Chapter 6 Poker Night Matt

Chapter 6

Poker Night

Matt

Hottie nearly topples over with surprise, and I feel bad for startling her. She seems to have a poor sense of balance for some reason. But even wobbly, she’s the best sight I’ve seen in days. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a blue winter coat the same shade as her eyes. The tip of her nose is red from the cold, and I have the dumbest urge to plant a kiss on it. She’s got a really cute nose, and the tiny jewel in it is strangely hot. I’ve never really been attracted to punky chicks, but I’m definitely attracted to this one.

Rufus recovers first. He bounds over to say hello, but then runs right back to Hottie. That traitor. He’s already one up on me. He’s been on the receiving end of a couple of Hottie’s kisses.

I’ve got nothing. It’s the first time I’ve ever been jealous of my dog.

“You’re home early,” Hottie says, rising carefully to her feet.

“True story,” I agree. “Our charity luncheon was cancelled, and we flew home two hours ahead of schedule.”

“Right. Well…” She makes a break for the door.

“Whoa. Not so fast,” I complain. “I just put a pot of coffee on. Will you have a cup with me?”

Her eyes look a little wild, and I try not to smile. My hottie is a hockey fan apparently. It’s obvious that I weird her out. This happens sometimes. A perfectly functional human being can get a little loopy when it comes to hockey players. I know this firsthand because I misspelled my own name once when asking Wayne Gretzky to sign that jersey hanging on my wall.

“I would love some coffee,” she says in an almost normal voice.

“Awesome. How do you take it?”

“Black,” she says, and her shoulders relax by a degree or two. “Thanks.”

“Have a seat,” I prompt, gesturing toward the sofa. “Take off your coat.”

I turn my back and fix us a couple of mugs of joe. When I carry them over to the sofa, I find Rufus on his back, his head in Hottie’s lap, having his belly scratched.

She looks up when I set the mugs on the table. “Thank you so much.”

“Actually…” I take a sip of my coffee. “That’s exactly what I wanted to say to you. You’ve been a real help to me, Hailey. I’ve had a really shitty year, to put it bluntly.”

She winces. “You mean your divorce?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t my idea. But I moved out when she asked me to, because I didn’t want my girls to be uprooted from their home. Furnishing an apartment wasn’t something I ever planned to do, you know? I was so pissed off. But then you did everything, and I didn’t have to spend any energy on the details, and I really appreciate it.” I glance around at the tasteful things Hottie chose. “Place looks great.”

Her smile is my reward for opening up like that. It really lights up her face, and it makes those blue eyes come alive. “You’re welcome. And I totally get it.”

“You do?”

She nods, and the wattage of her smile cools by a few degrees. “I’m recently divorced too. It happened right around the same time as yours—about a year and a half now. Also not my idea.”

“ Oh ,” I say, and a tightness grips my chest. I try to imagine someone telling Hottie to move out, and I feel a surge of anger on her behalf. “I’m sorry, Hottie. I mean Hailey.” Shit.

She laughs, luckily. “It’s really just fortunate that my initials aren’t UGH.”

Now I’m laughing too. “Or ICK.”

She giggles. “We do have an employee whose initials are DTH. We call him the Dark Lord.”

Still chuckling, I lift my mug and take another sip. As I swallow, I notice Hailey’s gaze is fixed on my throat. Then she notices me noticing, and her cheeks take on a pinkish hue. Yeah, I definitely make her nervous.

“So, um, your daughters are super cute,” she says after a beat of awkward silence. “You and your ex have joint custody, I assume?”

“Barely. I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like,” I admit. “The team’s travel schedule is a bitch, you know?”

She nods in sympathy. “That must be rough.”

“Yeah. It is.” I set my cup on the table and lean back against the couch cushions. Rufus is lying between us, and I absently reach out to stroke his belly. Except Hailey’s still petting him too, so my fingers unintentionally brush hers as I go in for the pet.

Her breath hitches. Then she snatches her hand away as if Rufus’s belly—or maybe my hand—is covered in fleas. Or maybe she did it because of the little jolt of static electricity that went through our fingers when they collided.

She’s blushing wildly now, and I watch in amusement as she wraps both hands tightly around her mug.

“They must miss you,” she says, awkward again. “Your girls, I mean.”

My heart clenches painfully as I remember the shiny tears in Junebug’s eyes when Kara came to pick up the girls the other morning. June’s always been more sensitive than Libby. She cries at the drop of a hat. Libby’s more reserved. Well, for a four-year-old. She still has her wailing tantrum moments, but for the most part, she’s better at hiding her emotions than her sister.

