“Six-six. Game point,” Jerome’s declaration was music to Clint’s ears and he resisted swiping at the sweat on his brow.
They’d gathered a packed crowd now. Even the foosball table had fallen to silence—the ball game was still on the TV, but no one was watching it—everyone straining to see over each other’s shoulders. Apparently no one kept up with Nika and now he knew why.
She was the best player he’d ever faced. She played with a blinding focus, so intense that he could feel it washing across the table. Her gaze never wavered; her stance never altered. No time out called.
Game point.
She brought the puck into play with an unexpectedly soft move. It ricocheted back to her barely moving by air hockey standards. Far to the side, it hadn’t even been an attack on the goal.
Twice more she’
