22. Griffin #2
“Because this whole situation reeks worse than hockey gear after playoffs. Because Durand appears everywhere I go. Because you’re suddenly buddy-buddy with him at the same poker game I’m at when you wouldn’t give me the time of day for days.”
Her mouth tightens. “It wasn’t Durand.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he was trying to help you.” She turns fully toward me now, eyes blazing. “He ran up twenty-one flights of stairs to make sure you weren’t murdered.”
“Twenty-one flights? Impressive cardio regimen.”
“By the time he reached the landing, you’d already…” She makes a punching motion with her fist.
“So, he was there. And didn’t even say hallo gov’na.”
“He said you handled yourself well.” Her lips twitch. “I’m quite impressed you managed without a woman stepping in to save you.”
“Hey, now.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” I admit, laughing despite myself. I’m no fighter. On the ice, I avoid confrontation. Off the ice, I’m the guy who apologizes when someone else steps on my foot. “Between you kung fu fighting those bar goons and Elodie going full Lara Croft on an assassin, pushing him off a moving train…”
“Elodie did what?”
“I thought I told you about the train.”
“You did but…” Anika blinks rapidly. “I guess I didn’t let you tell me the details.”
“Well, I ducked a lot while Elodie did all the ninja moves.”
She bites her lip, suppressing a smile. “Not exactly James Bond material, are you?”
I hang my head. Sixteen-year-old Griffin would be so disappointed in me right now. “No, I suppose not.”
A shooting star streaks across the sky, gone before I can point it out. Wishes wasted.
“Besides,” I continue. “Fighting isn’t exactly in my skill set. I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”
Her cheeks flush beautifully.
“Griffin, I…”
“Excuse me, Mr. McGregor?” A uniformed concierge stands at the terrace entrance. “The game will resume in five minutes. Your presence is requested.”
“Of course.” I nod, not taking my eyes off Anika. “Be right there.”
The concierge retreats, leaving us alone again.
“Anika, about last night.”
She places her finger against my lips. “Go win your game, Griffin.”
“And after?”
A smile plays at her lips. “After, we talk.”
“Promise?”
Warmth blooms in my chest as she says, “And I will take the train back to Gr?chen with you.”
The poker room hums with quiet tension when I enter. Three faces turn toward me with barely concealed contempt. Durand, Malcolm, and the Texan, all hoping I wouldn’t return.
“McGregor.” Malcolm nods. “We thought you might have decided to quit while you were ahead.”
“And miss the chance to see your face when I win? Not a chance.” I slide into my chair, attempting to channel my inner Sean Connery but feeling more like Austin Powers.
The dealer shuffles the cards. “Gentlemen, shall we continue?”
The line to my poker coach has gone silent. My hand instinctively reaches for my ear, finding nothing. The earpiece. It’s gone.
Wait. I took it out of my ear when I went outside.
I pat my pocket. But it’s not there either.
My stomach plummets through the floor. I frantically check my other pockets, pretending to get comfortable. Nothing.
“Problem?” Malcolm asks with a wolfish grin.
“Not at all.” I force a relaxed expression while internally screaming. The earpiece must have fallen out somewhere between the terrace and here.
Elodie floats over.
“Everything all right, darling?” she whispers, her hand brushing my shoulder.
“Lost my…good luck charm,” I mutter.
“A word in private please,” she says to the table. “It’s a personal matter.”
“We ain’t waitin’ much longer,” says the Texan.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” I rise, following her to a corner of the room.
When she’s convinced we’re out of earshot, she glances around, whispers, “When?”
“I don’t know…it must have fallen out on the terrace during the break.”
Her voice drops to a deadly whisper. “Do you understand what’s at stake?”
“I’m perfectly aware of that, thank you,” I hiss.
Elodie’s face turns to granite. “We need to stall, retrace your steps. Look everywhere. I’ll go visit those bozos upstairs to inquire about a replacement.”
“Gentlemen, I’ll be dealing the next hand if everyone is ready,” the dealer announces. “If all players would please take their seats.”
