“Holy shit, Forest!” Denny yelps. “You bagged yourself a younger man, and he happens to be a professional athlete?”
I sigh. “Could you not sound quite so surprised?”
Another roar of laughter.
Beck sidesteps my friends and ends up in front of me. I’m trying to decide on how to greet him in this situation. I feel like we’re onstage. But Beck solves this problem by pulling me into a one-armed man hug for a half second. “Happy birthday, old man. Wasn’t sure what to bring a bartender on his birthday, so I went with some cocktail fixings.” He hands me the box. “Cheers.”
“Oh, cool,” I say, looking down into the open box. It’s full of mixers from an artisanal cocktail place in Boulder, plus a couple of small bottles of liquor. “I love this stuff.”
“Fancy,” Kenji agrees. “We can start with a blood-orange margarita or a mojito.”
“Mojitos!” yells Big Bob from the front hall where he’s removing his coat. “I’ll mix! Let’s get our poker on.”
“In a second,” Denny says. “What are your intentions with our friend Forest?”
“Oh God, Denny,” I moan, wanting to die.
Beck gives me a fond glance. “I intend to destroy him in poker. Birthday be damned.”
I grin.
What follows are some of the most entertaining poker games of my life.
In the first place, Kenji uses Beck’s gourmet ingredients to make us all a blood-orange margarita that’s so good I almost cry.
Then there’s the game itself. Beck is a proficient poker player with a few professional-level skills. He doesn’t showboat. He doesn’t take chances. And—I really should have seen this coming—nobody can tell when he’s bluffing.
“You sneaky fucker,” Big Bob complains for the third time as Beck wins another big pot with nothing but a pair of fours. “I’ll get you next time.”
Beck hums like he’s considering this. “Statistically, you won’t. But I support your optimism,” he says, while I try not to notice the way his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, showing off just a V of skin that I can’t stop staring at.
I mean, it is my birthday. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume I’ll be unbuttoning that shirt later and peeling it off his body.
Big Bob wins some chips off Beck, finally, and crows about it.
Beck tips his head. “Nice. I love watching underdog documentaries in real time.”
Kenji snorts into his cocktail glass, and then somebody breaks out the cigars. And also a chocolate cake.
“Don’t sing to me,” I mutter. “I’m not seven. Just deal me a decent hand, Kenji.”
“Sure thing, bud.”
But I just don’t have the cards tonight—which, let’s be honest, is just how my life has been working out lately. Even on my birthday. I run out of chips eventually, and so does Denny. The game comes down to a final standoff between Big Bob and Beck.
I can tell from Big Bob’s face that he thinks he’s got a winning hand. “I’ll raise you fifty,” he says, pushing his chips toward Beck.
The look Beck gives him says: you sure about that? “I’ll call,” Beck says with enough composure that Big Bob is probably shitting himself already.
And, yeah, it’s all over a minute later. Beck wins with a pair of tens.
Big Bob flips over ace-high. “Christ!” he hollers. “How did you know I was bluffing? I thought you’d fold, for sure.”
“Reading guys who are trying to take advantage of me is my day job.”
“You must be a fantastic goalie,” he mutters. “We got time for one more cocktail?”
“Sure,” Kenji says. “I’ll whip something new up. Hold, please.” He gets out of his chair and heads for the kitchen.
