White Ball

"Life is like a billiard table—a journey full of collisions and calculations."

The first time I saw her was on TikTok. Minh Anh—the Nine-Ball Queen—moved around the green felt table with a grace that made my heart skip. Each shot was precise, calculated, perfect. The white ball obeyed her cue like it was enchanted, finding impossible angles and sinking balls that should have been impossible to pocket.

"How does she make it look so easy?" I whispered to my phone screen, replaying the video for the dozenth time. The comments were full of fire emojis and praise. "Queen!" "Teach me!" "Marry me!"

I'd been playing billiards for six months—if you could call my clumsy attempts "playing." But watching Minh Anh's videos gave me confidence. If she could make nine-ball look like art, maybe I could at least make it look... competent?

That's how I found myself standing outside Sky Club on a humid Thursday evening, registration form trembling in my sweaty palm. The neon sign buzzed overhead: "Weekly Nine-Ball Tournament - Open Registration."

"You've got this," I told myself, thinking of Minh Anh's confident smile. "It's just like the videos."

Inside, the club hummed with activity. Professional players chalked their cues with practiced ease, their movements fluid and confident. I recognized some faces from local tournaments I'd watched online. And there, leaning against the bar with a smirk, was Tung Rau—three-time regional champion.

"Look what we have here," Tung Rau's voice cut through the ambient noise as I approached the registration table. "Another TikTok warrior."

Laughter rippled through his circle of friends. My cheeks burned, but I forced myself to sign up anyway. The entry fee felt heavier than it should have—not because of the money, but because of what it represented. This was real. No replay button. No do-overs.

When my name was called, my legs felt like jelly. The table stretched before me like an ocean of green felt. The nine balls sat in their diamond formation, waiting. The white cue ball sat expectantly at the foot of the table.

Just like the videos, I reminded myself. Stance, aim, follow through.

I chalked my cue—a cheap one I'd bought online—and positioned myself. The crowd had grown quiet, waiting. Tung Rau stood to one side, arms crossed, that same smirk playing on his lips.

I lined up the shot. The white ball seemed to mock me, sitting there so innocently. My hand shook as I pulled back the cue.

And then... nothing.

My body froze. The cue stick felt foreign in my hands, like I'd never held one before. My breathing became shallow, rapid. The room spun slightly. Every eye in the place was on me, and I couldn't move.

"Any day now, kid," someone called out. More laughter.

I tried to shoot, but my arm wouldn't cooperate. The anxiety had taken over completely, turning my muscles to stone. This wasn't like the videos at all. This was real, with real people watching, real consequences.

"I... I forfeit," I whispered.

"What?" The referee leaned closer.

"I forfeit!" I said louder, dropping my cue on the table with a clatter that echoed through the sudden silence.

I rushed toward the exit, face burning with humiliation, Tung Rau's laughter following me like a soundtrack to my shame. Outside, I gulped the humid night air, trying to process what had just happened.

My phone buzzed. A TikTok notification.

@NineBallQueenMA sent you a message.

Minh Anh. The Nine-Ball Queen. Had somehow found me. Had somehow... seen what happened?

My humiliation was complete. But this was just the beginning.