Playing to Win

by Laura Carter

  Jake holds up two hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I’m on your side, Brooks. But I’ve got to tell you, if it’s a choice, I’d prefer to wake up to her body than yours.”

  “Jesus. Can we get back to talking football instead of you thinking about being naked in fucking bed with me?”

  He doesn’t talk football. He starts talking baseball. With one ear focused on him, my eyes find the blond dancer on the large screen again. Yeah, I’d take her body over mine too.

  Three beers, a win for the Jets, and a bout of meat sweats later, I let us into my apartment. I flick on the standing lamp in the living room and draw the curtains closed across the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  I gesture to the sports bag slung across Jake’s shoulder. “You can take Cady’s room.”

  “How is the little mite these days?”

  I fill two glasses of water from the refrigerator filter and hand one to him. “Imagine yourself at eighteen, then give it female parts and a pretty face.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly. Listen, I’m going to hit the sack. I’ve got a full day at the gym tomorrow. There isn’t a TV in Cady’s room but make yourself comfortable out here as long as you like.”

  * * * *

  I know I’m dreaming. I know that I’m not actually working out on the shoulder press in my gym, that I’m actually lying in my bed, sleeping. But it feels real enough for me to keep going. As I’m finishing up my final set of reps, the heavy fire doors to the main floor of the gym blow open, as if they weigh nothing. I raise a hand to shield my eyes as a bright light beams through the doorway, like rays refracted through a shard of glass. Through the intense light walks a blond woman. Her hair is tied back. She wears tight purple yoga pants and a blue sports bra, displaying every fine inch of her body. I recognize her from TV.

  I get off the machine. The gym is full but the blonde is focused solely on me. She glides toward me, her feet barely touching the ground. Damn, she’s pretty.

  I’m about to speak, to introduce myself, maybe tell her I’ve seen the commercials for her new book on TV, when she reaches me and places her finger across my lips.

  What the fuck is happening?

  I don’t care. I know I could wake up at any moment and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste this moment. She’s so fucking hot for me.

  I open my mouth quickly and take her finger between my teeth. Her eyes go wide and in her irises, I see flames. A hot, orange blaze.

  She leaps up and I catch her long, toned legs around my waist. I crash my mouth against hers and we ravish each other, tongues lapping, each swallowing the other’s groans in the middle of the packed gym.

  I carry her to the wall behind the hip-abductor machine and press her back to it, taking her weight with my body as she bites my bottom lip. I pull back from her to draw the zipper down the front of her bra and expose her pert tits.

  “Brooks,” she moans.

  Only, it isn’t her voice. I recognize that voice. I look up at her face. It’s no longer the woman from the commercial looking back at me. It’s… “Alice. God, I’ve wanted this for so long.” I close my eyes as I press my lips to hers, gently this time.

  “Me too, Brooks.”

  I pull back quickly as the voice shifts to a masculine one. I drop the lover who was a woman and who is now Jake on the floor.

  Holy fucking fuck!

  “I told you I preferred your body,” Dream Jake says.

  Wake up! Right the hell now!

  * * * *

  I sit up in bed, my face screwed tight with disgust. “What the fuck?” My whispered words are lost in the empty bedroom. The alarm on my bedside table tells me it is 3:57. “Christ.”

  I flop back against my pillows and rub my face. There’s no way in this freakin’ millennium I am going back to sleep and risking being in a lip-lock with Jake.

  I reach under my bed and pull out my Mac. Maybe I’ll look over the franchise stuff Drew sent to me.

  After twelve minutes of reading his high-level review points, I realize I don’t have the energy for this shit.

  Instead, I write an e-mail to the guys, asking them if they want to get an ice hockey game going soon.

  Chapter 5

  Brooks

  “That’s twenty. Nice job.” As I take the weight of the bar my client is using for bench presses and lift it onto the rack, he brings himself upright and wipes his forehead. I note for my record the increase in his weights this session. “How are you feeling?”

