The blinds were sky-high, and Breedy’s stack was slightly behind. Asstrout raised big from the button, and Breedy peeked at his cards: pocket eights. Solid, but dangerous. He called, and the flop came 8-3-7, rainbow. Breedy’s heart kicked like a stallion—he’d flopped a set. Asstrout bet heavy, probably holding an overpair or a bluff. Breedy smooth-called, baiting the trap.
The turn was a meaningless deuce. Asstrout shoved all-in, typing “gg old man” in the chat. Breedy’s grin widened. He called instantly, flipping over his eights. Asstrout’s ace-king had nothing but air. The river was a blank, and the virtual chips slid Breedy’s way. The tournament was his—$2,000 and bragging rights.
(She who shall not be named) burst in, shouting about the music, but Breedy just raised his glass. “Won the damn thing, darlin’!” he roared, cranking the volume on “Free Bird.” Asstrout’s avatar vanished from the table, probably sulking. Breedy leaned toward the screen, typed “Tighten up, fish,” and hit send. Outside, a neighbor’s dog howled, and Breedy laughed, already dreaming of the next hand, the next race, the next bottle.
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