“I miss them too,” I say gruffly. Then I swallow the lump in my throat and promptly change the subject. “What about you? You and your ex-hubby got any kids?”

Hailey shakes her head. “We were too busy building our business. We planned on having kids eventually, but the timing was never right.”

“Your business?” I echo. “You mean Fetch?”

“Yes. Jackson and I co-own the company.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You work with your ex-husband?” Man, that’s about as rough as me not seeing my girls on a regular basis. I’d never be able to handle seeing Kara at some office every day.

“We’re actually good friends,” Hailey confesses. Her blue eyes soften, and I catch a flicker of sorrow there. “We’ve been friends since we were six.”

“Oh. Wow. You’ve known him that long?”

She nods. “We were neighbors. Grew up together, dated as teenagers, got married during college.” A pause. “Got divorced at twenty-seven.”

“I’m sorry.” I almost feel bad about asking her to stay for coffee. I wanted to thank her and get to know her a bit, but somehow I took us down this serious, way too intimate path.

A lull falls over the room. Rufus is snoring quietly between us. Hailey is sipping the last of her coffee, which alerts me to her impending departure. I know she’ll probably shoot out of here like a bat out of hell the moment her coffee’s done. If I’m going to ask her out, then I need to do it now—

Ask her out?

Shit, where did that come from? Do I want to ask her out?

I work the idea over in my head for a few seconds. Yeah, I think I do. I haven’t been on a date since the divorce though. Dressing up and going to dinner and spending an evening with a woman without the expectation of sex? I haven’t done that in a long, long time.

Unfortunately, I take so long thinking about it that I miss my window. Hailey has set her mug on the table and is rising to her feet.

“I should go,” she says, and I hear both reluctance and eagerness in her tone, as if she’s simultaneously dying to stay and dying to flee.

I guess she picks the latter, because she starts edging toward the hall. “Hold on. I’ll walk you out,” I tell her.

“Anyway, I assume you want me to keep walking Rufus, so just let me know your schedule for the week, and I’ll pencil it in on my calendar.” She’s babbling again while averting her eyes. “We’ll confirm everything through the Fetch app, and I can send you updates. Thank you for the coffee and the conversation. This was really nice. Enjoy the rest of your day, Math—I mean Matt ! We’ll talk soon. Bye!”

She’s out the door before I can blink, leaving me to wonder —did she just call me Math ?

***

Since I don’t have a game tonight and the girls are with their mom, I’m quick to say yes when Blake Riley calls and invites me over to his place for poker night.

“Who else will be there?” I ask, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I hurriedly shove my sweatpants down my hips and replace them with faded jeans.

“Wesmie, Hewitt, and Lemming,” Blake answers. “I was hoping Luko too, but his in-laws are in town. Shame, because that’s free money, y’know?”

I do know. Our team captain’s poker face is like a window without curtains—you can see right fucking through it.

“I’ll be there in thirty,” I say. “Want me to bring anything?”

“Just your fine ass—” Blake suddenly yelps. “What the what, J-Babe! Cheezus! That hurt !”

I hear a muffled female voice in the background. It’s Jess, Blake’s live-in girlfriend. “Her fine ass ?” she asks. “Who are you talking to!”

There’s a howl of laughter in my ear. “Eriksson!” Blake shouts between laughs. “I was referring to Eriksson’s fine ass!”

“My ass is fine,” I agree. “Tell Jess I’d be happy to show it to her when I get there.”

“Sure, I’ll tell her,” Blake answers cheerfully. “After I chop your balls off and feed them to a sheep.”

A sheep?

Before I can question that, my teammate says, “See you in a New York minute!” and then hangs up.

Blake is really fucking weird. I don’t understand half the shit he says. Granted, I don’t think anyone does, his girlfriend included.

I pull a hoodie over my T-shirt, then leave the bedroom in search of my coat. This apartment doesn’t have a coat closet by the front door, so I always toss the damn thing somewhere and then can’t remember where. I find it on one of the kitchen stools, shrug it on, and tug a toque over my head on my way out the door.

Blake lives near the lake, and it’s too far to walk, especially now that the weather has turned on us. I grew up in Tampa, so the Toronto winters took a while to get used to. I’m still not a fan. The chill in a hockey arena, I fuel off. Canadian winters? Suck balls. So I ride the elevator down to the underground and get into my Porsche Cayenne, clicking on the seat warmer.

When I walk into Blake’s apartment a half hour later, the rest of the crew is already there. Wes and Jamie live in the same building, just a short elevator ride away. Lemming and Hewitt live nearby too.

“Yo! Matty-Cake!” Blake shouts from his seat by the green felt-covered poker table. “You ready for an ass whupping?”