  He drinks from his sports bottle. “I’ve never felt in better shape in my life.”

  I drop a hand to his shoulder. “Let’s move on to dead lifts in that case.”

  We’re on the mezzanine floor of the gym, looking down over the cardio machines, as I set up Rick’s weights and get him started on his reps, always keeping one eye on his form.

  “Brooks, you got a second?”

  I turn to see Charlie, my floor manager, coming toward me in chinos and a blazer. It’s her day for dealing with corporate membership renewals so she isn’t in her usual sports gear.

  I tell my client to keep going, then say to Charlie, “Sure, what’s up?”

  Charlie leans closer and lowers her voice to little more than a whisper. “I’ve got a crazy-ass publicist and a mini-celeb in reception. They’re kicking up a stink because I’ve said they can’t come into the gym without a membership. They demanded to see you. Said they tried calling before they turned up. I wouldn’t bother you with it, but they’re causing a scene in front of the bistro and it’s full down there.”

  I can’t help my sigh. It’s always the wannabe celebs who think they have some kind of God-given right to work out here. “You’ve told them we don’t do special treatment here?”

  “Only ten times. I could shoot for the eleventh.”

  “Tell them to take a seat and calm the hell down. I’m not cutting my session short but we’ll be done here in five. I’ll come down then.”

  “Thanks, Brooks.”

  As she walks away, I tell my client to rest between sets. Then I call back to Charlie. “Who is this person, anyway?”

  She stops and glances down at the clipboard in her hand. “Izzy Coulthard. That Salsa Yourself Slim woman from the TV commercials.”

  * * * *

  Despite the liveliness of the bistro, as soon as I walk through the double doors to the reception area, my attention is drawn to two women wearing stubborn pouts and sitting on the leather sofas next to the front desk.

  Charlie tells them, “Here’s my boss now,” and they stand to face me.

  The brunette, whom I take to be the mouthy publicist, is standing on too-high heels, hands on her hips, her nails coated in bright pink polish. She’s striking, yet my eyes flick over her and land on the blonde I recognize from TV. Izzy Coulthard. And good-fucking-God, she’s even hotter in person. The TV did nothing to show that her slim figure, toned as it is, has all the right curves in all the right places. Her purple yoga leggings from the cover of her book have been replaced by jazzy blue print leggings, which she wears with a hot-pink running top. Her hair is tied into an immaculate ponytail, not one wisp out of place. And, oddly, given she is asking to work out, her face is full of makeup. A serious instructor would not work out in a full face of makeup.

  I cross to the desk. “Ladies, how can I help you?”

  An awkward silence ensues while I stand in front of them, my arms folded across my chest. I look from Izzy to the publicist. Waiting. The publicist opens and closes her mouth without speaking; then slowly, as her gaze runs from my head across my folded arms, she reaches out a hand for me to shake. Is she ogling me?

  I take her hand in a short shake. As if the move snaps her out of a trance, she speaks loudly and quickly. “Finally, someone with some authority around here.”

  “Excuse me?”

&nbs
p; She flicks her bobbed hair from her eyes and flashes me a flirty smile. “Well, I was explaining to this woman, your receptionist, that this is Izzy Coulthard. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you that Izzy is here on a promotional tour for her new, highly anticipated fitness book.”

  I stare at her blankly, as if I’ve never seen the stunning blonde by my side on TV.

  She continues to speak. “I’m her publicist, Kerry. Izzy wanted to check out the gym to see if we could…”

  I tune her out as my attention shifts back to Izzy. The woman from my hot-as-hell dream. The woman who morphed from herself to Alice and finally to Jake.

  Christ. My body shudders as I remember that nightmare.

  From the parting of her lips and the widening of her eyes, I’d say Izzy just picked up on my not-so-subtle revulsion, and she is 100 percent affronted. I could fix that easily. I could explain that I’m not shaking off the thought of banging her in my dream but the thought of getting jiggy with Jake.

