can train Amber Mac. What I haven’t learned from you all these years, Dobbs taught me. I’m ready. It’s what I want to do. If I’m going to build a reputation as a trainer and restore your confidence in me, I’d like to start with this colt.”
Marshall stared at him. “I’m sure you would. But I don’t know if I’m ready to put the future of a forty-three-thousand-dollar thoroughbred on a rookie trainer, even if he is my son.” Marshall was never one to pull any punches. “Besides, how do I know you won’t get another burr under your saddle and take off? How do I know you won’t end up in Vegas at the end of a craps table again?”
Brady bit back a retort. How many times did he have to hear this? Marshall had been in favor of his son’s decision to play with the Cowboys after college. But when Brady’s knee injury ended his career—and his marriage—Marshall certainly hadn’t approved of Brady’s decision to try his luck as a professional player in Las Vegas.
“Look, Dad,” he said through clenched teeth. “Forget about the past. It’s over and I’m here to stay.”
“And I’m glad of it,” Marshall said. “Cross Fox is your home. And as long as you only scratch your gambling itch with your local poker games, I’ve got no complaints. A man’s got to have a few vices.”
“Well, you’re welcome to scratch your own itch this week,” Brady muttered, glad to change the topic. “The game’s tonight and I told Jake I’d be back in time to make it. There’ll probably be some open chairs. Do either of you want to come?”
Marshall frowned. “Jake? That means he’s hosting in the old Wild Card Saloon.”
“Yeah.”
“Count me out. That place is still a wreck. Sat empty for too long and Jake’s uncle sure never took care of it.”
“Jake’s taking interest in it now that he decided not to sell,” Brady explained. “He and Cole are fixing it up. It’s looking pretty good.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Marshall said. “Look, I like Jake Chandler. But you’d better not mention to your mother that you’re hanging out with him again. She still thinks he was a bad influence on you.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Brady slammed his lemonade down harder than he’d intended. “If anything, back when we were in high school, it was the other way around. Or at least it was mutual. Why do you think everyone called us the Wild Bunch?”
Marshall put his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Hey, I’m willing to give Jake a chance. I’m just warning you that your mother hasn’t forgiven or forgotten his antics in high school.”
Brady turned to Dobbs. “What about you? Want to play?”
“I’ll be bushed after riding in the truck with you guys for four hours,” Dobbs said.
“Suit yourselves.” When he returned home from Vegas, Brady realized how much he’d missed his friends from River Bluff, men in their thirties now with adult problems and ambitions. Some of them had strayed, as Brady had, to different parts of the world, but now they were back and playing a weekly Texas Hold ’Em poker game. And for Brady, at this time in his life, the friendly wagering and camaraderie were just what he needed.
Dobbs popped the last of his burger into his mouth and followed it with a ketchup-soaked fry. “Still, if you ask me, it’s a damn shame.”
Brady gave him a quizzical look. “What is?”
“You’re the best poker player I know. You’ve got good instincts and all those college smarts. I just think if you’d stuck with poker up there in Vegas, you would have won a big tournament and been set for life.”
Brady held up his hand hoping to erase the scowl on his father’s face. “I left when I should have—I was losing more than just money.”
Dobbs pushed his plate away and brushed a shock of graying red hair off his forehead. “You coulda’ won though, couldn’t you?” he coaxed. “It’s just the three of us now, Brady. You can level with us. You were good enough for the big tournaments. You coulda’ won some big pots.”
Brady rubbed his hand down his face. He smiled at Dobbs. “Yeah, I could have won. But before you start thinking I’m some sort of poker god, let me tell you something. Anybody can win at the big tournaments—and anybody can lose. With intensive study of poker odds, some training in reading opponents and money management and the proper alignment of the planets, almost anybody can be coached to win.”
Dobbs leaned forward. “You really think so?”
“Sure. Poker’s more skill than luck.”
“So if you wanted to, you could take some cowpoke off the street and teach him the game?”
Brady considered his answer for a moment. “Cowpoke, politician, garbage collector. Anybody with an average level of intelligence can be taught. And yes, I could teach him.”
Marshall chuckled. “I see you haven’t lost that old Carrick confidence, son.”
His dad was wrong. A career-ending knee injury, a failed marriage and a foolish run at the most player-unfriendly games in Vegas had destroyed his confidence. Not to mention the life-altering tragedy that forced Brady to pack up and leave on the next plane for San Antonio. But he was trying to get his self-respect back. He was finding some of it at the weekly poker game where he generally won more than his share of pots.
“I’d be happy to prove it to you,” he said. “You pick the person, Dad, and I’ll teach him to play. The quarter finals of the U.S. Poker Play-offs is coming up in just a little more than five weeks. I’ll bet you I can coach that guy into a seat at the final table.”
Marshall covered his shock with a belly laugh. “Interesting bet. Just exactly what are we wagering on, Brady?”
This conversation had suddenly taken a serious turn. For a second Brady wondered if he was getting in over his head. But he quickly banished that thought. He was a damn good poker player. “Tell you what, Dad. If I have your pick at the final table in the USP, you give me training rights to Amber Mac.”
Marshall sobered. “Big talk, Brady.”
“You think I can’t do it?”
“That’s right,” he said. “I think you can’t do it.”
Brady wasn’t about to back down. He knew his dad well enough to know that the gambler in him was intrigued. “Then what have you got to lose? Try me.”
Marshall looked at Dobbs. “What do you think? Should we give this upstart a chance to eat his words?”
“I don’t know.” Dobbs considered. “What do we get out of it if the kid loses the bet?”
Brady smiled. “I’ll pay your entry fees at the local game for one year.”
Both men eyed each other over the table. Hundreds of dollars were now at stake, making this a serious bet. “And we get to pick the person for the wager?” Marshall asked.
“You pick. But be reasonable. The guy has to be of age and have moderate intelligence.”
At
