The card game was supposed to be simple. Win the money, pay back the loan, and everything would go back to normal. But nothing about that night was simple. It started when Brody pulled me aside.
He said there was a private poker game happening, and he needed someone to play for him. I told him I didn’t gamble. He didn’t care about that. He said he’d front the money, three hundred pounds for the night, and if I won, we’d split the winnings.
The odds would be in my favor, supposedly. I should have asked more questions. I really should have. I told my dad I had to work late at the restaurant.
He was already in a bad mood about something else. About Lucy, the girl living with us. The social worker was coming the next day to take her to new foster parents. My dad said it was for the best.
I could see he didn’t truly believe it, but he had his reasons. My stepdad’s decisions are rarely questioned. Before I left, I stopped by the house to grab a few things. I saw my dad’s phone light up with a call he ignored.
He said he didn’t know the number. Something felt off, but I didn’t push it. I never push it. Later, I found out Lucy’s case had taken a harder turn.
She had witnessed her father murder her mother. She was only a kid. She barely spoke to any of us. And now she was being shipped off to strangers.
My stepdad mentioned I was moving out soon anyway, so there was no room for her to stay. I told him I’d already made arrangements to stay with a mate for a while. He didn’t seem bothered. My own dad barely reacted when I told him about the move.
I went to see him. Knocked on his door. Told him I needed a place to crash for a bit. He said it wasn’t a good time.
Just like that. Not a good time to give your own son a roof over his head. He suggested I ask someone else. My own dad turned me away.
I didn’t argue. I just said I’d figure it out and left. Before the game, I stopped by the funeral home. I had agreed to help a woman plan a funeral for a friend of hers.
She said her friend wasn’t dead yet, but she was on her way out. She laughed about it, drank her whisky, told me about how much the woman loved Dolly Parton. I smiled along, not really paying attention. I had poker on my mind.
That night, I walked into the restaurant. The lights were dim, the tables pushed together. A few blokes were already sitting around with stacks of cash in front of them. I recognized a few faces, older men with cigars and too much confidence.
Brody had set it up so I’d be dealing drinks and keeping the game moving. Then he pulled me aside. He showed me the cards—aces, kings, queens. Marked.
Subtly, but there. He told me to start slow. Lose a few hands first. Feel the room out.
Then take them. I froze. I didn’t want to be part of a scam. But he kept pushing.
He said he was counting on me. And then, before I could back out, another player walked in. A copper. I recognized his face.
My stepdad did too. The room tensed up when he asked to join. My stepdad tried to send him away, made up some story about a funeral arrangement to cover why he was there. But the copper wasn’t buying it.
He said he wasn’t there as police. He just wanted to play. My stepdad finally let him sit down. The stakes went up.
I could feel the room shift. The copper started talking to me about the funeral, asking questions. I kept my answers short. I could feel Brody watching me from across the table.
Then the real game began. I sat down at the table with the others. I tried to keep my head down, play it safe. But the bloke next to me was getting under my skin.
He kept needling me about being young, asking where my money came from. I ignored him. Then he raised five hundred. I matched him.
The tension kept building until I finally pushed a raise of three grand. He laughed at me. Called it “paper round money. ” I told him to stuff it.
That’s when my stepdad stormed over. He grabbed my arm and hissed that I was supposed to be dealing drinks, not playing cards. He said I was making a scene. I told him to pipe down.
The table went quiet. The other men started betting big. The pot grew to nearly thirty grand. The copper was in deep.
I looked at my cards—four of a kind. I kept my face blank. When the final bets were placed, the copper laid down a full house. The bloke next to me was already celebrating.
Then I put down my four of a kind. Silence. Then rage. The bloke lunged at me across the table.
Someone pulled him off. He called me a cheat. He threatened me. My stepdad stepped in, telling him to back off.
The casino owner stepped between us and told him to leave. He was furious, but he left, swearing he’d see me again. I walked out of the restaurant with nearly thirty grand in cash, but none of it was mine. Brody had sponsored me.
My stepdad had loaned the original money. I was just the hand at the table. After the cut, I got a few hundred quid. Not even worth the bruises on my chest.
I went home that night. My stepdad was waiting. He was furious—not about the card game, but about what I’d done without asking. He told me I’d crossed a line.
I told him I was just trying to pay him back the loan he gave me. He looked at me coldly and said he didn’t want to see me that night. And I just stood there, realizing the truth. It wasn’t my stepdad who had put up that money.
It was someone else. Someone who saw me as a way to make a fortune. And when I finally understood how deep it went, the man who ran the game pulled me aside. He looked at me like I was nothing.
“You think you’re a big man now? ” he said. “I don’t care who your dad is. You ever cross me like that again, you’ll regret it.
Understand? ”
I said I understood. Then he told me to get out.
