Almost.
The bigger part of me wants to win this. The whole thing, no matter what – or who – gets in my way.
I think it’s hard to wrap your mind around someone dying. How is anyone supposed to actually grasp that? My father is dying, though, whether I can truly face it or not. Maybe this is so important for me because I’m not sure what else to do to show him how much he means to me, how much he’s influenced the man I am now. Funny, two months ago I was bitching and moaning about his game, blowing him off every second I got and blaming him for trying to live his dream through me. But somehow, I feel like I’ve aged years in the past two months. I’m a completely different person – older, more mature, less sheltered from the reality of life and what it means. I think I get it now. The way I feel about screenwriting, about going to California – that’s how my dad felt, feels, about poker.
No matter what it takes, I’m going to win this. For him.
I’ve seen Skyler a few times throughout the day, mostly during our very short breaks between tables. The gods must have smiled down on me because we somehow managed to not get the same table. Today is a piece of cake for her, I’m sure. I remember listening to her tell me about how day one is all about playing aggressively and getting the weaklings out of the way. Of course, with random table assignments, the most important thing is recognizing who’s at the table with you – are they a pro, a fish, or somewhere in-between? Once you figure that out, she told me, you align your strategy. Day one is easy, she had said. But day two? It’s a bitch.
There are only two tables still left playing when I cash my chips in for the day and they write down my starting amount for tomorrow. I’ve racked up a pretty good starting point to head into day two, so hopefully that will help in the morning. Glancing up at the table assignment screen, I see that one of the remaining tables is Skyler’s. Because apparently I love to be tortured, I make my way over to the viewing area and watch her play from afar. She’s dressed in a big black hoodie, classic Skyler poker attire, and she’s got her head thrown back in laughter – which means she’s probably targeting a fish at her table. She knows how to confuse the daylights out of unseasoned players. They can’t figure out if she’s flirting, bluffing, if she’s a little bit crazy or maybe a mixture of the three.
And just like the first night I saw her play, it turns me on watching her slay these tools.
I watch her for a while, studying her, but not to prepare myself to play against her. Instead, I focus on the way she breathes, the way her chest and lips move together to get oxygen in and out of her body. She seems so calm, so steady, and I envy her that because my chest still hurts from the tightness I’ve put it through all day. This is her element, her home. She’s too fucking beautiful to fit in here, but she does – like a rose in a sea of dandelions.
I’m just about to turn to head up to my room when she folds a hand and takes off her sunglasses to rub her eyes. When she finishes, she glances up and pins me with her gaze. For a moment she just stares at me, and I just stare at her. We don’t wave or nod or even really acknowledge that we’re both looking. We just look. Finally when I can’t take it anymore, I swallow and the corner of my mouth pulls into a soft, non-committing smile. She shifts in her chair, grabs her sunglasses, and pulls them back on just before the next hand is dealt, peeling her eyes from my own.
Skyler is just like this tournament. She’s a freezeout. There are no re-buys, no second chances – and I rode the blinds and played it safe before betting it all on a hand that couldn’t win. With her, I know it’s over. I know she’s done. We’re done. But something inside me refuses to let her go.
I’m still holding on to one, lone white chip. She doesn’t know I’m holding it, but I saved it – just in case. And maybe she is a freezeout, maybe there is no hope for me.
But then again, she could have worn any sunglasses she wanted to today, but she’s wearing mine. Maybe because they’re better than the ones she brought, maybe because she broke or lost the pair she had – or maybe, just maybe, because she’s not finished with me yet, either.
“Not to sound like your mother, but you look too thin. Are you eating out there in Vegas?” Little asks, her brow arching slightly.
I laugh a little. “Trust me, it’s just the camera. I’ve eaten at like five buffets already.”
“Sounds like heaven to me,” Jess pipes in. All the girls are squeezed together on my Big’s bed, fighting for room in the camera of our video chat and passing around a bottle of wine while I sip on the one I had brought up to my room.
“I just wish we could be there,” Ashlei says, her face falling. “You should have someone there to cheer you on.”
“I know you girls will cheer me on at the watch party tomorrow, and honestly that will probably be more fun than the viewing section here. Send me pictures! I want to see everyone.”
“You know we will. Bear has been planning this thing for months. I’m pretty sure he bought enough kegs for the entire city instead of just the school. Which, by the way, literally the entire school will be there.” Ashlei smiles, shaking her head. “We are all so fucking proud of you.”
“Thanks.” I smile, but it falls a bit when I see Erin in the corner of the screen. “What are you thinking so hard about, Big?” Things are far from fixed between us, but ever since we had our blow out and confronted all the shit we’ve been through, we’ve started to try to get back to normal. Try being the keyword there. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully recover from everything she did, not enough to be as close as we were before. But, she’s my Big, and I do love her. I’m not ready to write her off from my life.
She sighs. “I just can’t get over what you told us about Kip’s dad.”
