Page 8 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)
Less than twelve hours later, despite the over-cooled air pumped out by the massive rooftop air conditioners, Kenji's palms were sweating so badly he had to be careful he didn't accidentally mark the cards.
Half a day into the tournament, and he was already on the ropes.
He was doing better than Spencer, who'd washed out in the first round—eliminated when his pocket kings ran into aces. The guy had taken it with surprising grace, shaking hands with his opponents before positioning himself on the rail to cheer Kenji on.
But "better than Spencer" wasn't saying much.
The stack of chips in front of Kenji had dwindled to a pathetic mound that gleamed mockingly under the casino's artfully designed lighting. Half his buy-in had vanished into other players' stacks, redistributed by the cruel mathematics of variance and his own desperate plays.
The felt beneath his fingertips was simultaneously rough and smooth as he arranged and rearranged his remaining chips, the rhythmic clicking a futile attempt to calm his racing thoughts.
This hand. This one hand would decide everything—his future measured out in plastic discs and cardboard rectangles.
The dopamine high from yesterday had crashed into its inevitable aftermath.
No longer riding the anticipation, he was trapped in the spiral of loss—each failed hand tightening the noose, each chip lost bringing him closer to the abyss.
He recognized the symptoms: elevated cortisol, depleted serotonin, the neurochemical cocktail of a gambler on tilt.
From the spectator rail, Spencer's enthusiasm remained undimmed. Between hands, Kenji's phone had vibrated with encouraging texts:
You've got this bro.
That dealer is totally on your side.
I saw that guy's tell—he touches his wedding ring when he bluffs.
Bringing you water. Hydration is key.
That last one had resulted in Spencer actually attempting to deliver a bottle of water tableside, earning a stern warning from tournament staff. But the interruption had cost Kenji his concentration during a crucial hand, contributing to another chunk of his stack sliding away.
The dealer's expression remained professionally neutral as she pitched the cards with mechanical precision. Around the table, Kenji recognized the predators and the prey—though he was increasingly certain which category he belonged to.
The older gentleman to his left had been rubbing his chest between hands, face gray with discomfort.
"You okay?" Kenji asked quietly, his medic training overriding everything else.
"Indigestion," the man wheezed. "Too much rich food."
But Kenji caught the subtle signs—shortness of breath, left arm discomfort the man kept massaging. "Sir, I think you might be having a cardiac event. We should get you checked."
"In the middle of play? Don't be ridiculous."
Without hesitation, Kenji signaled the floor manager. "Medical emergency, table seven." He moved around the table, steadying the man as he swayed. "Sir, I'm a trained medic. Your symptoms are concerning. Let's get you help."
As paramedics arrived, Kenji kept the man calm, monitoring his pulse. Only after they'd wheeled him away did Kenji return to his seat, catching a glimpse of Cassidy Reynolds watching from the sidelines. Something flickered across her face—surprise? Respect? He couldn't tell.
And it didn’t matter.
He nodded at the dealer, who signaled a return to play.
Cards slid across the green felt toward him with a whisper of possibility.
He lifted the corners, careful to shield them from prying eyes.
Two kings. Strong. Not invincible, but the suited hearts sent a surge of hope through his veins more potent than any combat adrenaline.
This was it. His chance to reverse the slide, to climb back from the brink.
The bet came around. Two players called, their chips landing in the growing pot with soft clicks that echoed in Kenji's ears like promises.
His turn. Time to be aggressive. Time to take control.
"Raise." Kenji pushed forward his bet, the plastic discs clicking against each other like tiny bones. His heartbeat accelerated to match the rhythm of those clicks—too fast, too desperate.
The older gentleman to his left folded immediately, cards hitting the felt with a soft surrender. The businessman in the polo shirt hesitated, fingers drumming against his remaining chips, sighed and folded as well.
Three players left in the hand, the pot growing to a size that could save him from immediate elimination.
