Page 6 of Line Change

The guests donate real money for stacks of evergreen chips stamped with the Leviathan eye. At the end of the night, whoever has the most Leviathan Bucks can trade them for auction credit, rink-side seats, signed gear, and other things rich people could buy for themselves but apparently prefer to win from hockey players. Every empty stack means another donation. Nobody cares which of us wins.

I sit beside Pope and smile at the rest of the table. “Sorry. They save me for the high rollers.” The woman across from me laughs as the dealer gives me a stack of chips and two cards.

Pope glances over. “You’re late.”

“People expect that from me. It’s part of the experience.” I pick up my cards while Pope goes back to his.

I barely look at mine. The older man to my left wants to know if hockey players are allowed to bet on themselves, which gets us into a conversation about how much I would pay for Anton to score a goal. By the time I remember we’re playing, the dealer is pushing the pot toward Pope.

“Did you win?” I ask.

“You were here.”

“Physically.” The woman across from us laughs again. Pope stacks his chips without smiling.

On the next hand, he raises before the flop. His face doesn’t change. A sponsor in an expensive blue suit calls him. I fold a hand I probably could’ve played because the sponsor is telling me about the first Leviathans game his father took him to, and that’s more interesting than a pair of fours.

Pope bets again. The sponsor thinks about it long enough to sigh, then folds. Pope pulls in the chips and turns over a seven and a three.

“You had nothing,” the sponsor says.

“I had chips,” Pope says.

I look at him properly. By the third hand, it’s obvious his serious face has nothing to do with his cards. He sits the same way when he has something, when he has nothing, and when I’m leaning across him to steal one of the tiny chocolates from the bowl beside his elbow.

Pope is good at bluffing. Now I want his chips.

I start paying attention. He folds the next hand, which tells me nothing. On the hand after that, he calls me all the way to the river while I keep betting a pair of queens. He turns over three eights and takes another pile of my money.

“Those are for charity,” I tell him.

“Then donate more.”

I do, because one of the volunteers appears at my shoulder with another rack and the man to my left immediately buys one too. The whole table applauds. I bow from my chair and tell them I’m expensive company.

Pope looks at his cards like he’s at a real table and somebody’s mortgage depends on the next bet.

I lose to him twice more. Once because he’s bluffing and I don’t call. Once because I decide he’s bluffing and he isn’t. The third time, I fold early and spend the hand talking a woman into bidding on the signed goalie mask Anton painted himself. She knows perfectly well Anton did not paint it himself. We raise the bid anyway.

“I have to say,” the sponsor in the blue suit tells Pope, “when I heard Seattle picked you up, I figured they’d finally hired someone to babysit Fraser.”

I keep smiling. The first answer that comes to mind would make the sponsor’s wife laugh and him hate me forever. Anything I say at this table will reach the press office before dessert.

I know when to behave myself. Tonight counts, so I look at my cards and say nothing.

Pope shoots me a look. It’s quick, but I see it. Then he turns back to the sponsor.

“Nolan and the rest of the team have been great to play with,” he says. “I’m looking forward to turning the season around with them.”

The sponsor lifts his hands. “Fair enough.” The dealer starts the next hand, somebody asks Pope about the Cup, and the whole table moves on. I keep hearing my name.

He could’ve laughed. It would’ve been easy, and nobody here would think less of him for it. Ben Pope, responsible adult, brought in to handle Seattle’s problem child. The story already exists. All he had to do was nod. Instead, he used my name, and I lose another hand thinking about it.

A few minutes later, Pope pushes back from the table. He says something to the dealer, gives the rest of his chips to the woman across from us, and walks toward the far side of the ballroom. I watch him go, and then I’m standing.

“Deal me out,” I tell the dealer, and follow Pope before I come up with a reason.

He disappears behind a cluster of potted trees near the windows. They’re supposed to make the ballroom look less like a room full of rented tables and men asking each other what they do for a living. Mostly, they create a place for Ben Pope to hide.