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.