Hoops Shorts: A HOOPS Novella Collection

I hadn’t wanted to answer that question. Bishop had mentioned the big fight in Vegas and I insisted I could handle it. So we booked the concert. That I ended up missing, of course.

The thing was, I could still remember the days when I didn’t win. When I was the unluckiest son of a bitch you ever saw.

’Cause I’d already hit rock bottom. A long ass time ago.

Broken. Broke. Kicked out of my mama’s house because I’d taken credit cards out in her name to pay my gambling debts.

The thing was, back then, I couldn’t win to save my life. I shoulda won. That last big pot, where I coulda paid it all back, saved Mama’s house, and paid back all the rest.

I was playin’ Texas hold-em in a high-stakes game in Vegas. And I had a straight flush, first ever of my life.

I couldn’t lose.

Except the motherfucker across the table from me had a royal flush. The one hand that could beat me. What were the chances? Talk about a million to one.

So I lost it all. Mama cussed me out with every bad name she knew and some she made up just for the occasion. She said she wished she never woulda had me and that me and my no-good dad had ruined her life.

So when I was sleeping in my car—I figured they couldn’t repo it if I was sleeping inside?—and I had a dream with a shadowy dude at a crossroads who promised me I could have the best luck in the world if only I gave him… well, my soul.

What the fuck did I care about my eternal soul? Plus, it was just a dream, even if the chill of that fucking place went down to my bones deeper than when we lived that winter in Minnesota when Dad decided to try the casinos there instead. See, I’d inherited being a gambling man. Dad had shown me how to crack the shell game when I was just knee-high.

He—the shadow—knew that. He knew every damn thing about me. He knew my name. He knew about my dad. He knew about my bad luck. And I believed him about all the promises he made.

I mean sure, I told myself it was just a dream the morning after. A really fuckin’ vivid dream.

Except the next day when I swore off gambling and went to try to make money as an honest man with my only other skill—playing the guitar—I instantly got the gig. And we went big. Fast.

What else did you call that except luck?

And when I next dabbled in gambling… I didn’t lose. I won and didn’t stop winning.

Biggest high of my life.

They didn’t nickname me Cash for no reason.

Till casino after casino wouldn’t take my business anymore. And even though I bought my mama a new house with my Faust money and some of the winnings... Well, after all the hard years me and Dad had put her through, she didn’t forgive. She figured it was just what I owed her. She still wouldn’t speak to me.

And the gambling… well, when you always knew you’d win, it wasn’t a challenge anymore. And I started to realize that what had made it so addictive in the first place was the element of chance. Knowing you could win big or lose everything.

Okay, so maybe I only stopped last time after getting myself in some big damn trouble first. Those Vegas bosses? They weren’t happy when they were sure you were cheating but they couldn’t figure out how.

Which was when I started going to Gambler’s Anonymous and met Trevor, who agreed to be my sponsor.

I hadn’t felt the itch as bad as the week before last in years. Going to Vegas had obviously been a bad idea. I wasn’t as strong as I liked to think.

And the next steps after a relapse? Making amends.

So as I finished up sound check at the Amsterdam venue, there were only two band members left to apologize to. I’d left both the hardest and easiest for last.

Now for the hardest.

“Hey, Mason. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Vegas. I really screwed up, man. I’m sorry.”

Mason glared at me and then around at the enclosed concert venue. “Whatever, man. Let’s just focus on getting through tonight.” Then he shook his head. “Did we really have to play in a place that used to be a fuckin’ church?”

I looked around, confused. “How do you know it used to be a church?”

Mason looked at me like I was the crazy one. Then he gestured behind us. “Stained-glass windows? The shape of the building? Look at that fresco over there. Those are saints.”

I followed the gesture of his hand with my eyes and shrugged. “Okay, man, if you say so.” My family had never been the churchgoing type.