I grin at him. He’s wearing a visor and has a toothpick sticking out the corner of his mouth, like some old-timey card sharp. “Maybe I should’ve stayed home,” I remark dryly.

Jamie Canning, who let me in, offers a wry smile in return. “Was thinking the same thing the second I saw that visor.”

Blake proves to have superhuman hearing. “What’s wrong with my visor?” He looks genuinely insulted. “Don’t you know that saying? A visor makes ya wiser.”

“That’s not a saying.” Wes sighs from the kitchen counter. He’s in the process of pulling two beers from the stainless steel fridge. “Eriksson, beer?”

“Yes, please.” I grab the bottle he hands me and join the others at the table.

Ben Hewitt and Chad Lemming, two of our d-men, greet me with nods and grunts. Blake is busy shuffling a deck of cards, while Wes starts doling out colored chips.

“Where’s Jess?” I ask our host.

“Downstairs at Wesmie’s. She’s studying for a nursing test and claims she needs complete silence.” Blake shakes his head. “I don’t get it. She can study in the bedroom, right? It’s not like I’m loud. You guys think I’m loud?”

“Dude, loud is an understatement,” Wes informs him. “You’re…” He stops, searching for the right word.

“Decibel-ly challenged,” Lemming says helpfully.

Wes purses his lips. “Still doesn’t accurately describe it.”

“Wall-rattling,” Jamie offers.

“Better.”

“Quiet-deficient,” Hewitt suggests.

“Fuck you all very much,” Blake grumbles.

“Hey, at least you’re not as loud as your mom,” I say in an attempt to reassure him.

Jamie blanches. “I’m pretty sure one of my eardrums is permanently shattered thanks to Blake’s mom.”

“EAT THEIR BABIES, BLAKEY!” Wes yells in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Riley, and everyone bursts out laughing, including Blake.

“C’mon,” Hewitt says, reaching for his pile of chips. “Let’s do this shit. Katie wants me home by ten.”

Lemming makes a whip sound.

“If you’re implying I’m pussy-whipped, then yes, I certainly am.” Hewitt shrugs. “And I’m damn happy to be. My wife is awesome.”

“She is,” I have to agree. Katie Hewitt is brash, fiery, and a ton of fun. I always wanted Kara and me to double-date with the Hewitts, but she found Katie to be too “in your face”—her words, not mine.

“Of course she is,” Lemming says kindly before breaking out in a grin. “But you know what else is awesome? The single life. That bar OC and I went to in Chicago was like an all-you-can-eat chick buffet. No lie.”

“OC?” Jamie echoes as Blake deals out the cards.

“Will O’Connor,” Lemming explains. “We’re trying out some new nicknames for each other. I wanted to call him Willie, but he punched me when I suggested it.”

“What’s his nickname for you?” I ask, trying not to roll my eyes. Ever since Lemming broke up with his girlfriend, he’s been spending a lot of time with O’Connor, who gives new meaning to the word man-whore .

“Madagascar,” Lemming replies before glancing down at his cards.

“I don’t get it,” Wes says.

I don’t either. I check my cards—queen and seven, off-suit. Blake deals the flop, and my spirits rise. I’m looking at a queen, seven, and ten. Nice.

“You know, because my last name is Lemming? Madagascar has a huge lemming population.”

Jamie snorts loudly. “False. Those are lemurs , dude.”

“What the fuck’s a lemur? You just made up that word.”

Jamie, Wes, and I bust out laughing. “It’s not made up!” Wes sputters. “That’s a real animal.”

Lemming puts his cards face-down on the table and narrows his eyes at Wes. “What’s it look like? What animal family does it belong to?”

That stumps Wes for a moment. “It’s, like, a rodent?”

Hewitt wrinkles his forehead. “Nah, man, it’s a primate, I think.”

Jamie nods. “I think it’s a primate.”

Lemming looks around the table, his expression suspicious. “You fuckers are messing with me.”

That sparks another round of raucous laughter until Blake clears his throat and taps his visor in an exaggerated motion. “Boys. Please. We’re pokering.”

“Yeah,” Lemming mutters. “We’re pokering, so shut the fuck up.”

“I raise five,” Blake announces.

“Call.” Hewitt.

“Fold.” Wes.

“I see your five and raise you ten.” Jamie.

“Big spender!” Blake crows. “Now we’re talking!”

I call, and so does Lemming, and then Blake deals the turn—another ten. Not great, but I’m still looking at queens and sevens. There’s another round of betting. Lemming and Blake fold this time, leaving me, Hewitt, and Jamie to battle it out. Blake flips the river and hot damn . Another queen. Full-fucking-house, baby.

