I immediately reraise, keeping my gaze on the table. By behaving like I’ve got the nuts, I’m making Magnum question everything.
“You’re bluffing.” He scowls, looking at his cards again.
I am, but it’s the first time I’ve bluffed all night so he can’t be sure I’m doing it now. I normally wouldn’t at this point in the evening, but the more Magnum drinks, the surlier he gets. I don’t want to risk him following me out of here and trying to get his money back—or worse.
With a huff, he folds. I take the pot, stack my chips into my holder and pass Beatrice three red chips—a $15 tip.
“Have a good night,” she says.
“You too.”
“You got lucky,” my opponent mutters. “That and a nice pair of tits are about all you’ve got going for you.”
Anger flares in my chest. I know how to handle myself in a fight, and I’d love to punch him square in his flapping fat mouth right now.
Eye on the ball, Gia. You’ve got a much bigger enemy than this guy.
And to bring him down, I have to lie low. No big winnings or run-ins with the law. I can get the revenge that means so much to me, but only if I play my cards right and keep my cool.
And so, difficult as it is, I turn my head, ignoring him. Tomorrow night, I’ll play at a different casino, probably against another guy who gives me leering looks and makes raunchy comments.
I may not be able to show those guys just who they’re messing with, but damn, it feels good to leave with their money at the end of the night.
Once I get outside, the goose bumps on my arms from the casino’s air conditioning finally go away in the warm night air. Lights in every color flash around me as I start the walk back to my hotel. I’m about a half mile in when an electronic billboard catches my attention.
It’s a photo of a dark-haired guy with piercing blue eyes in a black hockey jersey, with the Las Vegas Saints logo and the words “Luck is on our side.”
I smile and put my head down, continuing my walk. Professional athletes and movie stars come to this city all the time and lose more money than most people make in a lifetime. I’m pretty sure that guy’s no different. Suckers come in all shapes, sizes and tax brackets.
And they’re all the same to me—potential opponents to help line my pockets.
Chapter Three
Maverick
“Time to punch our tickets to Pussytown, boys.” Our goalie, Pike, looks like a kid in a candy store as we walk onto the floor of the Venetian casino, women turning to look us over one by one.
There are eight Saints players out for a night on the town, which I begrudgingly agreed to so we could get to know each other better off the ice. One of our defenders, Pax, is drawing the most attention at six and a half feet tall. Once the season starts, he’ll be our peacemaker—an enforcer who protects us from cheap shots and potential injuries.
We started our night at the Delmonico Steakhouse, where I picked up the enormous tab. I was voted team captain, and that’s what captains do. But I better not pay for another drink tonight—not after the check I signed off on at Delmonico’s whiskey bar. I’m surprised some of the guys are still standing upright.
“Gentlemen, welcome.” A polished, pretty woman greets our group with a big smile. “I’m Monica, a Venetian VIP hostess. We’re so honored you’re here. Our entire city is excited to have our own NHL team. Would you like me to set you up at our bar, or at some VIP gaming tables?”
“Take me to the nearest craps table, Monica,” Dane says confidently.
I hope the smug bastard loses his ass. He needs to be knocked down a peg.
Monica calls over another hostess, who leads several guys to the craps tables. She directs some other guys to the blackjack tables, and then looks at me and Pike, the only ones left.
“Poker?” she asks with a smile.
I smile back and nod.
She gives me a knowing look. “I’ve got just the table for you two.”
I put a hand up to stop her. “I just want an average no limit game out here on the floor. I’m not looking to play against pros or anything.”
I used to play in a regular poker game with my Nashville teammates, and I wasn’t bad. But with the gambling capital of the world right outside my door, I don’t want to get hooked on anything that will distract me from hockey.
“Yeah, I’ll stick with him,” Pike says.
I reminded the guys over dinner that we all live in the spotlight. Anything we do tonight—or any other night—could easily be in the papers tomorrow. I want to make headlines for winning hockey games, not partying on the Strip.
Monica leaves us at a table where a couple is just getting up to leave, both of them looking stunned and defeated. I hand over my buy-in and the dealer passes me a container stacked with chips.
Pike pulls out a big roll of cash and peels a few bills off for his buy-in, drawing a few looks from other players at the table.
“I came to play,” he says, grinning at me.
“Uh-huh. Just don’t bitch to me when you’re flipping burgers for minimum wage because you lost all your money at poker tables.”
“I’ll just get a loan from you, Cap.”
“I knew it!” A guy at the table points at me. “You’re Maverick Hagen, the team captain of the Saints. And you’re…Pike Morgan, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Pike shakes the guy’s hand, but my focus is on the woman next to him.
She’s pretty, with dark wavy hair and hazel eyes framed by long lashes. In a plain black shirt and very little makeup, she’s not dolled up like every other woman I’ve seen tonight. I keep my eyes on her as the dealer goes to work, and I realize she’s watching the other players at the table. Her gaze lands on me, direct and clear and…something else is there, too. What is that I see in her eyes?
Confidence. She looks one-hundred-percent comfortable in every way. She’s hot, but that self-assured glint in her eyes makes her the sexiest, most intriguing woman in the room. I check her ring finger, exhaling with relief when I see that it’s bare.
The dealer is a younger guy, and he makes a mistake dealing, cringing with embarrassment. The woman smiles and says something to him, and my heart rate kicks up like it does before a face-off. The dealer gives her a grateful look, his eyes as adoring as a puppy dog’s.
Her smile is absolutely stunning. It lights up her whole face and makes her just…glow. It’s all I can do to look away from her and pay attention to the game.
I try, though. I fold the first few hands, just to get myself acclimated before I lay any big bets.
“American Airlines!” a guy at the table who flopped a pair of aces crows with satisfaction.
The gorgeous woman across from me ignores him, still watching other players instead. When she locks eyes with me, my only thought is that I don’t want her to turn away. I need to keep her attention on me, and before I even have time to think better of it, I wink at her.
I fucking winked. I’ve never in my life winked at a woman, and I’m not even any good at it. I probably looked like a teenage kid with something in my eye just now. But she shows no reaction, instead looking at her newly dealt cards.