Maverick (Sin City Saints Hockey 1)

When I sneak a glance at Gia between hands, I see her counting her chips. She seems satisfied with the total, because she cashes them in and gets up from the table, passing a couple chips back to the dealer as a tip. My pulse pounds at the thought of not seeing her again.

As she starts to walk away, I pass my chips to the dealer and start to follow her.

“Sir, are you cashing out?” The dealer calls out to me but I don’t want to lose sight of Gia.

“Keep it,” I say over my shoulder, still following her.

She’s just outside of the poker room when I approach her.

“Hey, Gia,” I say, getting her attention.

“How do you know my name?” she asks sharply.

“That guy earlier, Jerry. He called you Gia.”

Her expression softens. “Oh. Did I forget something at the table?” She checks to make sure her purse is hanging on her shoulder.

“No, I just uh…wanted to ask you something.”

She looks at me, waiting. What the fuck am I going to ask her? A question just rolls out of my mouth without any forethought.

“Did you just hustle me?” My tone is both stunned and impressed.

She cocks her head, holding my gaze. “What do you mean? That was my first time playing poker.”

“Bullshit.”

“You know, you frown when you have a great hand,” she says. “If you’re going to play often, you should work on that.”

I scoff. “I don’t frown, what are you talking about?”

“You do. You turn down the corners of your lips and narrow your eyes just slightly. It’s not an unusual tell—you’re trying to hide how strong your hand is.”

I think back, and I realize…she’s right. I did try to look serious and concerned every time I had a good hand back there.

“And you bite your lip,” I tell her. “That must be your tell.”

She smiles and the radiance of it pulls me in. It makes me want to grab her and kiss her like she’s never been kissed before.

“When do I do it, though?” she asks me. “When I have a good hand or when I have a bad one?”

I open my mouth, then close it again, silent for a few seconds.

“I can’t say for sure,” I admit.

“I do it every other hand,” she says. “No matter what cards I have. That way people think I have a tell, but really I don’t.”

She adjusts her purse strap and pulls it over her head so it lays crosswise over her chest, and as she looks at the door, I realize she’s about to leave.

“Are you here on vacation?” I ask her.

“No.”

“Do you come here all the time?”

She shakes her head. “I go to several different places.”

“But you only play poker.”

“Right. Always stick to the game you’re best at. I think for you that may be hockey.”

I laugh. “But what if I want to play poker again? Where can I find you?”

She shrugs. “You never know.”

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn to find three heavily made-up women giving me doe eyes.

“Maverick, can we get a picture with you?” They walk a little closer and one of them asks, “Please?”

Before I can answer, they’re crowding around me, giggling and duck-facing. By the time they finish their pictures, Gia is long gone. I jog in the direction she went and try to catch up with her, but it’s too late.

Damn. I don’t have much to go on, but at least it’s something. One way or another, I have to see Gia again.

Chapter Four

Gia

“What do you think?”

I turn to my friend Ro, showing her the aviator sunglasses I just put on.

She wrinkles her nose. “I liked the purple ones better.”

I put the aviators back on the display stand at the sidewalk booth, shrugging.

“I’m just going to stick with my big, dark sunglasses. They block out that crazy morning light better than cute sunglasses do.”

“Isn’t it a bitch?” Ro shakes her head. “I usually get home from work before the sun comes up, but when I’m running late and I step outside for the first time, it’s blinding.”

Ro and I have been roommates for four months now. She’s a backup dancer in a big Las Vegas show and she’s also taking several college classes. I decided to find a roommate so I could cut my apartment expenses in half and save more of my winnings, but Ro has become a lot more to me than just a roommate.

“Are you hungry?” I ask her as we continue to window shop.

“Starving. Want to go to that taco place?”

“You read my mind. Drive or walk?”

“Drive. My car’s about a block away.”

Ro dances and exercises for hours a day, six days a week. When she gets a day off, she likes to move as little as possible. I’m the opposite—I sit on my ass playing poker about fifty hours a week. I walk almost everywhere, because it’s the only exercise I get.