Game of Hearts (Stacked Deck Book 3)

by Emilia Finn

  “Did you bet on yourself?”

  I laugh. “No, but maybe I should have. I have enough anger and frustration to basically guarantee me a win. I have bunches of energy to work off.”

  “Yeah?” He lifts his brows. Bounces them like a pervert. “We have fifteen minutes and a fast car.”

  “No.” I turn away and flick his hand off when he doesn’t release mine. “Let’s go. Being late makes me anxious.”

  “We’re not late. We have fifteen minutes and a fast car. I feel like we already covered that information.”

  “Just get in the damn car!” I swing the passenger door open, and growl when he bounces his way to his side and laughs. “Did you take too many multivitamins today?”

  “No.” He slides into the car, slams the door, and turns to me. “I learned my lesson a long time ago to read and follow the instructions on all pill bottles. This is just my natural charm, oozing out of my pores and spraying everywhere. I’m like a skunk, spraying my stink everywhere because I’m so happy.”

  “I thought you were a bull with twinkle toes and hurt feelings?”

  He only laughs.

  “Your happiness is…” I curl my lip back, and turn to study the parking lot as he starts the car and pulls out of our slot. “It’s annoying, to be honest. I thought I wanted the silly, funny Mac back. But here you are, and it’s creepin’ me out.”

  “Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry,” he wills himself as he fake-sniffles. Reaches up and wipes beneath his nose. Then he turns to me and flashes the very grin I fell in love with. “You’re cute when you’re exasperated.”

  “You’re suicidal when you continue to taunt me.”

  “Hey, Lucy?” He reaches out and snags my hand, despite the fact I try to pull it away. One-handed and laughing, he drives across town and yanks me closer until he can nibble on my knuckles. “I love you, pancake ass. I love you so much I would drip syrup all over your body and eat you up.”

  I groan. “I feel like you’re trying to be sexy, but the thought of syrup everywhere makes me anxious. Food in bed isn’t okay, Macallistar. It’s sticky and gross, and not at all hygienic.”

  “Grumpy ass. Here.”

  He pulls the ‘Cuda into the wrong parking lot. Outside of a building that looks much the same as many other buildings in town: a brick cube, old, and lacking any kind of curb appeal.

  “What are you doing? Mac?” I flip my gaze between him and the building. “We don’t have time for this. We have to be at the tournament in…” I check my phone. “Seven effing minutes!”

  “Calm yourself, crazy.” He pushes out of his side, and skips around to mine. He opens my door so a cold flurry of air comes in and sneaks under my hoodie. “Come with me for a sec.”

  “I can’t come with you. If we’re late to Stacked Deck, we forfeit.” I climb out, but only to grab my bag, swing it over my shoulder, and turn toward the road.

  “Where are you going? Lucy! Get back here.”

  I start with a slow jog. I’m not warmed up, and I’ll be damned if I pull a hamstring on my way to a tournament. “I’m going to 188. You do your thing, but being late freaks me out. I’ll see you there.”

  “No, stop.” He laughs; actual chest-bouncing, Santa-Claus-esque ha-ha-ha’s escape his throat, followed by the sound of gravel crunching under his running feet. “Stop running away.” He grabs my arm and swings me around so fast that I crash into his chest. “I’ll drive you where we’ve gotta go in a sec. Just chill the fuck out and trust me.”

  “Mac, no!” From joking, to deathly serious, I slap at his hands and step back. “I refuse to be late, Mac. Fuck. I’m not not going to that tournament. I’m going there, I’m gonna win, and maybe tonight, my daddy will look at me.”

  “Luce.” He loses his joking smile too, pulls me in so fast that the oxygen is crushed from my lungs, then he wraps his arms around my neck until I’m half smothered against his chest. “You don’t have to worry, okay? I’m not gonna make you late.”

  “Please, let’s just get in the car.” I plead with my eyes, with quivering lips, with my whole heart. “Please, Mac. Stop screwing around, let’s get in the car, then we can play around later.”