  Of course, that won’t put an end to the incessant ranting of the ignorant publicist who is still talking at me.

  “…I tried to explain to your receptionist that it would be good marketing for the gym if Izzy were to be seen working out here, and—”

  I dart my focus back to Kerry and hold up a hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Kerry, but we don’t have the capacity for walk-ins. I have a full members list.”

  She tuts. Actually tuts at me. “This is Izzy Coulthard.”

  “Sweetheart, she could be Angelina Jolie. I don’t bow to status or threats from publicists. And, for the record, Charlie is my floor manager, not a receptionist. And if there were any chance of me letting Izzy work out in my gym today, insulting my staff is the last thing you should be doing.”

  I resume my folded arm position and glare at Kerry until she looks away.

  “Look, we didn’t mean to cause an upset.” Izzy speaks with a British accent. A cute British accent. She glances around the space and the people in the bistro who have gone quiet and are watching our show. When I look at her this time, I notice a small dimple in the center of her chin, and the amazing brightness of her blue eyes. “I just want to work out.”

  Don’t be lured in by it, Brooks. She’s just another jumped-up wannabe, whether you’ve fantasized about tapping her or not.

  “Do you run?” I ask, before images of her legs wrapped around my waist can penetrate my thoughts. At least I tried to stop them from doing that.

  “Ah, yes, I run.”

  “Well, since you’re dressed for it, I’ll do you a favor.” I incline my head toward the neon blue sports bag on the floor by the sofa and exhale sharply through my nose as I realize it is a high-end designer label and probably cost my month’s rent. “You can leave your gym bag in a locker here and go for a run. When you leave the gym, run eight blocks to the left. You’ll be in Central Park.”

  For the second time, her lips part. This time, her mouth opens wider. On looks alone, I’d be tempted to consider what she could fit in there.

  “Are you shitting me?” Kerry chides.

  I shrug. “The offer’s there. Take it or leave it.”

  Kerry puts a hand on my arm, a move I think is intended to be aggressive, or powerful, who knows? “But I called and told y—”

  “I picked up your voice messages before I came down here. All three of them. The first asked if you could come here today. The second gave me an hour to respond. The third said you were on your way.” I take her hand from my arm. “I don’t take kindly to people telling me what to do with my gym, Kerry. Try advance notice and a polite request next time.” I turn to Izzy, who still looks a little astonished. “If you want to borrow a locker, Charlie will fix you up.”

  With that, I turn my back on them. Before I reach the double doors, I glance back at Izzy. “Hey, none of my business, but if you want that book to sell, you might want to reconsider your choice of publicist.”

  I let the doors close behind me and smirk all the way up the stairs. Who the hell does she think she is?

  * * * *

  Back in my office, my smirk disappears and it’s easier to tell my hackles are standing up. That attitude. Rude to my staff. Rude to me. Rude about my gym. And all in front of customers.

  Without realizing, I’ve started pacing the floor, my usual calm shot. I thought Brits were supposed to be all “pleases” and “thank-yous” and “queues.” Not hoity-toity divas.

  I rub a hand roughly across my short beard and crack my neck. Shake it off, Brooksie. Shake it off.

  Taking a bottle of sparkling water from my minifridge, I sink into my desk chair and lean back into the padding as I drain the bottle, enjoying the cool, calming effect of the liquid. I fire the empty into the trash can in the corner of the room and stare at my desktop screen saver. A picture of Cady is swirling around the otherwise black monitor.

  I don’t know why I do it—morbid fascination maybe. I wiggle the mouse, type in my password, and open the Internet browser. I only type “Izzy C” before Google offers me her full name.

  Hitting Return brings up multiple images of Izzy Coulthard, a.k.a. Brit with a stinking attitude. I click on Images and the screen fills with pictures of her. Mostly she’s dressed in sports gear. Tight fitting and brightly colored. Her hair is always tied in a high ponytail, as slick as it was today. Her arms are toned, even though her skin is pale in every image. Her face is flawless, yet not made up. She looks better without all the makeup she was wearing today. More natural. Like a real fitness instructor. I wonder why she was wearing makeup today—it surely wasn’t to mask a lack of confidence.

