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“I mean, you’re a professional card player.”
“That’s better, but gambler isn’t too far off.”
“What’s that like?”
I glance out the window, across the sand and toward the ocean. “Exciting,” I admit. “And not for people that can’t take uncertainty.”
“What’s the most you’ve ever lost?”
I look back at her, eyebrow raised. “That’s an unusual question.”
“Is it? I thought I was just being nosy.”
I laugh, surprised at how funny she is. “Okay, it’s nosy too. Most people ask me how much I’ve won.”
“Oh, winning’s boring,” she says, waving her hand. “Anyone can win.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, anyone can win and keep playing, right? I think the real interesting people are the ones that lose and keep going.”
I lean toward her, drawn in by her conversation, or maybe by her gorgeous fucking lips and the way she’s staring at me. I completely agree with her, and it’s actually something I’ve always felt instinctually but never really put into words. The guys that do what I do are all used to losing and going on. Truth is, we lose almost as much as we win, but the trick is to win just a little bit more. The really good guys can win maybe sixty percent of the time, at best.
“It was this back room game,” I say finally, deciding to be honest with her. “The sort of thing you only get invited to.”
“High stakes?” she asks.
“Very,” I say. “I was playing with some shady guys. They liked having a pro player around, I think because they think it’s more interesting to try and beat me.”
“I’m guessing they do,” she says.
“Not usually. But this time, there was a new guy playing, some Russian dude I’ve never met before. Big scar on his eye, constantly eating Oreo cookies.”
“Oreos?” She laughs at that. “Really? Like from that movie?”
“Just like that,” I say. “I mean, I couldn’t believe it, I thought the guy was insane. But the more we played, the more I realized that he was a hustler. Oh, he pretended to be a loser at first, but I could see right through him. All the other guys kept getting greedy, and as the night wore on, he slowly won more and more.
“So it’s like four in the morning now, we’re all tired, the guys are all drunk except for me and this Russian. I get a good hand and I bet big. He calls me right away.”
“Scary,” she says, eyes wide. “Are these like…”
“Mobsters?” I finish for her. “Yeah, they are. Harmless guys really, unless you’re a dick. Anyway, he calls me and we get the flop, which actually looks decent for me. So I bet again, and he calls me again. Next card, same deal, but I’m sweating at this point. He’s just staring at me, no emotion on his face. I can’t read him at all.
“So I bet again, and he calls me again. I think the pot’s at like fifty grand at this point, which is big, but not that big. Last card comes, and it’s exactly what I wanted. I mean, I’m over the moon, freaking out. I went all-in.”
Her eyes go wide. “Really?”
“Really. And the fucker calls me. I can’t believe it, there’s nearly three hundred grand on that table, and everyone’s still, totally fucking still, because this is huge. I mean fucking massive.”
“Oh god,” she says.
I grin at her. “Yep. We flip the cards, and he beats me. Seriously, the only hand that could beat me, and he has it. I can’t believe it, but he takes the money without gloating.”
“How much did you lose?”
“Buy-in was like fifty grand so…” I shrug a little. “Afterward, he came up to me and says in this thick Russian accent, ‘Friend, best game of my life, da? You play me again sometime, you win back your money.’ He pats my shoulder, leaves, and I never see him again.”
“Wow,” she says, laughing and shaking her head. “I almost don’t believe you.”
