The Fat Guy’s T-shirt Tug, thought Eram. He’s self-conscious about the way the cloth sticks to his body.

‘You got anything good, bro?’ the fatty said. ‘I feel like I should defend my blind.’

Eram was surprised. Banter as a means of getting information was standard in cash games, but the faster pace of a tournament usually precluded that sort of thing. He didn’t respond.

‘Tell you what,’ the guy said, staring at Eram. ‘If you say you want the action, I’ll fold. But if you say you don’t want the action, I’ll shove. Just tell me.’

Eram found this kind of mind-levelling tiresome. The math was all that mattered, really, but there were always people who had watched too many videos on YouTube. Sexy Beast probably has a pocket pair and is nervous that I’ll have him crushed with a bigger one. He’s short-stacked, doesn’t want to throw away his blind ante and is going to ship it all in whatever I say.

‘I have the king-deuce of hearts,’ he said.

The big boy tugged at his tee. ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘All-in.’

Eram called the all-in bet instantly. It was only about an eighth of his stack, but for the other guy it was his tournament life at risk. He tabled a pair of black nines and grinned wolfishly when he saw Eram’s ace-king.

52:48 in his favour, Eram thought. Almost a statistical coin flip. King-deuce would have been better for him but he can’t be too unhappy with this either. I have six outs.

If any one of the six remaining aces or kings in the deck hit the board, his opponent would be crushed beyond repair. But that didn’t happen; instead, the dealer opened a heart on the flop, then another on the turn and another on the river.

Runner-runner flush, Eram exulted silently. Poker can be a real bitch sometimes, but I’ll take the win anyway.

Then one of those things happened that made live poker such a crowd-puller. The fatty whom Eram had busted went postal. He banged both his fists on the felt, making everyone’s chip stacks topple, and found his feet.

‘You’re a fucking liar,’ he said, pointing a meaty finger at Eram. Spittle flew from his mouth. ‘And you cheated, I saw you. How much did this guy pay you for the flush?’ He lunged across the table at the dealer who calmly pushed his chair out of reach and signalled the floor manager. People across the room were rubbernecking, most reaching for their phones to record the incident.

‘Dude,’ Eram said. ‘Chill. It’s poker.’

The fatty rounded on Eram, his face flushed and sweaty. ‘Shut the fuck up, liar. You kids go around blowing up daddy’s money, but some of us had to work jobs to earn that buy-in. King-deuce this, asshole.’ He grabbed the front of Eram’s hoodie in both hands and yanked him to his feet.

Wait, what? Eram thought. All this time you thought poker was about telling the truth?