Maybe he doesn't get his own snapping aggravation, maybe he can't control who looks at Steve or who talks to him, who decides he's worth a few good lines, a few flirtatious smiles, but he can at least control his half of this game, and it'll be a good one. It's not like Steve is accidentally good with a gun, or a football: anything of the aiming and shooting variety comes to him like breathing, a natural talent trained into precision and lethal skill.
And it's impressive to watch. Steve, all his laser focus trained on the cue ball, shifting his mass into a long lean, static energy held until he finds the right angle, the correct amount of force, and he's good. Of course he is. Steve McGarrett only knows the word excel. Naturally he'd take something as ubiquitous as pool and actually be great at it.
But Danny's not too shabby, himself. Back in Jersey, where it actually gets cold and miserable for months on end, sleet clogging up the car windows and tires, indoor activities were the only way to wind down the hours after a bad week, bad day. Or to celebrate the good ones. He can't count the times he'd had a pitcher of Yuengling with the boys, with Grace, shooting the shit and playing pool until closing -- or at least until Rachel called him home.
So he's not overly concerned, even when Steve makes his first call and sinks it, easy, while Danny watches, chalking the tip of his cue idly until Steve misses, sending the five knocking gently into the group that's left.
His turn. Good. Something to focus on, that isn't the slope of Steve's back or the way the muscles in his arm flex and relax as he shoots. It's a good break, and he's got a couple shots he should be able to clear out before things start getting really complicated. "Twelve, left corner," he says, after considering his options, and settles into the shot, eyes on the cue ball, cue resting against the webbing of his left hand, fingers splayed open. Leaning into the shot, pleased but surprised to make it, the twelve spinning a little drunkenly into the hole, cue bouncing lightly off the bumper.
One more easy one, "fourteen, side pocket," that he nudges in, before contemplating the clustered grouping in the middle of the table. When "eleven, left corner," misses the mark and rolls cheerfully along the bumper, getting a shrug as he straightens, slings the cue over his shoulders, hands loose at either end.
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Maybe he doesn't get his own snapping aggravation, maybe he can't control who looks at Steve or who talks to him, who decides he's worth a few good lines, a few flirtatious smiles, but he can at least control his half of this game, and it'll be a good one. It's not like Steve is accidentally good with a gun, or a football: anything of the aiming and shooting variety comes to him like breathing, a natural talent trained into precision and lethal skill.
And it's impressive to watch. Steve, all his laser focus trained on the cue ball, shifting his mass into a long lean, static energy held until he finds the right angle, the correct amount of force, and he's good. Of course he is. Steve McGarrett only knows the word excel. Naturally he'd take something as ubiquitous as pool and actually be great at it.
But Danny's not too shabby, himself. Back in Jersey, where it actually gets cold and miserable for months on end, sleet clogging up the car windows and tires, indoor activities were the only way to wind down the hours after a bad week, bad day. Or to celebrate the good ones. He can't count the times he'd had a pitcher of Yuengling with the boys, with Grace, shooting the shit and playing pool until closing -- or at least until Rachel called him home.
So he's not overly concerned, even when Steve makes his first call and sinks it, easy, while Danny watches, chalking the tip of his cue idly until Steve misses, sending the five knocking gently into the group that's left.
His turn. Good. Something to focus on, that isn't the slope of Steve's back or the way the muscles in his arm flex and relax as he shoots. It's a good break, and he's got a couple shots he should be able to clear out before things start getting really complicated. "Twelve, left corner," he says, after considering his options, and settles into the shot, eyes on the cue ball, cue resting against the webbing of his left hand, fingers splayed open. Leaning into the shot, pleased but surprised to make it, the twelve spinning a little drunkenly into the hole, cue bouncing lightly off the bumper.
One more easy one, "fourteen, side pocket," that he nudges in, before contemplating the clustered grouping in the middle of the table. When "eleven, left corner," misses the mark and rolls cheerfully along the bumper, getting a shrug as he straightens, slings the cue over his shoulders, hands loose at either end.
"You're up."