Maverick (Sin City Saints Hockey 1)

My dark, wavy hair falls past my ears, and it’ll take me a fucking year to grow it back, but if we can win our next five games, it’ll be worth it.

“Your junk, too!” Pike calls out, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Fucker. Everyone’s cheering for that idea.

“Five games,” I yell at them. “Five games and I’ll shave my head—eight games and I’ll get Big Jim and The Twins waxed. Deal?”

“More like Average Jim,” someone calls out from the back of the group.

“Deal?” I ask again, ignoring the comment.

The guys cheer and stomp, bringing more momentum into our locker room than we’ve ever had before. It reminds me of playing in high school, when there was nothing we wanted more than that W.

Pike puts his stick in the air and bellows. “Let’s do it, boys! Get that fucking puck into the net! One for all and all for Cap’s silky smooth womb raider!”

The collective yells are so loud I can feel them. I get goose bumps. Maybe we’ve finally found something that will work.

After the game, I check my phone and find a text from Gia.

Gia: Great game! 5–1! You guys killed it!

Me: Thanks, did you watch?

Gia: I caught some of it on my phone.

Me: How’s your night? Winning?

Gia: Not as much as I’d like, but I’m hanging in there.

Me: Get back to it. Call me later if you need a ride.

Gia: I drove, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Congrats again.

Me: Hey, one last thing…how much do you like my hair?

Chapter Sixteen

Gia

I rake my pot in with both hands, the gaze of a man on the other side of the poker table locked onto me. I should feel happy because I just won a hand that could have gone either way, but instead I feel…wary.

It’s my first time playing against Tony Russo, one of the regulars on the Vegas private game scene. My dad’s friend Jerry warned me to never play against Tony, but when I arrived at the secluded mansion I’m playing at tonight, I found myself seated at his table.

“Lucky girl,” Tony says, giving me a tight smile.

He wears dark wraparound sunglasses while he plays, making it hard to read him. I nod my acknowledgment and take a deep breath, resetting myself for the next hand.

The nagging sensation won’t go away, though. I’ve learned to listen to my intuition, and it’s telling me I should get out of this game as fast as I can.

Since I started playing in private games right after moving in with Maverick a couple weeks ago, my bank account has nearly doubled. I’m well on my way to making the money I need to head to Philadelphia. When I get there, I’ll wire each of my brothers enough money to pay the rest of their college tuitions, and use the rest of my winnings to reach Will Roan.

It takes money to get to a man like him, and I need to wait until I’m completely ready. After eight years of waiting, though, I’m starting to get restless.

I look down at my hand. A pair of kings. It’s a solid hand I’d try to take all the way in any other game, but my gut tells me to fold, so I do. Tony Russo’s gaze remains on me. I can tell, even with the sunglasses. I can feel it.

Maybe he’s trying to psych me out. Play head games with the twentysomething woman who thinks she can play with men who have been at this game for forty or fifty years.

My next hand is shit. I should fold. Instead, I trust the voice in the back of my head telling me to bet, and bet big.

When I lose the hand, I feign disappointment as a third of my pot disappears. Tony Russo folded early, but he still calls out across the table to me.

“What’d you have, doll?” he asks.

I deliberately left my cards face down. My heart races, my mind knowing that Tony can see right through me—that he knows I’m intentionally shrinking my pot to avoid his attention.

“Not enough,” I say, sliding my cards face down to the dealer.

It takes me more than an hour to win a few small pots and give up some big ones, shrinking my stack to around $18,000. I started with $5,000. All I want is to get the hell out of here.

I check my phone—1:16 a.m. I hate to wake Maverick up, but my instincts are telling me to text him for a ride, even though my car is parked less than a block away.

Me: Hey, do you think you can pick me up?

I copy and paste the address I’m at, keeping my expression impassive.

Maverick: Yep, on my way.

Me: Can you park and come up and knock on the door?

Maverick: Yep. You okay?

Me: Yes. Just being extra careful.

I play for a few more minutes before racking my chips and getting up.