22. Griffin #3
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 downright gleeful.
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.
“I’ll see your six million,” I announce, pushing a stack of plaques into the center.
The Texan lets out a low whistle but doesn’t hesitate. “I raise one million more.”
Durand lifts an eyebrow, the first real expression I’ve seen on his face all night. “Call,” he says smoothly, matching the seven million.
Malcolm chuckles. “Gentlemen, we’re finally getting serious.” He makes a show of counting out his chips. “I’ll see your seven million and raise you…two million more.”
“Nine million,” the dealer confirms.
The bet comes around to me again. The tension cranks up another notch. My collar feels suddenly tight against my neck. Sweat beads on my forehead.
“The bet is nine million to you, Mr. McGregor,” the dealer says.
My mouth goes dry. The weight of every decision I’ve made in my life seems to funnel into this single moment. I need to trust my hockey instincts. The Titans never won a game just sitting there playing it safe.
“All in,” I announce, pushing my entire stack forward.
A collective gasp ripples through the room.
“Thirty-eight million, five hundred thousand.” I dig into my pocket and toss my lucky Canadian Loonie into the pot. “And one Canadian dollar,” I add with a wink at Anika.
“The bet is thirty-eight million, five hundred thousand…and one Canadian dollar…to you, Mr. Chase,” the dealer announces.
The Texan barks out a laugh. Durand’s lip quirks upward.
“You must have quite a hand, McGregor,” he says. “Or perhaps you’re desperate.”
I shrug. “Only one way to find out.”
“One can only wonder,” Malcolm says coolly. “Where does a hockey player like you get off betting his life savings on a poker game? Or do you have a silent benefactor in that pretty little bartender?”
It takes every ounce of control not to fly across this table to strangle that creepy grin out of him. But for Anika, and only for Anika, I’ll settle for strangling all the stolen money from him and then hand him over to the Feds. So I play it cool. For now.
“Tell me, Malcolm,” I say. “Can I expect another Christmas card this year with you and your perfect family on the front? Or will you send a Season’s Greetings from you and your sidepiece?”
Malcolm’s top lip twitches, a rush of blotchy red creeping up his neck to his eyeballs.
He glowers at me murderously as he shoves all his chips forward, knocking over his neat piles in the process. “All in.”
“Mr. Chase is all in for forty-four million, two hundred thousand,” the dealer confirms.
Malcolm holds up his hand to the dealer. “Wait.” He reaches into his pocket, producing a sleek key fob.
“Sorry, I don’t carry Canadian Loonies. But in the spirit of your dramatics…” He tosses the fob onto the pile. “My Bugatti La Voiture Noire.”
The dealer looks uncertainly between us. “Sir, the house rules do not allow…”
“The house will accommodate me,” Malcolm snaps. “Won’t you?”
The floor manager hurries over, whispers something to the dealer, who nods reluctantly.
“The vehicle has been accepted as part of the wager,” the dealer concedes.
The Texan guffaws and pushes his entire stack forward. “Blast it all. I reckon you Canadians are bluffing.”
“All in for twelve million,” the dealer confirms.
After a moment’s hesitation, Durand announces, “For a Bugatti, I’m all in as well.”
“All in for ten million, three hundred thousand,” the dealer says.
I keep my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. If I’m wrong about this…
The room falls silent, everyone collectively holding their breath.
“Gentlemen,” the dealer announces. “Please reveal your cards.”
The Texan goes first, turning over a king and a seven. The dealer slides the cards around to accommodate his hand.
“Two pair, kings and sevens.”
Durand reveals a jack and a nine. “Straight, five to nine.”
Malcolm’s smile grows impossibly wicked as he turns over his cards. A pair of kings.
“Full house, kings full of sevens,” the dealer announces.
All eyes turn to me. Malcolm already has one hand stretching toward the pot.
My heart hammers in my chest as I flip my cards. Queen and Ten of Hearts.
The dealer’s voice doesn’t even quiver when he says, “Royal flush in hearts.”
Malcolm’s face drains of all color.
“The winning hand belongs to Mr. McGregor,” the dealer confirms.
Malcolm’s eyes burn with rage. “You cheated.”
“Careful, Malcolm,” I warn. “Those are serious accusations in a place like this.”
His jaw works silently, fury radiating from him in palpable waves.
“The house recognizes Mr. McGregor as the winner of the main pot and all side pots he is eligible for, awarding him a total of one hundred and five million euros,” the dealer announces formally. But then breaks his stoic facade as he adds, “Also, one Canadian dollar and a Bugatti La Voiture Noire.”
I slide a one million euro plaque toward the dealer as I depart from the table. “For your trouble,” I say.
The dealer accepts it with a graceful nod. “Most generous, sir.”
The Texan ambles over, ruddy-faced and surprisingly cheerful for someone who lost millions. He extends a meaty hand.
“Son of a gun! I haven’t seen poker played like that since my daddy won a ranch in ’82.” His handshake nearly dislocates my shoulder. “You played us like fiddles. No hard feelings here. When you’re beat, you’re beat.”
“Thanks,” I manage, flexing my fingers to ensure they still work. “You played a great game.”
“Hell, I played like a drunk armadillo compared to whatever voodoo you pulled off.” He laughs, slapping my shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth.
“Well, I’m fixin’ to hit the bar and drown my sorrows in bourbon.
Next time you’re in Dallas, you look me up.
Cletus Beauregard. My poker nights could use some fresh blood. ”
Across the room, Malcolm lunges for his Bugatti key fob on the table, but a security guard intercepts his arm.
“Sir, all items in the pot belong to the winner.”
Malcolm’s face contorts. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
The guard remains impressively stoic. “Yes, sir. You’re the gentleman who no longer owns a Bugatti.”
Malcolm yanks his arm free, straightens his jacket with an aggressive tug, and storms toward the exit. The doors bang open as he plows through them.
“Mr. McGregor.” The floor manager appears at my side. “Congratulations on your win. The banker will see you whenever you’re ready to transfer the funds.”
“We’ll go straight away,” Elodie says beside me. “No time like the present.”
Over her shoulder, I catch sight of Anika slipping toward the door. Our eyes lock across the room. She gives me a small, mysterious smile before vanishing into the corridor.
My heart does a cartwheel in my chest. What was that smile? A congratulations? A goodbye? A see-you-later-for-elevator-makeout-session-part-two?
Durand stands rigid near the bar, not watching Anika leave, but studying Elodie and me with laser focus. His expression is calculating. Intense.
“Everyone’s watching us,” I whisper to Elodie as we exit.
“Let them watch,” she replies coolly. “You’re a hundred million euros richer. People always stare at winners.”
“Right this way, please.” The floor manager leads us up the steps to an elevated section of the room where the banker waits. His steel briefcase containing the computer setup with encryption software sits open on the table.
“Password, please,” he requests, turning the keyboard toward me.
My mind conjures Anika’s face at the hockey game, holding her homemade sign, screaming “ Hopp Schwiiz !!” while jumping up and down.
I type H-O-P-P-S-C-H-W-I-I-Z, smiling at the memory.
The screen flashes confirmation with a soft beep.
“Thank you.” The banker nods. “Now, where would you like the funds transferred?”
Elodie leans forward, inputting bank information she has memorized, apparently.
“Everything in order?” I ask casually.
“Perfect,” Elodie responds. She smiles at the banker. “When will the transfer complete?”
“Immediately,” he confirms. “The funds are now being processed.”