Malcolm swivels in his chair, eyebrow arched. “Either take your seat or forfeit, McGregor. We don’t have all night.”
His smug face makes me want to punch something. Preferably him.
“I’ll wing it while you go get another earpiece,” I whisper to Elodie.
Elodie’s eyes widen to anime proportions. “Wing it? Are you insane? You’ll lose everything!”
“What choice do we have?” I whisper urgently. “Unless you want to feed me answers through interpretive dance, I need that earpiece.”
“This is the third one you’ve lost,” she reminds me harshly. “They don’t just sell those at the corner market.”
“I’m sorry. No one told me not to wear it in the shower. And the second one wasn’t entirely my fault.”
I suppose I can’t exactly hold it against housekeeping for wiping down my nightstand when I forgot to put the “do not disturb” sign on my door while I went out for lunch.
They were just doing their job, after all.
And those earpieces are so tiny. I blame Agent Showalter for not giving me something to store it in. Like a ring box or something.
Elodie’s face hardens. “Without guidance, you’ll lose everything in thirty minutes.”
“Your pep talks need work.” I glance at the table. “Look, the sooner you go upstairs, the sooner you’ll be back.”
Elodie glances toward the table where three pairs of eyes watch us with varying degrees of suspicion. “Fine. Play conservatively. Fold early. Understand?”
“Got it.”
“Hurry up, Canadian!” The Texan pounds the table with his meaty fist.
Elodie slips out of the room, and I return to the table and settle into my chair. “Sorry about the delay, gentlemen. Ready to play some cards?”
I have a hundred inspirational quotes about confidence. Grandma has a hundred more. But I can’t think of a single one right now.
“Technical difficulties?” Malcolm asks, eyebrow raised as he arranges his massive chip stack.
“Nothing serious.” I arrange my pathetically small pile of chips into neat stacks. “My Lady Luck needed…to refresh her makeup.”
“Luck,” Durand says with a British sniff. “Is for amateurs.”
The Texan grunts in agreement.
“Five hundred thousand to start,” announces the dealer.
Cards whisper across the green felt. I lift the corner of mine. Jack of Clubs, Seven of Diamonds. Not great, not terrible. What would the voice in my ear say?
The Texan bets aggressively on the first hand, and I fold early. Malcolm wins with a straight, his smile stretching across his face as he rakes in the chips.
“First blood,” he murmurs, stacking his winnings.
Three more hands pass this way. Me folding early, protecting my dwindling chip stack while praying for Elodie’s return. My strategy consists entirely of don’t-lose-everything-before-help-arrives.
Durand studies me with unsettling intensity. Can he tell I’m flying blind now?
“Everything all right, Mr. McGregor?” he asks in that infuriating British accent.
“Peachy,” I say with a tight smile.
I scan the room for Elodie. No sign.
My eyes meet Anika’s across the bar. She’s gnawing her lower lip. Seeing her calms me somehow. Even with no earpiece and Malcolm breathing down my neck, her presence steadies me.
The next hand brings me a pair of nines. Better, but nothing spectacular.
Durand raises pre-flop. The Texan folds immediately.
Malcolm calls. My turn again.
“Call,” I say, matching their bets.
The flop comes. Ace of Clubs, Seven of Spades, Two of Hearts. Nothing helps my nines.
Durand bets big. Malcolm considers, his fingers playing with a chip, before calling.
My nines suddenly seem pathetic. “Fold.”
The door opens, and Elodie slips back in. Her face is pale. When our eyes meet, she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
No earpiece. I’m done for.
The game continues, more intense now. Durand plays cautiously, winning small pots, folding frequently. Malcolm becomes more aggressive, trying to bully us with large bets.
An hour passes. My fortunes continue to slide. Across the room, Elodie grows increasingly agitated, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch.
I glance again at Anika, who straightens suddenly at the bar, her expression shifting from worry to determination.
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 desperate moves, 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.