"You - you aren't replacing anybody." the words tumble out over a game of poker and white wine. He has a shitty hand, useless, and he'll fold in a minute. "I don't want you to think that I'm using you to replace someone."
"Who are you trying to convince?" she makes a show of rearranging her cards, ignoring the bends and soft spots where sweaty hands have gripped a little too hard. "Me or yourself?"
"You."
"Then," she picks up a few poker chips, tossing them into the growing pile in the center of the table. "I will call you, Mister Chance."
"I've been bluffing." Chance raises a blonde eyebrow, twisting his wrist to show her his hand. "You knew that."
"Were you?" Ilsa lays down her cards with a flourish. Full house - queens over threes. She cleans the board, he's down another fifty bucks.
"Yes." Chance watches her shuffle the deck, listens to the snap of cards between skilled fingers, and waits to receive his hand. "I had a bad hand."
"You've had several." Ilsa remarks, setting the deck down to arrange her chips and adjust her hand accordingly.
"Just a couple." Chance offers her a brief glimpse of his wry smirk. "I seem to come back in pretty good shape."
"Sometimes."
The flops spreads in a neat line of three spades. Oh, good. His straight should fill out nicely. He raises. She checks, deals the turn, and waits for him.
"Fifty," his chips clatter when he drops them in the pot. "Your call."
"Check." Ilsa clears her throat. "And, you don't always come back in pretty good shape. When you do, it might simply be luck."
"Not luck." Chance leans forward, eyes darkening, lips flicking upward into something of a grin. "I've been in the game too long for that. I don't have luck on my side, anymore."
"What is it, then?" a sharp eyebrow arch. "If it's not luck, what is it?"
"Practice." he shrugs, twirling a chip like a batonist flips a baton.
"Oh?"
"I had a good hand, but I screwed up. Folded when I should have called." Chance keeps his eyes on his cards, waiting, biding his time until the river. "I had to go through a lot of bad hands, lose a lot of games to get the hand I've got now."
She lays the river down with a snap.
Ace of spades, perfect.
"But, is it enough? Or, is it just temporary until a better hand comes along?" Ilsa questions, holding her cards close to her chest. The showdown is coming and she's not quite ready to surrender. "What will it be, Mister Chance? All in, or just another call?"
He knows.
Katherine is his one that got away and he would never burden Ilsa with whatever feelings of guilt he has about her death. But, he's given her something much larger to deal with - finding the strength to push past the doubt and the fear of simply being a replacement.
She isn't, by any means.
But, the thought is still there, and he knows it is because she keeps him at what she considers a safe distance. Not that he can blame her for it, he's never exactly made it easy to be in his life. She wants, needs the reassurance that he isn't trying to replace Katherine.
"That's not an easy question, Ilsa." it's Chance's turn to raise an eyebrow. "There are easier things to do than to toss everything and let luck do what it wants."
"Yes, but you and I both know I'm not looking for the easy answer." she finishes off her wine, still holding her cards, unwilling to lay them out just yet.
He has any number of options. He could fold; bow out quietly and watch her be another woman he let get away. Or, he could check. He could not bet anything and just keep the game going until the cards lay out and one of them is forced to walk away. Or, he could raise the stakes a little higher, creep in a little closer with every game they play.
But, that'll never be enough.
That'll never prove anything, other than the fact that he's chicken-shit where his own feelings are concerned.
Cards snap.
Chips clatter.
"All in."
"Me too."