It feels almost sacred, getting to be one of the first to play here. We’ve got a chance to build something great. I set aside a few other possibilities—that we won’t gel as a team, or that the pundits are right that we’re a team made up of rebels and misfits the established teams don’t want.
I pull off my skate guards and set them on the bench, then slide myself over the wall and onto the ice. It remains to be seen if this was the best or worst decision I’ve ever made, but either way—I’m back.
Chapter Two
Gia
“You’re back,” a gray-haired man in a Hawaiian shirt says as he gives me an appreciative once-over. “You feel like losing more money?”
I put on a confident smile.
“I think I was just unlucky last night,” I say as I stack my poker chips into neat little piles in front of me. “First time in Vegas and all. It had to be nerves. I read a book on how to play poker, so I think I’ll do better tonight. And this place has really good drinks.”
I stopped a waitress on my way to the table, and she’s bringing me my usual—a club soda with lime in a cocktail glass. But Magnum PI over there will see my drink and think I’m getting loaded. He’s expecting me to lose money, like I did last night when we played Texas Hold’em at this same table.
All part of my plan.
“Is this a lucky seat?” an older man asks as he sits down next to me.
“We’ll know soon,” I say, smiling at him.
The table is up to eight players when the dealer starts play. There’s only one other woman in the game, and she’s playing with her husband. I can tell by the way they squint at their hole cards that they’re novice players.
I pretend I’m fixated on my own cards, looking at them repeatedly so it seems like I can’t remember what they are. Really, though, I’m watching the others at the table. This is the point where I’ll play conservatively and track my opponents. I’m paying attention to what they say, their tone of voice, their mannerisms and even what and how much they’re drinking.
It’s not about the cards, Gigi. Never forget that.
My father taught me to play poker when I was six, but I had started learning before then. When he’d park me in the corner of a card hall or bar with nothing to do for several hours at a time, I watched. I watched the cards, sure, but mostly, my eyes were on the people holding them.
Most players with killer hands retreat inside themselves. They don’t make eye contact or move much. They’re trying to look invisible, holding their breath as they wait to rake in the pot. And conversely, confidence is usually a sure sign of a bluff.
“Did I win?” I ask the dealer, playing dumb as the others at the table look at me expectantly, waiting for me to take the pot.
“You did,” she says in a wry tone.
Her name’s Beatrice and I’ve been at her table a few times in the five months I’ve been in Vegas playing poker full time. And while I think she knows what I’m up to, I’m pretty sure she’s more amused than anything. Magnum PI asked her if he could win an hour with her during last night’s game and I could tell from the way her eyes narrowed that she wanted to dick punch him.
“Yay!” I wrap my arms around the pile of chips and add them to my stacks.
Just dumb, stupid luck. No skill whatsoever, guys. Ante up.
The couple runs out of chips within an hour, and two college-aged guys immediately fill their empty chairs. Another player at the table mentions the Las Vegas Saints jersey one of the new guys is wearing.
“Think they’re gonna be any good?” he asks.
“Hell yeah. We’ve got Maverick Hagen and Kingston Bryant.”
The first guy shakes his head. “Hagen hasn’t played since his leg got crushed. I heard his leg will never be the same.”
“Shit, the guy’s a beast. I don’t care if he’s hurt or not, he can still play better than ninety-nine percent of ‘em.”
Beatrice hits the Saints fan with a quick glare to quiet him so she can deal the next hand. I’ve been seeing a lot of jerseys around town for the new NHL team. I’m not a sports fan, so I don’t care, but if it’s going to bring more people into town to play poker, I’m all for it.
My savings account balance is $71,400. I used the rest of my winnings to cover my expenses and pay tuition and expenses for my brothers, who are in college.
Poker is the only thing I’m great at. I wasn’t supposed to be here alone. My dad and I had it all planned out—six months a year in Vegas, switching between all the casinos on and off the Strip, four months a year traveling to small poker tournaments and two months a year exploring the world.
Iceland. That was the first place we were going to see. We planned to see glaciers and the northern lights. Rejuvenate in the hot spring lagoons. Find out what, exactly, people in Iceland like to eat. That thing I read about sheep heads has to be a joke…right?
The little girl who grew up doing her homework from a barstool, eating chicken strips and soft pretzels for dinner as her father worked poker tables, was finally going to see someplace beautiful with him. Someplace without a haze of cigarette smoke surrounding women in low-cut tops and men hoping to get those tops off before the night was over.
But we never made it. Eight years ago, when I was nineteen, my dad died. I moved in with my mom and twin brothers and worked to help support them until my brothers finished high school last year. And now I’ve got a new plan.
I won’t be taking two months a year off to see the world. I’m playing poker full time, saving my money and polishing my game until I’m ready to take down the man who robbed me of my father.
“Call,” I say as I slide the required amount of chips to the center of the table.
Magnum PI is looking at me through narrowed eyes, and I wonder if he’s starting to suspect I’m not as dumb as I’m pretending to be. I’m closing in on $1,700 in winnings.
I’m always out at $2,000. I don’t push my winnings any higher, ever, because I need to stay under the radar. Casinos don’t like pros who consistently wipe out their high rollers.
“About time,” my car-dealership-owning opponent snaps at the waitress as she hands him a fresh whiskey on the rocks. “Might as well order another one right now since it’ll take you forever to bring it.”
He doesn’t tip her. Asshole.
The waitress’s expression is impassive, because she’s used to people like him. I take a twenty from my bag and fold it up so no one can see what denomination it is when I give it to her after she passes me a new club soda.
This table is what my father would call hot. If I stayed, I could walk away with several thousand bucks within a few hours. But it’s way over what I allow myself to win before quitting for the night, and I don’t like the way the asshole Hawaiian-shirt wearer is looking at me.
He’s either pissed off about how much money I’ve won, or he knows he’s getting schooled by a woman half his age. I think it’s probably both.
My next hand is absolute shit—a three of clubs and a four of hearts. I press my cards to the table after one little look, forcing my lips into a thin line and looking down at the table. On the first round, I call to stay in. When it’s down to me, Magnum PI and one other guy, Magnum raises the pot.