I go all in during the last betting round, prompting Hewitt to gape at me. “Seriously? On the first hand?”

“He’s bluffing,” Jamie decides, intently studying my face.

I smirk. “Am I?”

“He totally is,” Blake agrees, but the three hundred bucks’ worth of chips in the middle of the table is apparently too pricey for both Jamie and Hewitt. They fold. I gleefully rake in my winnings.

As several more hands are dealt, we shoot the shit about nothing in particular. Our upcoming schedule. The juniors team that Jamie coaches. The new Escalade that Hewitt bought for his wife. Eventually the conversation turns back to Lemming’s escapades with “OC.” Or, more specifically, the fourgy they indulged in after that Chicago bar visit.

“Wait—so you were doing one chick and O’Connor was doing the other, and it was just in the same room?” Wes asks curiously. “Or were you guys all, you know, up in each other’s bizness?”

Lemming snickers. “No offense, Wesmie, but I’m not into dicks. So no, there was no dude touching involved.” He glances over at me, waggling his eyebrows. “You should’ve come, E. It was good times.”

Honestly, it sounds terrible, but I don’t say that out loud. Lemming’s allowed to have his fun. He’s six years younger than me and still enamored with the pro hockey lifestyle that I took full advantage of before I met Kara.

These days, I’m not looking to tag-team two chicks with one of my teammates. I’d rather watch Disney movies with my kids and catch some sports highlights before bed. And maybe enjoy a nice dinner with a particular hottie…

“Matty-Cake?” Blake prompts.

I realize they’re all waiting for me to play. I check my cards—seven, nine. Then the table—king, queen, king, ten, ten. There’s about five hundred bucks in the pot.

“I’m out,” I announce, slamming my cards down.

“Anyway,” Lemming says, eyeing me again. “I don’t get you, dude. You’re single now. Take advantage of it.”

I shrug. “I’m over the whole hookup scene. Been there, done that.”

Hewitt speaks up in a careful tone. “What about more than hooking up?”

I bat my eyelashes at him. “Aw, Ben-Ben, are you saying you want to ‘more than hook up’ with me? You’re in love with me—I knew it.”

He flips up his middle finger. “No, jackass, I’m talking about dating. As in you dating someone.”

Blake nods earnestly. “Yeah, Luko and I were talking about it the other day—”

Um, what? Why are my teammates discussing my love life?

“—and he was saying how Estrella’s sister is an F-O-X-X fox.”

“Fox only has one X ,” Jamie pipes up.

“Not when you look like Estrella’s sister,” Blake declares. “She definitely deserves two X s. Or three—yeah, that makes more sense. Triple X. So F-O-X-X-X .”

I roll my eyes. “Have you even met Estrella’s sister?”

“No,” Blake says glibly. “But I trust Luko’s eyes.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I think I’m going to pass,” I say in a gracious tone. “I can’t date my captain’s sister-in-law. What if I break her heart? He’ll string me up by my balls.” I hesitate. “Besides, I…uh—” I stop abruptly. What the hell is the matter with me? Was I really about to tell them about Hailey? This is poker night, not an episode of Sex and the City .

But Blake is quick to pounce. “Besides what?” he demands.

I cave. “There’s someone I might be interested in.”

“The plot thickens!” he shouts, maniacally rubbing his hands together. “Who is she?”

“My dog walker,” I blurt out.

Everyone laughs. “Seriously?” Jamie says.

“Yes and no. She walks Rufus as a favor to me because I’m a good customer of this cool business she owns called Fetch.”

“Oh yeah!” Lemming says, shuffling the cards. “OC uses Fetch to buy groceries and pick up his shirts. He showed me the app. There’s a babe on the home screen.”

My jaw ticks with irritation. I’ve always thought of that photo of Hottie as mine, even if that’s ridiculous. “That’s the place.”

“How does it work?” Wes asks, draining his beer.

“You pay them by the hour,” I tell him. “And they take a surcharge on the things they purchase for you. But it’s totally worth it. If you’re flying home to an empty fridge and the cleaner’s is closing in an hour, they’ll take care of it.”

“Boom!” Blake agrees.

“They’ll find you anything,” I add. “If you need a gift for your mom’s birthday or reservations to a restaurant, you just put your instructions into the app, and it gets done. They furnished my entire apartment. I didn’t set foot in a store.”

“Huh.” Wes nudges Jamie with his elbow. “It’s like they know me. I’m gonna try this out.”

Jamie shrugs. But I’ve probably just improved Hailey’s bottom line. If the whole team starts using Fetch, that’s got to be good for business.