  “Okay.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head, exhales so his warm breath bathes my scalp. Then he pulls back, but only to take my hand and lead me back toward the car. “Have it your way. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

  “It’s okay.” I walk alongside him, but rest a hand on my heart and will it to slow. “It’s fine. You were trying to be funny, or sweet, or…” I shake my head. “Whatever. You’re trying to make me smile, I get it, but I can’t right now. I can’t risk missing my fight, so– Mac!” I scream when he scoops me up into his arms, jogs straight past his car, and heads toward the almost derelict-looking building.

  “I’m sorry.” Fitter than he ever has been in his life, stronger because of the training we’ve both been putting in, he runs with me in his arms, murmurs his apologies, and bursts through a double metal door in the side of the building. “I swear, I’m so sorry.”

  “Mac! What the f—” I glance around the crowded room when people stop what they’re doing and look up at us. “What… I don’t understand.”

  “Finally!” Sophia appears in a midnight black leotard with a baby pink skirt and her hair pulled up in her perfect ballerina bun on the top of her head. She snatches me from Mac’s hands, sets me on my feet, and shoves me toward Jess Bishop – the woman married to Soph’s husband’s brother. “She needs to change. Right now.”

  “What?” I shoot my gaze from Jess, to Soph, to Mac as he backs away. “Mac?”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Break a leg, okay? Do it up good.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “They’re out there.” Soph grabs my face and forces me to look at her. “Everyone I promised, all of those dance folks, your fans, the folks from Russia… they’re waiting for you.”

  “What? I said no!”

  “Toddlers are up first. Jay!” She grabs him as he passes, shoves him toward the preschoolers, and grins when he catches their daughter as she throws her tutu-clad butt at him. “Send them up. Lucy is on in five.”

  “Ten-four, chief. Little girls,” he turns to the eager group, two of whom are twins, and one looks just like Jess, “strap on your weapons and locate your goggles!”

  “Sophia!” I fight her hold as she and Jess try to pull me along. “You need to stop.”

  “You need to move, otherwise you’ll be dancing in your booty shorts. Which,” she turns and adds, “would be totally fine. Whatever you’re comfortable in.”

  “Sophia!” I snatch my hand from hers and stop in the middle of a walkway. “I need to get to the club. I’m up in—” I check the clock on the wall, “oh god. Two minutes!”

  “Babe?” She laughs. She literally turns back and laughs in my face. “You’ve already forfeited. The tournament started hours ago.”

  “What? No! Smalls said it starts at six.”

  “Did she?” She grins. “Did she really? Did you confirm that, or did you take Mac’s word for it?”

  “He…” My eyes widen. “No.” Fresh tears track over my face. “Soph, no! You can’t… he can’t… no!”

  “You forfeited. You lose. Now you no longer have a scheduling conflict. In here.” She shoves me into an empty room, tosses a plastic bag into my arms, and grins. “Get changed. I could probably lay good money on the fact that your flats are in that training bag right now. But if they’re not; you can dance barefoot.”

  “Dance what? What the hell are you talking about?” I can’t breathe. I can’t cope. I can’t process how fucked everything turned in the space of thirty seconds. “What am I supposed to dance?”

  She tilts her head to the side, and smiles so cruelly that I want to knock her the fuck out. “Jay-Z, honey. It’s ready, so stop whining. Get changed. You now have three minutes. Do you need me to send Mac in?”

  “If you send him in, h
e won’t live,” I grit through my teeth. I’m furious. I’m vibrating with rage. “He’s dead to me now.”

  She barks out a laugh. “I like your spirit. A little much, I suppose, but whatever floats your boat. Get changed before I shoot your kneecaps. Then you won’t fight or dance ever again. I called in a lot of favors to have a perfectly curated audience sitting out there tonight. Don’t embarrass me.”

  “But…” I frantically glance around the room, empty but for a mirror and a single chair. “I can’t do that dance alone. Where’s Rudy?”

  “He’s…” She blows out a breath. “He’s on the way. I need you stage left. I’ll have him stage right. You just need to trust that this will be okay.”

  “I haven’t practiced! I’m ready to fight, not dance. I’m heavier than I should be, I have a screwy leg from last night. It’s… I can’t, Soph!”

  “Yes.” She claps. “You.” Clap. “Can! Stop whining. Jesus.”

