And when he finally goes for the shot, the white ball stays on the table and the colored one goes in. He hears cheers and clapping, and he forces himself to look up at Vinnie.

"You owe me a dollar," he says, purposefully omitting the 'sir' that usually accompanies all of his requests. He stares at the guy straight in the eyes-and for a second, it feels like his knees are about to shake the rest of him right off his feet.

"Yeah Vinnie, give him his dollar" the helper from before yells.

But his new sworn enemy shakes his head. "Not so fast, kid. I gave you an extra chance, and you owe me another shot; then you can have your money. Now you have to make this one go into the pocket. Think you can do that?" he asks with a sneer.

He's setting it up so that now there's another ball standing between the white one and the one that has to go in. It's a way harder shot, he knows, and there's a good chance he won't be able to do it.

"Vinnie, give the kid his money and let him go" the bartender adds in a scolding tone. "It's late-you're gonna get his dad all mad at him." The bartender clearly understands where his dad's coming from these days.

The man brushes off the warning, standing his ground. "Think you can do it or you worried about your daddy?" he asks by way of a challenge. The dark, unfriendly look in his eyes has taken on an even darker hue.

"Tell you what-you make it, I give you five bucks. You don't, you owe me five. Deal?"

That's just about all the change he has left-his dad'll belt him hard for losing that much money-it won't just bad a scolding anymore. But right there and then he decides he has to do it, because he really hates this guy who's been making a sport out of him since he first walked in. His grandpa was a military policeman and his dad's flown jets in the war, and no one messes with a Booth.

The bartender walks towards him from behind the counter, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Seeley, son, it's time to go home."

He doesn't want to. He looks around the room one more time.

"It's okay, I'll do it" he says taking the stick back, and all of a sudden he's not anxious anymore. If he loses, he loses and he'll take his lumps, but he's not backing down. It's become a matter of principle.

He takes an extra good look down the table, doing his best to line himself up with it, even if he practically has to sling the stick over his shoulder to get the shot he wants.

The room's quiet again, and he can feel that the mood of the crowd has definitely turned this time around. They're rooting for him for real now-he's the good guy and they want him to win.

It's the first time he prays to win at anything. He knows it's a bad thing and that his mom and Pops would be angry because they taught him that God doesn't take sides like that-but he does it anyway.

This tap is more forceful, more controlled than the one before, and he's watching with wide-eyes and his heart beating in his throat as the white ball hits the solid one and that one hits the striped one dead on. It goes in, nice and straight, and the other two stay put on the table.

It's his turn now to taste the sweetness that comes with any personal victory; it's him getting slapped on the back, being doled out the hard-won congratulations and the smiles. He's never, never felt so validated in his whole life. It's been a while since anyone other than his grandpa's had anything nice to say about him and what makes it even better is knowing that he's earned what he just got the hard way-he can tell that these people are tough and they don't give anything away easily to an outsider, especially not their approval, not even to a boy. This isn't his school gym.

"The kid's a natural" he hears someone say.

"If he gets any more practice, he's gonna knock your socks off, Vinnie-watch out!"

"Give the boy his five bucks, Vinnie."

"Yeah, pay up."

Vinnie looks mad for just a moment but then he relents on his grudge and smiles as he fishes a five dollar bill out of his pocket, handing it over and nodding.

"Okay, okay,you did it-here's your money; it was a good shot. Come back again kid, we'll do a rematch and maybe I'll give you some pointers next time" he says in a surprisingly good-natured way; the free beer he just got from buddies apparently having improved his mood.

And he decides he will, he'll keep coming back whenever he gets a chance because it feels good to be here, feels good to be part of something that has nothing to do with the other crap going on in his life. And it's nice to get the chance to be seen by the outside world in a different way.