The big day had finally come, and the ship that would take me on my ill-advised journey was purportedly docked in the Ria Formosa Lagoon, which wound through the barrier islands separating Faro from the Atlantic Ocean. The Doca do Faro, the city’s famous marina where many of the locals kept their motorboats for the purposes of traversing this lagoon, was not big enough to accommodate a cruise ship, so in order to board the boat I would have to travel a short ways south to where a larger dock that normally serviced cargo ships was located. I hailed a taxi and managed to communicate to the driver with some effort where it was I wanted to go. He knew almost no English and I knew even less Portuguese, so instead of talking he cranked up his radio. It might have been interesting to hear some of the local tunes, but for a guy who didn’t speak English this taxi driver seemed to be awfully fond of American pop, and so by the time I finally stepped out of the car and paid the man his money I had run a gauntlet of all the horrible songs I had hoped I might escape by crossing the ocean. Luckily for the driver, the fact that tipping was not the common practice in Portugal rescued him from getting a bad one.

There was already a small crowd gathered and ready to board when I hauled my luggage over to the docks and got my first look at the Star Chaser, The ship on which the tournament would be hosted. She was small for a cruise ship, but still a fine-looking vessel. I looked for Alva amongst the gathered people, but it seemed she had not yet arrived. Vincente was not present either. In fact, it seemed most of the world’s top players were making a point of being fashionably late, although I did recognize a few here and there from my research. There was Marek Kalinski, nicknamed the “Polish Terminator”. He was known for never betraying a hint of emotion when he played, simply sitting with a pair of dark shades on and cutting down his opponents one by one. Standing in the middle of a crowd and seemingly carrying on three separate conversations at once without breaking his stride was Marek’s polar opposite, Italian player Gregorio Siciliano. No table would ever be silent with him sitting at it. The man loved to talk and seemed to treat poker as a social exercise, but it was dangerous to be lulled into a false sense of security by his gregarious attitude. He could dismantle your entire game and crush your dreams, all while trying to be your best friend.

The player that immediately caught my eye, however, was Russian legend Nikita Zakharov. The third-highest earning player in the world was impossible to miss. He was less a man and more so a house on legs. If I had been told that Nikita was actually two normal-sized people crammed into one suit I might have believed it. He was a full head taller than the rest of the crowd and solidly built, with thick arms and a wide chest. His physique made him intimidating, and he was very much aware of this fact and used it to its full advantage in his game. He was known for being the master of “tilting” his opponents, manipulating their mental state so that they were prone to make mistakes. Of all the participants in the tournament, he may have been the one I was most afraid to play against. Vincente could defeat me with ease, no doubt, but somehow I thought it would be more pleasant than losing to Nikita

Camera crews milled about sticking cameras in faces, pulling people aside for interviews, and checking their gear to ensure it was in working order. This event was projected to be easily the most widely viewed poker event of the year, if not all time. Between the fact that all the top players in the world were here and the fact that this tournament had record-setting high stakes, they were pulling out all the stops to make sure that this would be the most hyped-up event in poker history. They were making sure to get statements from every big name in the poker scene. Naturally, they ignored me entirely. That was just fine by me, as far I was concerned the less focus I had on me the better. I thought there was a good chance that nobody would pay any attention to me at all, but to my surprise a younger man with wavy brown hair and a strange half-smile on his face walked up to me and looked me up and down with his hands in his pockets.

“So who are you?” he asked me, “I was expecting that only real poker players would be showing up.”

I didn’t recognize the man, although I certainly hadn’t had nearly enough time to look into every professional player who had put up results in recent years. I also couldn’t place his accent. It wasn’t quite German, but something vaguely similar that I couldn’t put my finger on. What was unmistakable, however, was the disdainful tone of his voice. This man was clearly looking down his nose at me. Nonetheless, I decided to humor him.

“I’m Bryson Daley, from America. And who are you precisely? I can’t say I recognize you.”

The man seemed displeased to hear me say this. The half-smile on his face disappeared, replaced with a sneer.

“I am from Belgium and my name is Lucas Carlier. You should try hard to remember it. I’ve already forgotten yours.”

Lucas walked away, and I watched after him trying to keep my temper even. I knew that he was intentionally attempting to tilt me before the tournament even began, but even so I couldn’t help but viscerally dislike the man. I had never met a Belgian before, and I was sure they were generally decent people, but this didn’t make for a good first impression. I hoped that he and I would not have to play against each other. I didn’t think I’d be able to handle it if Lucas of all people were the one to bust me out of the tournament.

“May I have everyone’s attention please?” the voice of a man rang out over the crowd from the direction of the Star Chaser.

Everybody turned as one to see who was talking. It appeared to be one of the tournament staffers, somebody in a position of some authority, although I didn’t really know who any of the people in charge were. He was a portly man with a small moustache, and he waved a stubby hand in the air to make sure all eyes were on him.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” he began, “so let’s get down to business. First of all, welcome to The Mediterranean Ultimate High Roller!”

There were a series of whoops and cheers from the crowd. The man stopped to acknowledge these and then continued once they had subsided.

“We’re going to begin boarding in just a minute here. Once you get on the boat the first thing you’ll want to do is buy entry to the tournament. After that’s done one of our friendly staffers will show you to your rooms. After that, you should do whatever preparations you need for the first day of play. Remember: If you bust out of the tournament at any point in the first two days you are allowed to buy back in again. After that, you’ll be out for good as soon as you lose your chips. Only the top eight players get to cash. Given that we’ve had a much better than expected turnout with well over a hundred players at three hundred thousand a pop, that means eight of you are going to be leaving with an awful lot of money in your pockets!”