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
Erin shakes her head. “They were just so close when I knew him back in high school. His dad was everything to him. He was so afraid to be who he was because he wanted to be everything his dad wanted him to be. I was in the process of finding myself that summer, but Kip couldn’t join me in that because he was trying to find how he fit in his father’s picture. I know he’s come a long way from that, but I also know this can’t be easy for him. I just can’t believe he’s even there.”
“Well isn’t that precisely why he’s there?” Little points out. “I don’t think he would be if this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Can we not talk about this?” I pinch the bridge of my nose and force my eyes shut, still trying to clear the smoke from the casino. Today was long, and tomorrow is going to be even longer. The last thing I need to do is have another sleepless night with my mind consumed by a blonde-haired boy with blue eyes and a kiss too devastating for words, and hearing Erin talk about him like she knows him better than I do really gets under my skin for some reason.
“Whatever.” Jess jumps up, pulling the wine bottle with her. “Forget all that. To you, Skyler Fucking Thorne.” She lifts the bottle to the screen. “Kick ass tomorrow and then get back here so we can throw a huge rager with all that money.”
We all laugh and Jess takes a pull of her bottle as I lift mine to my lips, too. “I love you girls. Thank you.”
Ashlei shrugs. “That’s what we’re here for.”
“Do you guys mind if I talk to Little alone?”
They all blow me kisses and offer various forms of advice before leaving, letting me sit with just Cassie. I inhale a shaky breath and she shakes her head fiercely.
“Do not cry on me, Big.”
I exhale. “I’m trying not to. Little, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. This tournament means everything to me, or it did, anyway. But now, I’m not sure what matters most to me anymore.” I bury my face in my hands. Saying the words out loud scares me more than I thought.
“I think you do know.” She offers a soft smile. “Skyler, you were going to pretty much be done with tournaments after this, right?” I nod, blinking quickly to keep the water from pooling in my eyes. “You want this more than anything not for the
title, but for your family. You want to pay off school at Palm South and help your parents out. I get that, I totally do. But Sky, it’s not up to you to set your parents up for life. And you and I both know that it wouldn’t take first place for you to be able to pay off your tuition. Don’t let the pressure of winning get to you. Just play like I know you know how to and let the cards fall where they’re meant to fall.”
I bite my lower lip, chewing on her words. She’s right, it wouldn’t take first place to pay off my tuition, and she’s also right that I’ve thought about that. It was almost all I could think about last night. But the fact that I’m even thinking of the possibility of losing makes me hate myself because poker is my thing, it’s everything I know, everything I am. I don’t want to give that up.
But then again, I don’t know if I want it to be everything I am anymore.
“What are you going to do about Kip?”
I shrug. “What is there to do? It’s over.”
“I call bullshit.”
Huffing, I take a long drink from the bottle of wine. “It is! How could I ever forgive him for what he did? How do I know what’s been real and what was just a game?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Every single moment between the two of you has been one-hundred percent real and you know it.” She leans forward a little. “Look at me, Big. I have known you for two years now and I’ve never seen you like this with a guy. Ever. You may not be sure about what’s happening between you and Kip, but I am. When he says he loves you, he means it – and I think you know that, too.”
“I don’t though, that’s what’s so hard!” I say a little louder than I intended, slamming the wine bottle down on the bedside table in frustration. “I would never have guessed he was playing this game, Little. Never. Everything with him felt so real, so genuine, so unlike anything I’ve ever had before. If it was so easy for him to pull off this whole scheme without me knowing the difference, wouldn’t it be just as easy for him to make me believe he loved me when he didn’t?”
Cassie shakes her head. “But then why would he still be trying to convince you? If it was all just a game, why would he bother?”
I scoff. “He’s probably trying to get under my skin for tomorrow.”
“You and I both know that’s complete crap,” she says firmly. “You’re scared, Skyler. I know you are and it’s okay to be scared. But remember, some of life’s best experiences are masked as terrifying leaps of faith. Just please, please – think about what you want before tomorrow. Think about what matters to you. What really matters.”
I nod, though I’m not sure I want to think about anything right now. Tomorrow is one of the biggest days of my life and I need a clear head, but at this point there’s practically no hope for that.
“I love you, Big. We’ll all be watching tomorrow. Just know you have a team rooting for you, no matter what happens.”
We end the video call and I fall back on my bed, exhausted from the day. The wine is lulling my body into a relaxed peacefulness while a war rages in my head. If I win tomorrow, there’s no telling if Kip will want anything to do with me at all. And even if he does still want me, will I want anything to do with him? And what if he beats me? Even if I do get enough prize money to pay off tuition, this is my tournament. What will I feel for him if I see him holding that champion ring instead of me? I trusted him, I told him my strategy for this tournament, I let him videotape me and I believed him when he said he wanted to help. I let him in only to find out everything he said was a lie.
Or was it?
I roll over onto my side, feeling a wave of nausea roll over me. Everything is a mess. A big, nasty, steaming pile of mess. Before Kip, I never knew what love was. I never knew love could hurt like this. I never knew how cruel it was. How heartless. Careless.
But that’s the thing about love.
