaning in the corner, grudging acceptance from his father, and the quiet respect of the local pool hall regulars. Progress. Undeniable progress.

Yet, the victory felt… fragile. He replayed the final match against Jesse Riley in his mind, dissecting every shot. His own run-outs felt good, showcasing the returning skill and the potential of the McDermott cue. But the mistakes – the choked eight-ball at 4-3, the missed one-ball at 6-4 – gnawed at him. He'd won because Jesse, despite his brilliance, had made an equally critical error on the final nine. It was a win asterisked by luck, a reminder that his mental game wasn't yet back to its peak championship form. The sixty-three-year-old mind knew the truth, even if the fifteen-year-old body was buzzing with the simple triumph.

He carefully took the two hundred dollars from the envelope, adding it to the thirty-three he had stashed away. Two hundred thirty-three dollars. It looked like a lot of money spread out on his worn desk blotter. His dad's voice echoed in his head: "Put it in the bank. Savings." It was sound advice, both financially responsible and crucial for maintaining the fragile peace with Tom. He'd keep maybe thirty bucks out for pocket money – bus fare, maybe treating Mark to make amends? – and deposit the rest first thing Monday morning. That felt like the right move, reinforcing his commitment to doing things differently.

He glanced at the McDermott cue case again. That hundred dollars had been well spent. The difference in playability compared to his old maple stick was night and day. It had allowed him to compete, to execute shots that would have been impossible otherwise. But he knew, realistically, he'd only just begun to unlock its potential. He needed hours, hundreds of hours, of dedicated practice to truly master its nuances, to make it an unconscious extension of his will, the way his old custom cues had been.

Practice. That was the next hurdle. Mel's conditional offer of Table 6 during slow times was his only real option right now. His job shifts on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturday afternoons would provide the opportunity, assuming the hall wasn't too busy. He mentally bookmarked it: milk those practice sessions for all they were worth. Drills, pattern play, safety practice. He needed to rebuild his consistency, eliminate those pressure errors. Jesse Riley would only get better, and Kaizer suspected there were tougher players lurking beyond Northwood's junior scene.

His thoughts inevitably circled back to the other lingering issues. Vince. The memory of his fury, the sound of the breaking cue… it sent a shiver down Kaizer's spine. He'd need to be careful, avoid places Vince might frequent – which likely included Rack 'em Up eventually, though maybe not during a junior tournament. He'd have to rely on Mel's presence and the relative safety of the public pool hall for now. Confrontation was unthinkable.

And then there was Mark. The awkward encounter outside Rack 'em Up this morning, Mark's probing questions despite the vague online deflection… it couldn't be ignored indefinitely. Winning the tournament, displaying such an obvious leap in skill, would only fuel Mark's suspicions. Mark wasn't stupid; he knew Kaizer hadn't suddenly become a championship-caliber player by watching a few old videos.

Kaizer sighed, running a hand through his hair. He valued Mark's friendship, the only real connection he had to a "normal" teenage life in this timeline. He didn't want to lose it over secrets and lies. But the truth? The truth was impossible. "Hey Mark, funny story, I actually died and woke up in my teenage body with all my old pool skills intact…" Yeah, that wouldn't go over well.

He needed a new strategy with Mark. The vague deflections weren't sustainable. Maybe… maybe a partial truth? Confess he'd been secretly practicing intensely for months? Claim he found an old instructional book that just clicked? Still felt thin. What if he just acknowledged the weirdness? "Yeah, Mark, it's strange, I don't get it either, but something just… clicked with pool lately. Can't explain it." Appeal to mystery rather than fabricating poor lies?

Or maybe… maybe lean into the GhostCue connection slightly, without confirming it? "Yeah, I saw that GhostCue guy online too. Weird coincidence, right? Been trying some of the stuff he posted, maybe that helped?" Misdirection. Plausible deniability while subtly acknowledging the source Mark suspected.

He didn't know. Every option felt risky, imperfect. But continuing the awkward silence and obvious evasion felt like the worst path, guaranteed to erode the friendship completely. He decided he'd try to talk to Mark on Monday, maybe after school, find a quiet moment. He wouldn't force it, but if the opportunity arose, he'd try… something. Some explanation, however incomplete, felt better than nothing.

Feeling restless, needing a distraction from the tangled knot of his thoughts, he turned to the familiar blue glow of the Packard Bell. Time for a final check on the digital frontier for the night. The modem shrieked, connecting him to 'The Phreak Zone'.

He scanned the Billiards forum first. MarkJ hadn't replied to GhostCue's deflection. Good. Let that sleeping dog lie for now. CueBallWizard had posted again, raving about how GhostCue's bank shot advice had helped him win his league match. Several other users chimed in, asking GhostCue for tips on other aspects of the game – breaking, safety play, Masse shots.

His online persona was gaining traction. People were noticing, valuing the expertise. The thought sparked an idea – maybe this was a path to more legitimate income later? Offer detailed online coaching, strategy guides? It required building more reputation first, proving consistency, but the potential was there. Something to keep simmering on the back burner.

He switched over to 'The 8-Ball Corner' BBS. More discussions, more classifieds. He posted a brief, anonymous congratulations to the winner of the Northwood Junior tournament (himself!) in a local tournament results thread he found, just to add a touch of realism to GhostCue's apparent knowledge of the local scene.

Then he browsed a thread titled "Looking for Action – Serious Players Only." Posts from handles he didn't recognize, talking about higher-stakes games in nearby towns, dropping names of local sharks and semi-pros. It reminded him instantly of the world Vince likely inhabited. He scanned the messages with a morbid curiosity, recognizing the jargon, the posturing, the veiled challenges. It was a world he knew intimately, a world he was desperately trying to avoid falling back into. He quickly logged out of the thread, feeling a phantom chill. Stay focused on the legitimate path. Tournaments. Practice. Mel's job. Dad's accounting help.

He logged off the BBS completely, the silence returning to his room. He felt drained, the long day finally catching up. He carefully placed the trophy on his bookshelf, nestled between worn fantasy paperbacks and his old pool instruction pamphlets. It looked absurdly out of place, a gleaming symbol of a hidden life amidst the relics of his teenage past.

He crawled into bed, the events of the day replaying – the pressure points, the missed shots, the clutch clearances, the handshake with Jesse, the awkward conversation with Mark, the grudging approval from his father, the weight of the prize money, the feel of the McDermott.

It had been a day of immense highs and lows, successes tempered by near-disasters. He had won, achieved his immediate goal, but the path ahead remained fraught with challenges. He needed to practice relentlessly, manage his relationships carefully, earn money steadily, and constantly guard his impossible secret. And lurking somewhere in the background was Vince, a potentially violent consequence of a risk Kaizer never should have taken.

Sleep came slowly, filled not with dreams of championships, but with the complex, overlapping geometries of pool balls, balance sheets, bus schedules, and the wary, questioning eyes of his best friend. The victory felt good, but the game was just getting started.