Playing to Win

by Laura Carter

  She swallows and runs her tongue over her lip, confirming what I have already worked out. She pushes my chest and storms out of the gym, leaving the reporters gaping. I follow her to the women’s changing rooms, where she knows I can’t follow. At the door, another woman comes out with her sports bag over her shoulder. “Is there anyone else in there?” I ask.

  “Someone just came in. Just one.”

  I nod because I can’t believe what I’m about to do. But I can’t take this anymore. I can’t hate her and be pent up with frustration because I want her all the damn time.

  I pause, my hand on the door, knowing that if I go in there, this can only end one way. I push through the door and lock it behind me. I move through the changing area to the shower cubicles.

  One shower is running. I lock the door out to the pool, kick off my cross trainers, pull my shirt over my head, and ditch it with my phone. Then I walk toward what has been stuck in my head for days.

  “Izzy.”

  She doesn’t speak, but the cubicle lock is pulled back. I nudge open the door to see her naked, standing beneath the hot steam of the shower.

  We stay in the moment, both breathing heavily, both staring at each other.

  “Yes, I’m jealous,” she croaks. “I hate myself for it but I am.”

  Whether it’s the admission, or the water running down the smooth curves of her body, I’m done for. I step into the shower and lift her legs around my waist, pressing her back to the wall. She takes hold of my face and crashes her mouth against mine.

  Kissing her is like an inferno. The slip of her tongue. Her soft, plump lip between my teeth. It sets off a blaze that I feel in every part of my body. It travels my limbs and explodes like a firestorm in my chest.

  I lose myself in her; in lust, desire, desperation. The energy I’ve been missing for days is here now, taking her weight as I rid myself of my sports shorts. My erection springs up between us. Under the lube of the water, it rests between the lips of her bare pussy and glides between her folds as she writhes in my arms.

  She groans into my mouth and pulls hard on my hair. It’s a crazy mix of desire and pain. That’s exactly how I feel. Conflicted. I’ve never wanted someone so much at the same time alarm bells scream in my mind to stay away.

  I take my mouth from her lips to her earlobe, nipping the soft flesh. Water runs between us and clouds my eyes as I move my mouth down her neck, along the thin skin of her collarbone.

  “Brooks, do it. Take me. Let me feel you.”

  I raise my head at her vulnerability, her breathless begging. Her sass is gone and she’s just here, with me, stunning, wanting this as much as I do.

  I hoist her higher and position myself under her. My eyes close as the tip of my cock finds her. In my darkness, I come to my senses a little.

  “Fuck, Izzy, I don’t have anything.”

  She leans forward and bites my pec, her teeth digging into my skin. “I’m on birth control and I’m clean.”

  I break the contact of our upper bodies and drop my head back in frustration. “I can’t.”

  “What?”

  I lower her legs to the floor and run a hand over my wet face, trying to think with my head and not my hard-on. “You have no idea how much I want to, Izzy, but I can’t.”

  “I just told you.”

  “I know. And I’m clean too. I just can’t, Izzy. It’s double or nothing for me when it comes to this stuff.”

  She turns off the shower, but her eyes still fill with water. I’ve hurt her. Or embarrassed her. Either way, I’m so fucking sorry. But, I tell her again, “I just can’t.”

  She barges past me, leaving me standing alone in the cubicle. Fuck.

  When I leave the shower, I find my wet shorts and pull them on before unlocking the door to the pool. The energy I had moments ago is gone. I retrieve my T-shirt and pull it over my head as I move into the main changing area.

  Izzy is already half-dressed. I stand at a distance behind her, afraid to move closer. “Izzy…” I have no idea what to say to her.

  She meets my eyes through the mirror, then turns her back on me. Outside the changing room, there’s no sign of the reporters. I trudge up to my office and change into dry jeans and a clean T-shirt. I don’t care what time it is; I’m done. What the fuck was I thinking?

  In reception, I tell Charlie, “I’m going home.”

  Her brows scrunch as she checks her watch. “Is everything okay, boss?”

  Her words fall on my back as I leave. I walk home via the convenience store and pick up what I need for one of Izzy’s salads.

  It was the right thing to do, I tell myself. Since Cady, I’ve been careful with every woman. I’ve always had backup contraception. Her covered, me covered. The one time I didn’t do that was eighteen years ago. That didn’t work out so well.

  But the look on Izzy’s face. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget it.

  Hours after the shower incident, I’m eating my salad alone on my sofa with my guitar next to me. It dawns on me that I miss her. As crazy as it sounds, I even miss arguing with her. I wonder if there’s any part of her that’s missing me too.