Love doesn’t care about the games we play. It doesn’t care about the rules or the players or what’s at stake. Love is wild and unruly and it does what it wants with our hearts without us having any say in it. It’s beautiful and paralyzing and breathtaking. And it kills us because it’s the only thing that keeps us alive. Love doesn’t play our games because love is a completely different game in and of itself. And in the game of love, when all the chips are on the table, no one emerges unscarred. No one.
But sometimes our scars are the most beautiful story tellers.
I’ve been playing poker professionally now for exactly three years, seven months, and twelve days. I’ve been in countless tournaments, played everyone from a fish to a pro, lost and won amounts of money I never thought possible – but nothing, nothing, in my poker life could ever have prepared me to feel any less calm in this moment.
I am sitting at the final table.
In one of the biggest poker tournaments in the country.
Only ten players are left out of thousands.
One of them is me.
And one of them is Kip.
We somehow managed to not get placed at the same table throughout the tournament, which either means luck loves me or really, really hates me. I silently prayed every time I got a new table assignment that his name wouldn’t show up on the screen, but now, sitting across from his electric blue eyes, I wish I could take it back. Part of me thought he would be knocked out by now, as shitty as that makes me sound, and part of me didn’t think I would even make it this far. I’m confident, yes, but I’m also realistic. There are thousands of pros here, and right now Kip and I are about to take on eight people who I know by name without looking at the table details. That’s a bad sign and we both know it. They know what they’re doing, and this isn’t going to be easy. For anyone.
Kip is nervous. He can’t even hide it anymore. I watched him play a table earlier and I knew he was nervous then, too, but he was hiding it from everyone else. Now, he’s visibly shaking slightly, a thin film of sweat gathering on his forehead. Pulling off my sunglasses, I catch his eyes with mine and try to silently reassure him, to calm him, but if anything I just make things worse. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving along his throat and pulling more of my attention than I care to admit. I chew my lip and pull the glasses back over my eyes, taking shelter in the protection they provide.
This is it.
All or nothing.
Quickly, I size up the stacks at the table. I’m definitely not the lead chip holder right now, but I’m far from the bottom. Unfortunately, Kip is low. He’s here, which is what’s important, but compared to the rest of us, he’s low. I think only one person has less than he does, Veronica Small, an older woman from Indiana who I played once before. I don’t think she’ll be here long, and unless Kip can play smart, he’s not going to last, either.
Wait.
Why do I care?
I shift, licking my lips and shaking my head. Good. I hope he’s out quickly. Asshole shouldn’t be here in the first place. But, even though I want to think that way, I can’t. It’s impossible. As much as I want to crush him, I want him to win, too. Or at least last a while and move up in the prize payout bracket. But I don’t know if that would be enough for him. This isn’t about prize money to him – it’s about the title.
And I want that same title.
I study him from behind the shade of my sunglasses, letting my eyes wander the length of his arms as they tense and move beneath his button up. Every single man at this table is dressed modestly, jeans and a nice shirt at best, but not Kip. He’s got the same vest and button up look that he does so well, so effortlessly. And while four of us at the table sport sunglasses, he wears his regular black frames, his blue eyes clear and wide for everyone to see. His hair is styled but messy, probably from him dragging his fingers through it all day the way he’s doing right now. He’s so handsome, so painfully handsome.
We barely have time to get a good look at everyone at the table before the first hand is dealt and I slip my poker face back on, zeroing in on the task at hand. When I play, something happens that I can’
t quite explain. I know I’m here, I’m at the table, but I feel like I’m removed – almost as if I’m hovering above it, watching each and every player as they play the cards. I look for their tells, watch their strategy, note when they call and when they raise. Every small move is a neon sign, flashing their strengths and weaknesses. I lose myself in discovering them, finding just the perfect way to take them out.
Hand after hand is dealt, the hours dragging on but flying by at the same time. I watch Kip closer than any of the other players at the table and a mixture of emotion rolls through me the more attention I pay him. He quickly climbs the chip ladder as we knock players out, creeping up to my stack. I’m proud of him and terrified of him at the same time and I’m not sure which way to lean, so I straddle the two emotions.
When it’s down to just me, Kip, and Brendan Cartwright, last year’s tournament runner-up, I start to sweat under my heavy black hoodie. I debate taking it off, but I’m wearing nothing but a tank top under this hoodie and I know all too well what the headlines would be covering if I won wearing it. Unfortunately that’s what happens when you’re a girl in the poker world. Truthfully, though, I’m thankful for the heat. It makes me focus, it keeps me centered – and I need to be centered right now.
Kip hasn’t looked at me but maybe twice the entire time we’ve been at this table, but he has to know I’m watching him. When I go all in against Brendan and we flip over our cards to let the hand play out, I let out a sigh of both relief and panic when I see he has a pair of Jacks and I only have a hope of getting another heart to complete my flush. Standing, I pull my sunglasses off and drop them to the table, resting my hands on my head as the dealer pulls the turn. Jack. Of spades.
Black Number Four Page 31