  She circles out of the room and slams the door, but Jess remains behind. She’s like my security detail, to make sure I don’t run. To make sure I follow orders.

  “Get changed.” She sits in the chair by the door, and folds one leg over the other in her perfectly prim and proper way. “You’ve lost this fight. Nobody beats Soph, so you just gotta conform.”

  “I was gonna fight tonight,” I whimper. “I was gonna see my dad.”

  Her eyes soften, and some of the playfulness leaves her expression. “I know this is hard. But you’ve worked so hard for this, Bean. We all know you deserve it. Don’t forget, by keeping you home all day today, Mac forfeited his fight too.”

  I gasp and choke on a sob. “Oh my god. He did. Oh my god! We worked so hard for it.”

  “You did work hard, but sometimes you’re allowed to live your dream rather than someone else’s. He knew what this meant to you, he sacrificed his fights this year, and he did it betting on the fact you would be brave enough to follow through on this. Don’t make it meaningless. Don’t make it so he’s lost two years, two titles, by not even trying.”

  “I didn’t ask him to do this!” I cry. “I didn’t even tell him—”

  She nods. “I know, honey. You didn’t tell him, because you’re too selfless. Too much the silent martyr. But he heard you anyway. He knows what you want, what you need to be happy. This is him gifting that to you.”

  I stand stage left, but instead of changing into the leotard Soph tossed at me, I wear my fight clothes. Ballet slippers wrap around my feet, my braid has been unwound and replaced with a neat bun that has been sprayed to within an inch of its life. As soon as Jess sensed weakness, she bounded up from her chair and started working a brush and spray through my hair.

  Now I stand amid the curtains while a whole bunch of preschoolers run around the stage in purple leotards, and Hawaiian skirts, with cute little leis hanging around their necks.

  They dance to the Moana soundtrack, wave to their captivated crowd, and when the curtains are pulled, one of the girls, curly-haired, much like Smalls, lowers to remain seen. She waves to her laughing crowd, drops to her knees when the curtain moves too low, then to her stomach until Jay races onto the stage and scoops her up with a bellowing laugh.

  My heart races, pounds, hurts. My ears buzz, and my eyes burn from tears. It’s all too much, too scary, too overwhelming.

  “You’re gonna be okay.” Soph stops by my side and rubs her hands over my arms. “It’s just a dance. You’ve done it a million times, so just follow your feet, let them do their thing. Stop using your brain, and instead, let your body lead you.”

  “I’m so scared…” I draw in a deep breath. “Of falling, of being booed, of looking into the crowd and not seeing anyone I know.” I turn to her. “My entire family is at Stacked Deck right now, and I spent a whole year keeping the secret. I didn’t tell anyone, but I wish I did now.”

  “It’s being filmed.” She reaches up when she notices the tears sitting on my cheek, swipes them away with her thumbs. “I really should show you your YouTube channel,” she laughs. “I keep meaning to, but then I get distracted.”

  “What?”

  “She’s the one you’ve all been waiting for,” a woman’s voice plays over the sound system. Sophia’s sort-of receptionist, Dolly, quietens the crowd with her words. “Lucy Kincaid, our star pupil and most devoted dancer. Lucy has been working all year, choreographing her own routine, and teaching it to several others simply because it makes her happy to teach. Lucy is twenty-one years old, months away from graduating college. She was, until today, an undefeated full-contact fighter, and she fought only last night, such is her devotion to the sporting world. Please, if you’ll welcome her to the stage, put your hands together and show her a little love.”

  “Oh, hey.” Soph grabs me as my music begins, and spins me to find her rueful smile. “Rudy can’t make it. He had an unfortunate accident this morning, ended up in the ER, which is why he didn’t take my calls until just a minute ago.”

  “What?” I spin back. “He’s in the ER? Is he okay?”

  “Sure.” She waves me off. “He’ll be fine, but he sure as hell ain’t here.”

  “And you’re only telling me right now? What the fuck, Sophia!”

  “Just trust me, okay? Relax before you give yourself a hernia. Go, dance. For God’s sake, smile, and prove to me that all the time you’ve spent on this routine was worth it.”

  She shoves me from side stage so I emerge just as the curtains come up, and the audience applauds. The lights are blinding, so my onlookers are cast in darkness. Then movement at the opposite side of the stage draws my eyes up.

