“I’m just…you mean I can’t have sex, or none of us can?”
His eyes bulge and a vein pops out on his forehead. “The married guys can, but the single guys, I better not hear one fucking word about you chasing tail on the Strip! Not one word. Hit the gym, skate extra drills, and act like you deserve the contracts you were signed to. You got that, Hagen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of you got it?” he bellows.
Everyone nods and affirms that they heard him.
“I could be on a beach somewhere, sipping mai tais and having oil rubbed on my back by some lady in a grass skirt, but I was asked to make this team into something great, and I’ll be damned if I’ll put up with slacking.” The vein is almost pulsing now, looking like it’s about to explode out of his head. “I’d better see you boys in here early tomorrow, looking well rested and ready to play some hockey. We clear?”
The room echoes with all of us saying either “Yes, Coach,” or “Yes, sir.”
He walks back into his office, slams the door, and immediately closes the mini blinds.
“Nice job, fuckface,” Pike mutters to Dane.
“How does Bear’s asshole taste?” Grady asks Dane. “It’s all crystal clear now—why your breath smells like dirty asshole.”
Dane shoves him, and I step between the two of them.
“Get the fuck out of here, both of you,” I say in a low tone. “You didn’t get enough just now?”
Dane gives me a murderous glare before grabbing his bag and walking out.
“Guess we’re not going out tonight,” Pike says, sighing.
I turn to him, arching a brow. “We won’t get drunk, and we won’t pick up women, but we’re sure as hell hitting some off-Strip poker rooms.”
He grins back at me, holding out his fist for a bump. As I comply, I’m already itching to get back to the poker table. Specifically, a table Gia is sitting at.
Chapter Six
Gia
The moment “Achy Breaky Heart” starts playing over the casino’s sound system, I curse myself for coming to Harrah’s.
This is my least favorite place to play poker in Vegas, because I’m not a country music fan and it’s all they play here. I’ve been sitting at a table of amateur players for almost an hour now, and I almost feel guilty taking their money. They seem like nice people, and all of them look over fifty years old. It’s more fun to watch frat boys’ cocky expressions change as their pots start shrinking.
“I enjoyed watching you play,” an older man with a tanned, deeply lined face says to me as he passes the dealer a tip.
He touches the brim of his cowboy hat as he stands, nodding at me. A couple of other players turn my way to stare, looking both surprised and stumped. One woman’s eyes widen as she sees how many chips I have in front of me.
Time to go. If someone comments on my play, I always leave the table. And it won’t be a hardship to move to a casino without a bad country soundtrack.
“Hi there,” a deep male voice says.
I look over at the man who just filled the cowboy’s seat and see Maverick Hagen, the hockey player from a couple weeks ago. He smiles, looking more than a little smug, and without even asking my brain, the corners of my lips quirk up in a smile back.
How did he find me? Why is my heart racing from the way he’s looking at me? And why did he have to show up just as I’m about to leave?
One more hand won’t hurt. I fold early, my gaze sliding to the dark-haired, well-built athlete on the other side of the table. When he folds, his eyes find mine, and a wave of nervous energy hits me right in the stomach.
I should leave. According to the set of rules I follow every night, it’s time for me to get up and move to a new casino. I’ve been called out for winning, and my focus fizzled when Maverick sat down.
I should leave, but I don’t. Instead, I play an overconservative game, making sure I don’t win any big pots. I’m playing a long game here in Vegas, and getting blacklisted by casinos will ruin everything.
Maverick is a solid player; he’s growing his pot as mine gets a little bit smaller. He’s playing differently tonight, not giving me any tells about the strength of his hands. But mostly, he just looks directly at me, the hunger in his gaze making me feel freshly awoken from a long sleep.
It’s been a long time since I wanted a man. There’s no room for romance in my life, and why bother with meaningless sex when I have a vibrator with six settings that’s a sure thing?
Men are unreliable. You don’t know if you’re going back to a hotel with someone who can’t get a hard-on or who passes out drunk before the clothes even come off. And even if he stays awake and can get hard, there’s a fifty-fifty chance he won’t be good in bed.
Been there, done that, prefer my trusty battery-operated boyfriend.
There’s something almost sensual, though, about the way Maverick touches his poker chips. He stacks them carefully but efficiently. I envy the chip he’s toying with right now, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
He looks down at his phone, reading something and then typing out a response. Must have been a text. But from who?
Could be his wife or girlfriend. Or his parole officer.
I groan inwardly. Why am I sitting here making eyes at a professional athlete? I need to cash out and move to another casino, because the night is young and there’s more money to be won.
Not allowing myself another look at Maverick, I rack up, pass the dealer a tip and head for the cashier’s window. I’m planning to stop at my favorite little deli for a sandwich and then go to the Bellagio.
When I go to open the door to exit Harrah’s, someone behind me beats me to it, his long arm reaching past me. I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with Maverick.
“Hey, Gia,” he says, smiling playfully.
“Hi.”
I start my walk down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside me.
“Remember me?” he asks. “Maverick Hagen, from a couple weeks ago.”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
I keep my gaze straight ahead, not allowing him to distract me. It’s not just about the fifty-fifty chance he sucks in bed—I can’t risk being seen with someone famous. He may not be as recognizable as Matt Damon or anything, but with the Saints about to start their first season as an NHL team, he’ll be very recognizable here in Vegas soon.
I’m under the radar, and Maverick Hagen is most definitely not.
“Has mismatching always been an issue for you?” he asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.
I stop walking and look down at the frayed jean shorts and black Ramones T-shirt I’m wearing. I also have on well-worn, black low-top Chucks.
“This matches just fine. What are you, the fashion police?” I ask, glaring.
“I’m not talking about your clothes. It’s your eyes and your words that don’t match. The flushed skin on your neck and your attitude of indifference. You want me to think you don’t remember me, but you do. And you want me to think you don’t like me, but—”
“I do?” I burst out laughing. “I’ll give you points for creativity, Maverick Hagen. Can you tell me what I want for dinner? Clearly you know my mind better than I do.”