Movement at the periphery of his vision caught his attention. Cassidy Reynolds approached, moving with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere she went. The Angel of the Felt, coming to observe the carnage.
The dealer acknowledged her with a subtle nod. "Ms. Reynolds."
The reaction around the table was immediate. Several players straightened in their seats, suddenly conscious of being watched by poker royalty. One whispered to his neighbor, the hushed words carrying far enough: "That's her—beat Negreanu heads-up at the WSOP."
The dealer laid down the flop. King, seven, three. Different suits.
Top set. Kenji's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it—the hand that would turn everything around. Mathematics didn't lie: he was roughly 90% to win against most holdings.
"Bet." He pushed forward more chips, the motion aggressive, confident. The chips scraped against the felt with a sound like fingernails on silk.
Two more players folded, muttering under their breath leaving only Kenji and a younger player in designer sunglasses. The guy had been playing loose-aggressive all day, building a massive stack through calculated aggression.
"Call." The word was casual, bored.
The dealer burned a card, revealed the turn. Another king.
Four of a kind. The odds of his opponent having the case king were astronomical. This was his moment. Divine intervention in the form of printed cardboard.
"All in." The words came out steadier than he expected. Kenji shoved his remaining chips forward in one motion, the tower collapsing into a messy heap that represented everything—his future, his freedom, his last chance at redemption.
Across the table, the younger player's eyebrows rose above the designer frames. He studied Kenji for a long moment, looked at his cards again.
Kenji remained silent, channeling every ounce of discipline into maintaining a neutral expression. Inside, his thoughts raced: Call. Please call. Give me this one victory.
"Looking strong there. Thing is," the kid said conversationally, "I've got a pretty good hand myself." He riffled his chips, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. "And you've been playing scared all day. Bleeding chips. This feels like desperation."
Because it was. Kenji fought to remain stone-faced.
"Call." The kid pushed forward chips to match Kenji's all-in, the motion as casual as ordering coffee.
"All-in and a call," the dealer announced. "Players, show your hands."
Kenji flipped his kings with slightly trembling fingers. "Four kings."
A murmur ran through the gathered crowd. Four of a kind was a monster—the kind of hand players waited years to see.
The younger player smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes behind those reflective glasses. "Nice hand." He turned over his cards with languid confidence. "But not nice enough. Straight flush."
The words didn't register immediately. Kenji stared at the cards—four, five, six, seven, eight of hearts—his mind refusing to process what his eyes were seeing. The impossibility of it. The mathematical cruelty.
"Straight flush beats four of a kind," the dealer said unnecessarily, already pushing the massive pot toward the winner.
No.
The word screamed through Kenji's mind as the reality crashed over him. Not beaten—destroyed by a cooler so brutal it defied probability. All his chips, his hopes, his desperate prayers—gone.
"Tough beat, man," someone said. "That's poker."
Kenji stood on legs that disconnected from his body, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound like nails on chalkboard.
The room tilted slightly, colors bleeding together at the edges of his vision.
He'd lost everything. Failed completely.
The twenty-five thousand he owed Vince might as well be twenty-five million now.
Through the haze of shock, he caught sight of Cassidy Reynolds still standing nearby. She was watching him with an expression he couldn't decode—not pity exactly, but something deeper. Recognition, maybe. The look of someone who understood that this wasn't about poker.
"Rough break, bro." Spencer's voice came from somewhere behind him. "But hey, you played it perfectly. Sometimes the cards?—"
Kenji walked away without hearing the rest, his body moving on autopilot toward the exit. Behind him, the tournament continued—chips clicking, cards shuffling, dreams dying and being born with each hand.
He'd come here for salvation and found only confirmation of what he'd always feared: the house always wins, and he was never meant to be anything more than another cautionary tale.
The bathroom door swung shut behind him with a soft pneumatic hiss, sealing him in with his failure and the bitter taste of answered prayers. God had heard his desperate bargaining and responded with the cruelest clarity:
No.