Over the last few days, I’d single-handedly knocked out several tables’ worth—outplayed, outsmarted, and just plain outlasted. Now, it was down to the final two, and Baylor was sitting across from me, the motherfucker who had bought his way here, the same one Roman had schooled me on before I’d left for this tournament. Baylor must have thought his sunglasses were dark enough to hide his eyes, but the tint was just light enough that I could see through. They darted from my cards to my face—back and forth, again and again—and not in a smooth pattern. This was erratic, spastic even. It was freezing in here, yet there were beads of sweat running across his hairline. He was nervous. I wasn’t, especially not with the pair of red kings I was holding in my hand. Baylor’s eyes moved up my face and stayed there while he slowly pushed out a short stack of chips. It totaled less than ten thousand. If I were sitting on a shitty hand, his bet would have been high enough to make me fold.
