Chapter 52: Poker, the Shrink, and High Stakes (1)
A Saturday afternoon in Greenwich Village. Sunlight slanted through Monica's apartment, painting warm gold rectangles across the floor. The air smelled of coffee... and tension.
In the center of the room sat a professional poker set with high-quality chips and cards—the game Bruce had suggested they all learn after seeing his parents play during their New Year's visit.
"So... this is the 'serious poker' you mentioned?" Chandler gingerly lifted a black chip, half-expecting it to bite him.
"Yeah, but we're playing Texas Hold'em—the rules are deeper, more strategic." Bruce was teaching them the basics. "Everyone gets two cards. Five community cards in the center. Best five-card hand wins."
"Hold'em?" Joey frowned. "Like, we hold them? I thought you always hold cards."
"Exactly!" Bruce grinned. "Basics: you've got your hole cards—those are secret. Then the flop, turn, and river—those are community cards everyone shares. You bet after each round..."
Monica already had her notebook out, scribbling terms, competitive fire sparkling in her eyes. "Small blind, big blind, check, raise... so there's huge strategic space here!"
"Massive," Bruce nodded. "You count outs, read tells, control your expressions—why some call it 'the silent war'."
Phoebe examined a red chip. "I feel its energy... it wants to be with the blue chip." She solemnly stacked them together.
Rachel admired the professional cards. "These are nice—way cooler than that beaten-up deck we usually use."
Amid the chaos Bruce pressed on: Joey kept trying to bet out of turn; Chandler drew a card and cracked, "Pocket threes? Sounds like a bad comedy trio." Bruce sighed, "For heaven's sake, Chandler, don't announce your hand—unless you enjoy losing money."
As Bruce started their first practice round, the doorbell rang. Phoebe skipped over to open it. "Hey, everyone—this is Doctor Roger."
Roger, Phoebe's new psychiatrist boyfriend, stepped in with a gentle, all-knowing smile. Cashmere sweater, eyes scanning the room as though issuing instant diagnoses.
"Sorry I'm late. Grabbed coffee downstairs—Central Perk, the café you told me about."
Phoebe beamed. "No worries. I bet you loved it." Without waiting she rattled off introductions.
"Hi, Roger!" everyone chorused.
"So, Doc—what kind of doctor?" Joey asked.
"Both MD and PhD. Medical degree plus doctorate in psychology—I'm a practicing psychiatrist." His tone carried a barely-hidden smugness.
"Poker!" Roger lit up. "Excellent game for reading micro-expressions and psychological states. I've done quite a bit of research on tells and behavioral patterns in competitive games." He pulled out a chair and sat down.
Phoebe clapped. "See? Roger knows all about this stuff. He can play, right?"
"Sure." Bruce nodded. "All right, everyone—just like I taught you. Let's deal!"
The game began. Roger's moves were veteran-smooth—check, raise, fold—then he deployed his professional expertise on the group.
Rachel checked her cards, fingertips unconsciously tapping the edge, gaze distant. Roger pounced: "Rachel, that finger tapping plus your momentary stare usually signals uncertainty about a marginal hand. After hesitating when I raised pre-flop, you've now checked again... you're on a draw, aren't you? Probably hoping for a flush or straight?"
Rachel pulled her hands back, face stiffening. "I... just spaced out." She quickly folded.
Roger nodded. "Interesting choice. Under external pressure you avoid conflict. Tell me—did an overbearing parent used to make all your decisions for you?"
Rachel paled, lips trembling. "You're reading way too much into this, Roger."
Chandler lobbed a joke to defuse the tension: "Roger, are you Rachel's therapist now? Should we be billing insurance for this?"
Roger gave Chandler a long, knowing look but said nothing.
Later Monica raised aggressively on the turn; her shoulders tensed, a micro-smirk flashed. "Call that," she challenged, pushing chips forward.
Roger's commentary followed like a clinical report: "Monica, when you made that raise your trapezius contracted, zygomaticus major elevated, pupils dilated—indices of goal-fulfillment satisfaction. You've got a strong hand—probably made your straight or flush on that last card?"
Monica's triumph froze, replaced by irritation. "Roger! Focus on your own cards, not my shoulders!" She aggressively pushed more chips into the pot.
Chandler couldn't resist: "Behold—Roger the all-seeing. Hey, Doc, can you diagnose my urge to use these chips as projectiles?"
Roger turned, smile razor-sharp. "Chandler, humor as defensive aggression. You either have a strong hand or feel threatened by the dynamic here. Your right lip corner twitched—classic tell for concealment. You're holding strong cards but don't want anyone to know, right?"
Chandler's retort died; Roger pressed deeper: "Using jokes to maintain emotional distance—textbook defense mechanism. Did humor become your shield during childhood trauma? Divorced parents? Did laughter become your only armor?"
Color drained from Chandler's face; every quip evaporated. He opened his mouth, found no words, then stared at his cards, fingers picking at the edge, like a balloon slowly deflating.
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