“Can they find me a date to the opera?” Lemming asks, stacking up his remaining chips. “Our favorite benefit is in ten days.”

Everyone groans. Players are required to attend eight or ten events a year, but they aren’t all created equal. The opera benefit is everyone’s least favorite. The team owner is about ninety years old, and he loves the shit out of the opera. Without fail, the performance is three hours long. Minimum. Even good food and booze afterward aren’t enough to keep us cheerful.

“Here’s an idea,” Blake says, dealing the cards. “This round isn’t for cash. The winner gets to call in sick on opera night, and the rest of us have to vouch for his twenty-four-hour stomach virus.”

Wes picks up his cards. “I love this plan.”

Me, I’m just happy that the conversation has shifted away from Hailey. My teammates seem to have forgotten about my little confession, and that’s a good thing, because I still don’t know how I feel about dating again. My marriage imploded due to my career, and it’s not like I’ve changed careers. Any new relationship I get into is pretty much doomed.

“You probably like the opera,” Lemming jokes.

“Because I’m queer?” Wes snorts. “Think again.”

“J-Bomb?” Blake asks. “How do you feel about opera?” He tips his beer bottle up toward his mouth.

“Well, Blake. I’m bisexual, so I only like it half as much as Wes.”

“Naw, babe,” Wes argues. “That means you’d like it twice as much.”

Blake laughs so hard that beer comes out of his nose, and then we’re all dying.

I have a great hand of cards, but it really doesn’t matter. “You know we’re all going to this damn opera anyway,” I grumble. “It’s the annual ass-kissing fest at the owner’s favorite event.”

“Not for me!” Jamie says with a grin, pushing his chips into the center of the table.

“Oh, you’re totally going,” Wes grumbles.

“My kids have a game that night.”

“Hang on.” His husband looks up. “Do you even know what night it is?”

“Nope. But I’m very busy.”

God bless poker night. The bickering and the smack talk keep my mind off the more difficult stuff. I accept another beer and relax with my boys.

***

Sniper87: Mayday! My tux is holy.

HTE: Your tux is a churchgoer?

Sniper87: Christ. I meant holey. Full of holes.

Sniper87: I need it for the world’s most boring benefit next week.

HTE: Okay. Rent or buy? You probably wear it pretty often?

Sniper87: Buy, I guess. I wear it about 8 times a year. Can you do your thing and make one appear?

HTE: I will absolutely help you. But this isn’t like the waffle mix. You have to try it on. And if you’re going to wear it frequently, it can’t be just a quick cuff adjustment like they do for weddings. You’ll need a fitting.

Sniper87: Grumble grumble.

HTE: Don’t shoot the messenger. I can find you a shop with good inventory in tuxes and make you a fitting appointment. How does that sound?

Sniper87: Fine. Checking my calendar.

HTE: Take your time. Just sitting here eating bonbons.

Sniper87: Really?

HTE: No. Hurry up. It’s crazy here today. Moon must be full.

HTE: *Drums fingers on desk.* *Waits for Sniper.* *Wonders how he can skate so fast but take 80 years to look at a calendar.*

Sniper87: Are you impatient with all your clients? I could try on suits tomorrow after morning skate. So 12:30 is safe. Or Friday same time.

HTE: When is the benefit? I’ll need to make sure they know we’re in a hurry.

Sniper87: Next Friday. Unfortunately.

HTE: Who’s a grumpy boy today? I’ll go find you a penguin suit. But not a Penguins jersey.

Sniper87: I should hope not.

HTE: You’re right. Bunch of losers. Who wants the Stanley Cup anyway? Back in a jiff, Snipes.

***

HTE: Klingerman’s, tomorrow at 12:30. Attaching the Yonge Street address. I sent along your measurements so they can pull some things off the rack for you to try. They’re asking if you need anything else fitted while you’re there. OK for suits?

Sniper87: I hate trying shit on. I wish it could just appear in my closet.

HTE: And I want a blue pony. Do you need anything else while you’re standing in front of the tailor in your boxers?

Sniper87: I’m a boxer briefs guy. You should know. You bought them.

HTE: *beats head on keyboard*

Sniper87: I could use another suit. My pinstripe is looking seedy, and I haven’t shopped since Kara made me go two years ago.

HTE: I’ll tell them. Have fun tomorrow.

Sniper87: I have one more request.

HTE: Hit me.

Sniper87: I want your help picking shit out. Clothes are not my forte.

HTE: The men’s shop is pretty good at it. Just saying.

Sniper87: You won’t come?

HTE: I will if you want me to. Seems like overkill though.

Sniper87: Please?

HTE: THERE’S THE MAGIC WORD. :) See you tomorrow.