“More than half,” Malik mutters, folding as well.
The hand plays out exactly as I predicted. Dax has a straight. Jalen had a decent two pair but not enough to beat it.
“Okay,” Cole says, gathering the cards for his turn to deal. “Where did you learn to play like this?”
“College,” I say, pulling my latest winnings toward me. “Had to pay for textbooks somehow.”
All four of them are staring at me now.
“You paid for textbooks with poker winnings?” Jalen asks slowly.
“Some of them. I had a scholarship, but it didn’t cover everything. Books are expensive.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it was. Those games had been intense. High stakes for broke college students. But I’d been good at reading people even then. “There was a regular game in my dorm. I cleaned up.”
“Remind me never to underestimate you,” Dax says, and there’s something in his voice. Admiration, maybe. Respect.
It makes my cheeks warm. “Underestimating the omega? Classic alpha mistake.”
Cole laughs at that. “She’s got us there.”
“She’s got us in general,” Malik adds, looking at his pitiful stack of pretzels. “I’m almost out.”
“Me too,” Jalen admits.
“Deal me in for the next hand,” Dax says. “I want another shot at beating her.”
The game continues, and slowly, the atmosphere shifts back to something lighter. Something easier. Cole makes terrible puns about his cards. Malik trash-talks in the politest way possible. Jalen stays quiet, but his eyes are bright with amusement.
And I... I’m having fun.
Real, genuine fun with the Knightley pack.
Who would have thought?
“You’re bluffing,” I announce during the next hand, pointing at Cole.
“Am not.”
“Are too. You get this tiny crease between your eyebrowswhen you’re bluffing. You think you’re being subtle, but you’re really not.”
Cole’s hand goes to his forehead. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” Malik confirms.
“Traitor,” Cole mutters, but he’s smiling as he folds. “Fine. You caught me.”
“Told you.” I collect my winnings with perhaps more smugness than necessary.
“You know,” Jalen says thoughtfully, studying his cards. “You have a tell, too.”
I freeze. “I do not.”
“You do.” His smile is small but definite. “Your left hand. You tap your fingers against the table when you’re trying to decide how to play a good hand.”
My eyes drop to my left hand, which is—fuck—currently tapping against the table.
“That’s...” I stop tapping immediately. “That’s not a thing.”
“It’s definitely a thing,” Dax confirms, looking way too amused. “You’ve been doing it all game.”
