Her posture screamed strength, and from the three orbits I’d watched her play, I knew she was the kind of stubborn, decent, player that knew the relative strength of starting hands, but didn’t quite have the experience to know when her premium pairs were cracked. If she had aces, or ace-king, I just might be able to get her to push all-in later in the hand if I appealed to her ego.
I took a second to study her. I needed to know if she had just ace-king, or if she was holding the bullets—pocket aces. If I paused just enough, but not too long, I could represent weakness-trying-to-feign-strength, to camouflage my monster hand.
She seemed to have forgotten that I could still see her from behind my sunglasses. A hint of a smile peeked out from underneath her ball cap, and she was still giving me the staredown. After a few seconds, she casually took a swig from her water bottle, and looked away from the table. The motion was deliberately casual, too casual, and right out of Mike Caro’s Book of Tells.