Another round of cheering, another pause, and then the man proceeded into his wrap-up.

“So, in conclusion, good luck to all of you, may the cards be kind, and lets get this show started!”

As the final cheers and applause rang out, a ramp was lowered from the hull of the ship and the players began to board. I headed in that direction as well, but as I was about to reach the ramp I heard the sound of a rather loud motor approaching. I looked around and saw a very nice vehicle that I was able to identify as a four-door Bentley Continental approaching. Nobody else seemed to take all that much notice, giving a sideways glance at best, but I kept my eye on the vehicle as it pulled to a stop nearby. One of the rear doors opened, and I subconsciously stopped in my tracks about midway up the ramp when I saw who was getting out of the car.

There, before me in the flesh for the first time in a month or so, was Alva Lorensen. She was looking as beautiful as she had the day I met her, maybe even more so. She was dressed in a white summer dress and a matching white French boater hat. All this white in combination with her naturally white features made her look like an elf or faerie or some such fantastical creature. That eternal smile of hers was spread on her face, just as I remembered it. My heart leapt to see her. I wished she would look in my direction. I wanted to call out and wave to her, but the sound of a voice from behind me interrupted my thoughts.

“Please get out of way. You are blocking ramp.” The voice rumbled in a bass so deep and rich that I could feel it resonating in my ribcage. The speaker was clearly not adept with the English language, and spoke with a thick Russian accent.

My heart stopped cold in my chest. I knew who it was without even checking. I turned, looked up, and then looked up a little further and found the icy-blue eyes of Nikita Zakharov staring down at me. His face was mostly neutral, but those eyes were narrowed ever so slightly. Just enough to get the message across.

“Oh, um, sorry! Something caught my attention,” I fumbled, “I’ll just head up the ramp now.”

Nikita said nothing, and simply continued to stare down at me. As I turned back around, I glanced past the car and saw that two other people had gotten out. One of them was Vincente Alcon. The other was the man who was second only to him in terms of lifetime earnings, Scotsman Ewan Cunningham. Even though I had never seen him in person before I could recognize him at a glance thanks to his brilliant, coiffed red hair and equally vibrant beard. He was quite a looker in his own right, and the three of them together made for a crew the likes of which one wouldn’t expect to see outside of a Hollywood picture. I supposed that it made sense that three of the greatest players in the world would all know each other and be friendly enough with each other to ride here together. I wished I could get a better look at them, but with Nikita standing right behind me I wasn’t about to stick around any longer than necessary.

I hurried up into the ship, following the people in front of me to the line of players waiting to buy their way into the tournament. After I had paid the insane entrance fee, a pretty girl took me and showed me to my room. The place was nice, more spacious than I would have guessed, and very well-kempt. I thanked the girl, and she gave me directions to where the tournament would be taking place and then left. It was a few hours before the tournament would actually begin, so I grabbed a seafood dish from a little restaurant they had on board. The shrimp had obviously been frozen a bit longer than was ideal, but all things considered I thought it tasted pretty good. After I finished, I walked around a bit, striking up conversations with various people. I didn’t run into any big names, but the players I talked to seemed to be mostly friendly. This was major relief, as I had been worried that Lucas might be representative of the general attitude in this community, but for the most part they seemed to be nice and more than willing to make small talk. Still, none of my conversations led to anything of much substance. It was clear I was the outsider here. This wasn’t the kind of event where a rogue qualifier who won a free ticket in some online game or something of that nature could show up to make a deep run and upset the established order. This was supposed to be an exclusive club of only people who saw each other all the time on the top tables, and everybody seemed more interested in discussing past games from past tournaments than talking to me.

During this time the ship set sail, making its way out of the lagoon and into the ocean proper. I watched from the deck as we left Portugal behind, making our way towards the Strait of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean Sea. It felt strange, now that I was on this boat and locked into this tournament, to realize I had not only decided to do go on this crazy adventure, but had now actually done it. Sure, I hadn’t been able to get close to Alva yet, but there was plenty of time for that. For now I simply watched with a surreal satisfaction I had never experienced before as the shores of the barrier islands fell further behind us. On paper this had been a bad choice, but it was my choice. Not anyone else’s. No matter what happened, good or bad, my life was never going to be the same again. I felt the salt breeze on my nostrils and inhaled deeply. It felt good to be alive.

Eventually, however, I had to come back down to reality. The tournament was starting, and I needed to go figure out what table I was assigned to. Might I be able to sit with Alva already? Was it possible that I would be so lucky? I made my way to a grand ballroom which had been repurposed for the event. I was surprised by how few people I found when I got there. I was arriving just as things were supposedly about to start, but of the hundred plus people who were supposed to be present it seemed that only thirty or so were actually there. Nobody seemed to think this was strange, however, so I went up to a wall where table assignments were posted. I looked up and down the list for my name, and located myself at table 4. Then I read the names of the other players who would be playing with me. My heart caught in my throat. Most of the people there had names I didn’t recognize at all, but I realized to my dismay that I had been assigned to sit across the table from Lucas Carlier, the Belgian jerk from earlier today. That wasn’t what really caught my attention, however. The name that really burned itself into my eyeballs was the one in the seat just to the right of mine, I realized right then that my run in this tournament might be very short indeed.

I had been assigned to sit right next to Nikita Zakharov.