Certified Male by Kristin Hardy

count a pair of nines from the flop, it didn’t really mean much. The queens, though, they gave her a nice, warm feeling.
    The betting came around to Jerry. “You going to bring luck to me?”
    â€œProbably as much luck as you bring me,” Gwen returned.
    â€œYou sit here long enough, I can guarantee you’ll get lucky.”
    Gwen didn’t cringe. She congratulated herself for that. Nina wouldn’t. Nina wouldn’t care how classless his innuendoes were, so long as she achieved her goal. Gwen raised and watched the betting continue. Fred’s wife folded before the next community card—the turn card—which was a queen. Gwen gave a mental hallelujah. If all went well, she’d make a little money on the deal.
    When the betting came back to her, she raised—and substantially. It was time to see just what the conventioneers were made of.
    Mutt didn’t hold on to see what the dealer would turn over for the river card, the last of the five community cards. Instead he folded. Conservative, Gwen diagnosed. He’d be hard to break but might be easy to push away from the table with a series of high bets, assuming her luck held. Jeff checked, playing wait and see and also giving the scent of blood in the water. Jerry raised.
    â€œYou gonna keep up with me?” he asked with a wink.
    Gwen smiled and called, matching his twenty dollars in chips and adding twenty of her own. “I’ll leave you in the dust.” She flicked her gaze to the side as she said it, though, adding a bit of false bravado to her voice. He had something, she figured, maybe two pair, maybe the start of a straight, but probably not enough to beat a full house.
    She nodded to the dealer for the river card. He turned it over to show a two. Jeff folded, leaving only Jerry and Gwen. The betting went around again, with each of them raising. Finally Jerry checked.
    Gwen gave him a smile like a cat at a dish of cream. “Full house,” she said, flipping over her pocket pair.
    Jerry blinked. “Well, hell,” he said feelingly, not bothering to turn up his cards.
    Gwen raked in the chips. “Looks like I brought that luck, sugar, just not for you.”
    Â 
    D EL WALKED UP TO THE POKER room, tuning out the familiar hubbub of the casino. With the tournament due to start in just a couple of days, he was itching to log some time at the tables. Granted, he was writing about an average guy’s experience at the tournament, but he had a couple of ten spots riding with various hecklers at the paper who were betting he wouldn’t last the first day of play.
    Practice made perfect—so said his mother and every coach he’d ever had. A couple of hours at the tables, he figured, couldn’t hurt.
    He looked over the room, searching out a table that seemed favorable. And saw Nina curled up at the table with the hustler, giving every appearance of being charmed. Del watched for a moment, felt the clutch in his gut that was becoming familiar.
    Okay, so why did he care? Maybe she was the type who liked variety. With looks like hers, he couldn’t blame her. And yet for every minute she was the man crusher, there was an instant when she looked like an uncertain teenager playing dress-up. Like the contact lens that morning, he thought with a smile.
    Only idiots got hung up on women who didn’t want them, he reminded himself. Then his eyes narrowed as the little hustler brushed a hand over her shoulders. She tensed for a moment, almost flinched. It was small, but Del saw it, just as he saw her take a breath and then, he swore consciously, lean closer to click her glass with the hustler’s. Like a woman who was pretending to have a good time.
    And suspicion rolled back over him.
    It was none of his business—hadn’t she told him that just that morning? He’d do well to listen to advice and leave well enough alone. Del Do-Right, his sisters had always called him in amusement.