Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(31)

“Been there, done that,” he says, as I take another bite and open my water. “I like my pizza.”

And his rituals. “Do you get nervous before a game?”

“I shut everything out.”

“Everything?”

He opens his water. “If you’re asking if Stephanie is going to get to me, hell no. And I plan to win tonight to make sure she knows it.”

I admire his strength more than he can imagine. “You think that’s what she, or they, want? To rattle you?”

“Why else would she taunt me for months?”

“Yeah. She’s trying to rattle you, but to what end?”

“My willingness to do whatever I have to just to make this stop.”

“Or to fill in as many zeroes as she wants.”

“Exactly.” His lips tighten.

I want to ask questions I’m not sure I should.

“Ask me,” he urges, reading my mind.

“No.”

“Then I’ll try and read your mind. You want to know about Stephanie.”

“Yes.”

“Recapping what I’ve said numerous times now and wish I could change, I slept with her three or four times over the course of a year. It was nothing to me. I told her that up front. I didn’t give her my phone number, but somehow she ended up with it. And she kept calling. I didn’t take her calls and she showed up at my door. It got very stalker-like way too fast. What else do you want to know?”

I want to know him. I want to believe in him. “How’d you become a professional poker player?”

He doesn’t blink at the change of subject. “I was a military brat and my father’s buddies always had poker nights. I was probably thirteen when I started playing with his buddies and winning.” He downs a bite of pizza and I do the same.

“That’s still a long stretch from playing professionally.”

He takes a slug of water. “While I was in college at UCLA, I started going to these underground poker matches. I was good, and I won money that I needed for my tuition.”

“Underground? That sounds very . . . off the record?”

“I didn’t care at the time; it just felt like a different version of my father’s parties. But looking back and knowing what I know now, it wasn’t smart.” He reaches into the pepperoni pizza box and we each take another slice. “I started entering some professional tournaments during my junior year and graduated with a degree in math, because I’m good at it, and I just needed to be done.”

“Math is easy for you?”

“Yes, and I could have used that in any number of careers, but I had only one thing on my mind.”

“Poker.”

He gives a quick nod. “And making money to change my family’s life.”

Admiration fills me. “And you did.”

“Not at first. I was paying the bills by playing, but not scoring anything major.”

“What changed?”

“I got over the intimidation of playing with people who were better than me and decided to just have fun. I love playing, but it’s a mental game and I had to get my head in it the right way.”

“So you won’t let Stephanie see you rattled,” I repeat.

“That’s right, baby. Never let them see you sweat.”

It’s a gutsy way of thinking, and I envy him that strength. “You said you made some sort of finals?”

His lips curve. “You’re failing miserably at the whole groupie thing, just so you know.”

My cheeks flush. “Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry for failing at the groupie thing, but for my ignorance about poker.”

“It’s the World Series,” he says, which reminds me of what was printed on the chip I found. “It ends in July,” he continues, “and the final nine finalists play live on ESPN for the big win.”

“Oh, wow. That’s big. And have you won this before?”

“I’ve made the finals four years in a row, and won two of those.”

“Won millions.”

“Yes. Millions.”

“And you had no money when you started.”

“Correct.” He points at the pizza, offering me another slice, as if making millions is nothing.

I shake my head. “No more for me. I ate two slices.”

“I’ve had five. That’ll do me for now.”

“When did you eat five slices? You must have inhaled them.”

“More time to sleep.” He seals the boxes. “Dinner at midnight, and breakfast, too.”

“Ritual?”

“You bet it is.”

He’s superstitious even if he doesn’t admit it, and I can’t see how he couldn’t be. The pressure to stay “on” has to be tremendous. “Are you really going to retire in November?”

He nods. “I have plenty of money; it’s time to let someone else win.”

I give him a curious look. “But you said you love to play.”

“And like I also said, I can play in charity events.” He stands and opens the panel above us, grabbing the bag again and shoving the boxes inside before sealing the overhead bin. “I’m going to heat our coffees.”