Channeling that conversation and returning to basics, using each turn to its fullest, I came back with a couple of good plays and at least got enough of a board state to defend myself. But I still felt behind, a frantic sort of flutter in the small of my back. I didn’t like not knowing how I was going to win. I usually could see the endgame from the first few plays, knew exactly how I’d go in for the kill. But not here.
However, then Conrad, whom I’d done a pretty good job ignoring, coughed. My back tensed further. Was he about to have another asthma attack? Did he have enough air?
Air. Attack by air. I didn’t think Conrad was trying to feed me tips. He was a lot of things, but a cheat wasn’t one of them. However, that didn’t stop my surge of gratitude.
“You okay?” I asked him in a low voice as he came by with the camera.
“Totally.” He patted his front pocket where he’d stashed his inhaler after his earlier scare, and I relaxed enough to actually carry through my attack on Bart. Finally, I had a strategy, and with a set strategy, I could win. Bart might be good at the underhanded tactics, but I was the expert at carrying out a complicated plan.
Which I did, escaping with the narrowest of victories. It wasn’t quite the waxing I’d hoped for, but a win was a win.
“Way to go.” The approval in Conrad’s eyes was almost better than the victory itself.
“Rematch.” Bart’s voice was coldly calculating. Great. A sore loser. “I don’t know how you did it, but your boyfriend over there was feeding you tips.”
“He wasn’t.” My mind flashed back to that cough, and I wasn’t as decisive as I could have been. “And he’s not.”
“Whatever.” Bart had the same tone as every homophobic bully I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. The kind of guy full of inappropriate locker-room humor along with an almost toxic level of competitiveness. “Play me again. This time both of you, so he can’t be over here seeing my hand.”
“We really need to be going.” Conrad sounded more regretful than I would have. “Sorry, man. Rematch some other time? Too bad you’re not going to Vegas.”
“Who says I’m not? Flying out tomorrow night. I’ll stomp both of you there too. But you’re going to play me again right now.”
“No, we’re not.” Conrad was firmer this time, and I nodded to back him up.
“You are if you want your cards back.” The brother, whose name I hadn’t caught, spoke up, dangling my deck box bag off one of his meaty fingers. All my decks were in there—my casual play ones along with my tournament-legal ones, and no way could I afford to replace them on short notice, not after the car repair and using my emergency card to help Jasper.
My earlier lecture to myself to relax seemed absurd now, panic returning in a rush. This might not be some cheesy Mafia movie, but in a way it was worse—every school bully I’d faced, all grown up and drunk on power, and me still unsure how to win against their underhanded tactics.
“Yeah. Play us, and you can have your shit back.” Bart smiled, but it was a hard, calculated thing that left my blood cold and my stomach churning. I had no clue what we were supposed to do now, how to get out of this without losing my cards—or worse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Conrad
Was Alden panicking? I didn’t know because I wouldn’t let myself glance over at him to see. I was pretty sure he was, and if he was seriously distressed, it was going to make it that much harder to take care of these jokers.
“You want us to play you?” I stared them both down. “Fine. But teams.”
Playing in teams of two was a less common format than playing a four-person game, but I had an idea in mind that would require Alden’s cooperation.
“You already colluded to cheat out that win,” the guy holding Alden’s deck bag scoffed.
“If we do teams, at least they can’t use hand signals or what-the-fuck-ever they had going on last time. Come on, Danny, you know. That deck never loses.”
“Maybe Alden’s that good,” I said coolly.
“The hell he is.” Bart’s face went red. “Fine. Teams. Then we can stomp you both at the same time. No way are you getting a second win off me.”
“Conrad.” Alden’s voice was an urgent whisper as he tugged me into the corner. “This is criminal. We should call the police. Or go find the owner. Something. They can’t get away with this.”
“We don’t have time for the police. And their dad would be no help either. You know how bullies work.”
“Yeah.” The haziness in Alden’s wide eyes said he probably had even more experience with this than me, which I hated.