  Mac steps forward with his goofy grin, in Rollin Gym sweatpants, bare feet, and a bare chest. His scar is illuminated beneath the lights, but his grin… it makes it all a little less scary.

  The opening notes to the song play on repeat while I find my balance, while I position myself where I need to be, and for the extra second it takes Mac to find his mark. Then the audience quietens, Jay-Z restarts and… instead of dancing, I stand in shocked paralysis.

  “I can’t…” I look over my shoulder to Mac as the panic bubbles inside my chest. My lungs constrict, my vision turns spotty, and I swear, my throat tightens.

  “Relax.” Mac steps forward, stops behind me, and places one hand on my ribs, the other on my stomach. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “Just like you taught me. Breathe through it, fill those chambers. Breathe in through your nose.”

  “I don’t wanna fall,” I whisper. My eyes flick to the invisible crowd. To the awkward shuffling they do when my music restarts, but I don’t. “Mac… I…”

  “Have I ever let you fall?” Chuckling, he steps closer so his chest touches my back, his thighs line my backside, and then he leans forward, presses his chin to my shoulder. “I swear to you, for the rest of my life, I will never let you fall. I might not be able to give you a mansion, and maybe we’ll be cold if we don’t have a billion blankets, but I swear, I’ll hug you to keep you warm. I’ll do our apartment up however you want it so it feels like a mansion. I’ll spend my last dollars to feed your giant dog, and I’ll support your need to dance. Wherever. Whenever. When you inevitably decide to buy your own studio, or go into partnership with Soph, I’ll work extra hard to help you pay for it. I don’t need to be rich, so long as I have you. But for right now, I need you to dance.”

  He pushes me out in the practiced first step for this routine. The timing is wrong, and my sore leg makes the movement clunky, but he’s trying.

  “Just do your thing,” he continues. “Treat me like a mannequin. Use me, and I’ll do my best to get the steps right.” He grins. “I will not let you fall.”

  I swallow and give a jerky nod.

  Ignoring the impatient audience, I close my eyes and listen to the music. It’s coming to an end, the final chorus, the final bridge.

  I nod again, then I look to Soph and nod one last time.

  It’s all she needs to know I’m ready. She has the music reset, she smiles s
o big that the vise around my heart lessens, and then Jay-Z starts, and Mac, getting the timing perfect, sends me spinning.

  He follows me, he even does the little boogie step that Rudy does, the fancy footwork that is Rudy’s signature bullshit that always makes me laugh, then he catches me when I run forward. He lifts me high, grins up at me when I look down, then he lowers me down and sends me running.

  I use the whole stage, I dance around him, perfect every single step, and when my fight injuries complain about my positions, I push and keep moving anyway. The music climbs, the beat, the tempo, the energy, as I circle around and run my hands over Mac’s ridged abdomen. This song was always about passion, about the give and take, the fire and explosion only the right coupling can create.

  Exhaling my worries, and inhaling confidence, I smile on the second chorus when Mac nails a step that in the couple times he’s danced with me, he messed up. He grins like he knows he’s the shit, and tugs me in so fast that we slam together and he drops an unscripted kiss onto my lips.

  Every time I’ve practiced this routine in the studio, it’s been serious, it’s been about getting it exactly right, and pushing the rigidity so much that I was bound to snap.

  But when the coupling is right…

  I laugh when, instead of dropping me into the splits in front of him like I choreographed, he lets me drop, frog jumps me, then, spinning, he takes my hands and lifts me into a vertical split where I rest my hands on his shoulders, he holds my hips, and lifting me, my one leg goes straight up, the other straight down.

  The crowd applauds as he lowers me again, fights against his filthy grin, then lets me go and races backward until he’s closer to Soph than he is to me.

  My feet don’t stop. My hips. My arms, my fingers. My body moves as it’s supposed to, as it’s been trained to, and when Jay-Z sings of Madison Square, I leap forward, once, twice, three times, split my legs, and touch down again with barely a sound. My movements are more fluid than they’ve ever been, smoother, beyond reproach – despite Mac’s theatrics every time I split my legs open.