Page 113 of Dating Goals
She mouths something. I squint, trying to decipher her silent message.
Win.
With one word, my brain clicks into hockey mode. The same clarity washing over me before big games. The buzzing doubt vanishes, replaced by the same laser focus I have on the ice.
Who needs an earpiece when you have someone believing in you?
My grandma’s words come flooding back to me.Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you are right.
That’s a Henry Ford quote for ya.
I take a deep breath. Close my eyes for a moment.
In goal, I read patterns. Body language. The slight shift in a forward’s weight before he shoots left. The fraction-second hesitation before a wrist shot becomes a pass.
I open my eyes and really look at my opponents.
The Texan scratches his left eyebrow when he’s bluffing. Malcolm’s mouth tightens almost imperceptibly when he’s confident in his hand. Durand…reveals nothing, which is information in itself.
Two more hands. I start playing strategically, folding when uncertain, betting small when confident. My chips stabilize.
“Raising the blinds,” the dealer announces.
With the blinds raised, each hand costs me a small fortune just to see my cards. I count my remaining chips. Enough for maybe five, six hands at most. This is the time when even great players crumble under pressure. They start making desperatemoves, trying to double up quickly, and instead crash out with nothing.
Not me. Not today.
“Five hundred thousand,” Malcolm announces, tossing chips into the pot.
Sweat beads down the Texan’s forehead as he contemplates his options. His left eyebrow twitches. Once, twice. I suppress a smile. He’s bluffing.
“Call,” he says eventually, adding his chips to the growing pile.
Durand matches the bet.
My turn. The flop gave me top pair with a straight draw.
“Call,” I say, matching their bets.
The dealer burns a card and reveals the turn. A King of Hearts.
The Texan bets two hundred thousand. Malcolm raises to five hundred thousand. Durand calls with a casual tilt of his head.
I glance at Anika again. She’s perched on the edge of her barstool, barely breathing.
“Call,” I announce, adding my chips to the pot.
The dealer reveals the river card. A three of clubs.
The Texan bets aggressively. Three million. Malcolm counters with six million. Durand matches Malcolm’s bet without batting an eye.
The spotlight of pressure burns on me. With no voice in my ear, no secret advantage, I’m naked against these pros. Yet something clicks. Just like when I finally got my groove as a goaltender. That moment of clarity. I feel like I’m underwater and everything is happening in slow motion. My eyes move between the Texan, Durand, and Malcolm. The Texan’s face has gone still, except for the vein pulsing in his temple. Durand remains maddeningly unreadable. Malcolm looks downrightgleeful. He totally thinks he’s got the winning hand, so the least I can do is mess with him.
“Decisions, decisions,” I murmur, arranging my chips. “Well, McGregor?” Malcolm snaps. “Last chance to fold with some dignity.”
“Do you ever watch the Titans games?” I press. “If you did, you’d know I never give up.”
Anika stands at the bar, one hand pressed against her collarbone. She gives me the tiniest of nods.