  Chapter 18

  brooks

  Day 4.

  Rather than eating breakfast alone, I have Angie rustle up my green shake this morning in the bistro. There is no sign of Izzy all morning. I keep checking between my PT sessions, and when I have half an hour to myself, I find myself sitting at my desk, staring at the empty chair next to me.

  At lunchtime, Angie makes me a garden salad and I eat on a stool, talking to her both for company and for distraction. I miss Izzy. I don’t know how or why but I do. You know the phrase I’ve missed you like a hole in the head? It’s supposed to mean, you wouldn’t miss a hole in your head, therefore you don’t miss the person you’re talking about, right? Well, suppose you did have a hole in your head. It’s painful as hell most of the time but one day it closes up. The ache is gone and it feels like something that has become a part of you has disappeared. That’s the only way I can make you understand the peculiar way I wish Izzy was here. I miss her like a hole in the head.

  At two thirty, the agreed-upon time for our Saturday salsa session, I head up to Studio A. The number of reporters is fewer by half today, no doubt because it’s the weekend. I have no idea whether Izzy will show, so I have no idea what to say to them. I just stand in the middle of the room, waiting. Feeling exposed and ridiculous.

  After five minutes of standing around, my legs seem to lose their energy and I sit on the floor in the middle of the room.

  “Where is she, Brooks?” Steve Sitwell asks.

  “I really don’t know, man. Sorry.”

  After ten minutes, I lie back on the wood floor, my knees bent. Two reporters leave. I don’t care. I just want to see her and say I’m sorry.

  When fifteen minutes have elapsed, my sympathy for her, my guilt because I kick-started our almost fuck and abandoned it midway, are gone. I stand up and turn to the remaining four reporters, or bloggers, or whoever they are. “Sorry, folks, I guess she couldn’t handle two weeks after all.”

  “Oh, wow! Sorry I’m late. There was an enormous sale in Prada.” Just then, Izzy walks in and dumps bag after bag of what look like shoe boxes and clothes in the corner of the room. She finally meets my eye and there is fire in her own. But not like the flames between us last night. No, these are satanic flames. “My apologies, Mr. Adams, I made a unilateral decision to change something we had already committed to.”

  I feel my eyes narrow. “That’s how you want to deal with this?”

  She clears her throat, her focus moving from pressing a remote control in the direction of the large projector screen back to me. “I’m sorry, this?”

  “Wow, you really do only know how to get your own way, don’t you? Screw doing the right thing.”

  She lets
out one angry laugh. “Screw. That’s funny. You don’t seem to screw much.” She dumps the remote and moves to the wall by her bags, leaning back with her arms folded across her chest. “I’ve decided you can dance the Charleston today, Mr. Adams.”

  I’m no dancer but I do know this is that ridiculous, freakin’, Gatsby-era dance.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  She turns on the fakest smile I have ever seen. “I most certainly am not.” Glancing at the reporters, she tells them, “You might want to get your cameras ready for this.” Then she hits Play.

  I take a breath that fills my lungs to the max and bite down hard on my cheeks. She wants me to dance the Charleston? I’ll fucking Charleston.

  After five minutes of on-screen Izzy—a much-improved version than the reality—I’ve got the two basic moves. Step and tap, back and tap. Stay on the toes. Swivel, swivel, swivel.

  It’s not so bad. I look like a fool but it’s just the feet that have to move. And it’s actually working up my heart rate. Screw you, Izzy Coulthard.

  On-screen Izzy steals my attention. “Now, we’re going to introduce the hands, like this, side to side.” I growl under my breath. I am starting to look like a bigger fool now with twinkle fingers. “And the last thing we’ll add is a subtle wag of the head, like this. Let’s put it all together to music.”

  “I’m not wagging my head,” I snarl at the real-life Izzy.

  “Oh, but Mr. Adams, it’s all part of the deal. Unless, of course, you can’t keep up with my plan?”

  Fuck you. Fuck you so fucking hard. “Fine.”

  The music starts and I’m like a dancing goddamn bear on cocaine in the 1920s. I just need a striped suit, a twirling mustache, and a cigar.

  Blanking out the snorts and laughter of the reporters behind me, I dance to the end of the music. Then I make a quick exit from the room, but not before coming to a stop, face-to-face with the devil. “You think that’s funny, Izzy? Making a bigger dick of me than I already look?”

  “From what I saw last night, you weren’t a big dick at all.”

  I curl my fingers into a claw, fighting the urge to wrap them around her neck, and ram the side of my fist into the studio door to open it.