  In all the shots, she’s working out or looking at the camera, straight faced. Figures. I’ve spent minutes in her company and can’t imagine her smiling.

  As I scroll down, the images keep loading. Finally, one picture makes me pause. I click it to zoom and take her in. Her head is thrown back, her mouth is open, her perfect teeth are on display. She’s laughing, hard. It lights up her eyes—the brightest, bluest eyes I’ve seen. Her dainty hands are wrapped across her waist.

  I rest back in my chair and take in the image. Everything about her. I’m still staring when my cell phone rings, stealing my attention.

  The name on the screen causes me to do a double take. It’s surprising it hasn’t gone to voice mail by the time I slide my thumb across the screen and put the phone to my ear.

  “Alice. Hi.”

  She clears her throat. Good, this is awkward for us both, then. “Hi, Brooks. How are you?”

  I shrug, not that she can see me. “I’m fine. You?”

  “Mmm-hmm, good.” Cue uncomfortable pause. Hey, I didn’t make the call—it’s not on me. “Well, I mean, I’m good generally. You, ah, I guess Cady told you I’m pregnant?”

  “Right, yeah, she mentioned it. Congratulations…by the way.”

  Did she just snort? “Thanks. So, that’s not actually… I’m calling about Cady.”

  “Of course, right.”

  “Brooks, I don’t know what to do with her. I’m going out of my mind. She’s got this older boyfriend, a college guy. She didn’t come home on Saturday night. She called and said she was staying with a friend but I saw her friend’s mom yesterday and she said they didn’t stay there. Cady stank like a brewery when she finally did come home.”

  I take a breath. Part of me thinks Cady’s just being an eighteen-year-old kid. The other half of me wants to wrap her up in cotton, so I get where Alice is coming from. “I’ll talk with her. I spoke to her on Saturday but I’ll try again.”

  Alice sighs. “Brooks…I… How would you feel about her coming to stay with you full-time? Just for a while. I can’t. I mean, I’m pregnant and…”

  I feel my brow scrunch. She wants to kick out my daughter? “Are you kidding me?”

  “I just think she’d be better off—”
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br />   I scoff, feeling my blood boil in my veins. “She’s a kid, Alice. She might give it the tough eighteen-year-old routine but she’s just a kid.”

  “She’s your goddamn kid too, Brooks.”

  “Hey, calm down. You know I’d have her with me twenty-four/seven if I thought it was the best thing for her, so drop the attitude. Maybe ask yourself why she’s acting out now, of all times. She feels pushed out. You’re pregnant. She needs to know she’s still your girl, Alice.”

  The line goes silent and I know she’ll have her fingertips pressed to her soft lips, her eyes closed. “I just don’t want her to…”

  “Make the same mistakes as you did. I know.” What she doesn’t know is that those words hit me like bullets to my chest, blazing through me, breaking bones, burning a hole in my heart, piercing my lungs, and making it hard to breathe.

  She blows out slowly but heavily, as if through pursed lips. “You always could read people, couldn’t you?”

  Nostalgia Lane? Really? That’s not my address.

  Suddenly uncomfortable in my seat, I stand and move to the window, looking out over the city. “I’ll talk to her. Just try to include her. Maybe set up a girls’ day. I’m sure she could use a woman to talk to. You set something up and I’ll pay for Cady. Don’t push her out, okay? Don’t make her feel like she isn’t welcome in your home.”

  “You know she is. Of course she is.”

  “I know that. Just make sure she knows it.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Brooks. It’s good to talk to you about her. You know, when I try to talk to Richard he—”

  Richard. We’re going to talk about the latest husband? “I’ve got to go, Alice. If you need me for anything to do with Cady, you know how to find me. Anything at all.”

  “Oh, yeah, ’course.”