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“I am happy,” I tell my brother. “Really, I am. I’m taking a break tonight to watch the hockey game. Ro and her family are so great to me. I’m good, Tony.”
“Okay, good. Can we come visit for Thanksgiving? I’m dying to hit some poker tables with you.”
His enthusiasm sends a wave of nausea through me. I only have two goals in life right now—earn what I need to sit across from Will Roan at a poker table, and get both of my brothers through college with bachelor’s degrees. I miss my family, but I don’t want my brothers to come here and get drawn in by the glitz and easy money of Vegas. Poker ultimately killed our father, and I won’t let that happen to them.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or I might want to come home. We’ll see.”
“I have to go to my study group, sis. Talk to you soon, okay?”
“Sure. Love you.”
“Love you, too. And thanks again.”
“Anytime.”
I end the call and walk back into the sports bar. The stools at the bar are all taken, so I stand to the side and watch one of the big screens on the wall. The Saints are down 2–0, and a rowdy fan at one of the tables is yelling at the TV.
“Bunch of fuckin’ amateurs! I waited my whole life for a team here and THIS is what I get? Horseshit!”
“Calm your tits,” a woman at his table says, glaring. “The game just started.”
“They suck!” he cries, throwing his hands in the air.
“They’ve been a team for like two minutes, for fuck’s sake.”
I smile to myself, my gaze back on the TV screen. Maverick and I aren’t close by any means, but we’ve been texting. I only got to talk to him in person on the walk to the Bellagio last week, but I’ve thought about that conversation every day since. There’s something about him. It’s not just that he’s attractive, he’s also incredibly likable. I’m rooting for the Mavericks tonight, but mostly, I’m rooting for him.
Since moving here, I’ve never seen the city this collectively excited about anything. Everywhere I go, I see the Saints logo and pictures of the players for our new team. Most of the pictures are of Maverick and two other players named Pike Morgan and Kingston Bryant.
“What the fuck?” the rowdy fan yells. “My grandma could have made that shot!”
I push off the wall I’m leaning against and head for the door, done with his running commentary. From what I read, Maverick hasn’t played since a bad leg injury that happened more than a year ago. This is also the first time these players have played a game as a team. Expectations from fans were high, though—obviously.
I’m playing at Caesars tonight, and I’ve sweated through my shirt by the time I finish the walk there. It’s been a great week at the tables—I’ve made more than $15,000 already. Friday and Saturday nights are always the busiest, and it takes me about half an hour to get a seat at a table on this Friday night.
A couple hours later, I’m up around $2,000, and the woman next to me is marveling at the size of my stacks.
“How’d you get so lucky?” she asks, grinning and shaking her head. “Do you play often?”
I shrug. “When I get a chance.”
Between hands, I sneak a peek at my phone and groan. The Saints are down 4–1, and the game is almost over. The only time I’ve ever cared which team won during a sporting event was when my dad had money riding on them. This is the first time I’ve actually known, or even met, a professional athlete.
I fold my next hand without thinking much about it, feeling distracted. I know from my texts with Maverick that he was nervous about tonight. Wanting to prove himself. Why can’t the hockey gods just do him a solid?
Most of the faces at the table change over the course of the next couple of hours, but my pot keeps growing at the same rate. I’m at more than $5,000 in winnings, so it’s time to cash out and move to another casino. As I start racking my chips, I look up and see Maverick on the other side of the room.
My heart skips several beats. He’s dressed in a dark suit, hands in his pockets, dark hair neatly combed back, looking like a GQ model right down to his sullen expression. And he’s looking right at me.
I get up from the table and glance at my phone, wondering if I missed a text from him. He knew from our earlier text exchange that I’d be playing here tonight, but he didn’t say anything about coming by.
“Hey,” I say, holding on to my chips as I approach him.
“Hey.”
“Rough night.” I don’t phrase it as a question, because obviously, it was.