  Thirty minutes later, Izzy is wishing she never played hardball. I’ve increased her interval training in speed and length. I increase her weights and number of reps. To finish her off, I put her back on the treadmill at the end of our session and give her ten more minutes of sprint training.

  By the time she’s done, she hits Stop on the tread and rolls back off the belt. Her legs wobble beneath her as she tries to walk to the mats. “Stretch yourself,” I tell her, before retreating to my office, so fucking pleased that I stopped what almost happened between us in that shower.

  * * * *

  Sitting around two old whisky barrels in Rocky’s Sports Bar, I’m wedged between Madge and Sarah, both of them relentlessly asking questions about Izzy and me.

  “There’s really nothing happening?” Madge asks.

  “No. Like I said, the sooner this whole thing is done, the better.”

  Kit and Drew make their way over with their hands full of drinks for the five of us—Marty is out of town on business, and Becky and Edmond will be joining us after service at the restaurant has finished. They nudge past a few small groups of people standing around the dingy bar. It’s the type of place that fills with sports fans on Saturdays and Sundays. A place we can wear jeans and hear each other speak. Plus, there’s a karaoke bar on the basement floor and Sarah likes to get in on that action when she’s had enough wine.

  Kit sets down a club soda and a bottle of beer in front of me, then steps back, holding out his hands as if to ask, What did I do? “Just in case the soda gets dull,” he says.

  “Don’t tempt me, man. This whole thing has got me wanting beer more than ever.”

  “And by whole thing, he means Izzy,” Sarah says, winking at me as she leans forward to take a handful of Bombay mix from a ramekin.

  “Is this going to go on all night?” I ask, sipping my club soda and leaning into the high-back stool.

  “We’ve all seen the pictures, Brooks,” Kit adds.

  “Whose fucking side are you on, man?”

  “His wife’s,” Madge says definitively, finishing with a swig of white wine for added effect.

  “Sorry, Brooks, but she controls my balls.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Hate to get in on this but those rumba photographs looked like pretty damning evidence to me,” Drew adds.

  I shake my head because I can’t fight all four of them. “Ah, fuck it.” I reach out for the bottle of beer. Before it reaches my lips, a familiar and unwelcome voice comes from over my shoulder.

  “Put that down right now, Brooks Adams.”

  I put the bottle down and drop my face into my hands, wondering whether I’m starting to hear her voice or whether the demon really is on my shoulder.

  “Izzy, we’re so glad you could make it,” Madge says.

  “Are we?” I ask from behind my hands.

  “Give Izzy your stool, Brooks. You can get another one.” I raise my head to Sarah and she giggles when I give her a look that says, Are you shitting me?

  She’s infiltrated my friends. My friends. I met this woman less than two weeks ago and she’s turned my life upside down. As the women start talking bags and shoes and giving out compliments like it’s Christmas, I get up from my stool, not looking at Izzy. I won’t spoil the get-together because she has turned up and her very presence pisses me off.

  There isn’t a spare stool in the bar so I head back to the barrel-cum-table empty handed. Since she’s in conversation with Drew, I see no harm in finally looking at Izzy. Her blond hair is down, not in her usual ponytail. As she talks, she pulls it across one shoulder. The ends fall across her chest and between her breasts, exposed by the scoop neck of the expensive-looking pearlescent tee she’s wearing with her jeans. She crosses her legs, and I get a look at her new Prada heels. For very different reasons from Madge and Sarah, I quite like those shoes.

  How could she ever have doubted whether she was slim enough or pretty enough at school?

  I start talking sports with the guys, and a group of men next to us join in as we talk football, somehow transitioning to Formula One. When it’s my round, I bring a tray of drinks back to the barrels. When I hand Izzy a club soda, I meet her eye for the first time. Her expression is cold. Heartless. The Izzy I met on the first day at the gym. She doesn’t even say thank you.

  I lean against the barrel and continue the sports chat, but my mind is not on the conversation and my gaze keeps flicking—without my say-so—to Izzy. More than once, I catch her looking back at me, wearing a scowl.

  By the time Becky and Edmond come into the bar, the others are already merrily on their fourth or fifth alcoholic drinks. I wish I were too, because the way Izzy’s ignoring me is starting to drive me crazy. Part of me wishes I could go back to that shower and finish the job.

  We move downstairs to the karaoke bar. Something seems to light up in Izzy as she walks down the steps to the basement, excitedly discussing what Sarah should sing. I walk behind her, ready to catch her in case she trips in those fuck-me heels. With the aid of the stair rail, she makes it safely down to the concrete shell, where the karaoke is already in full swing.

  The basement is dimly lit. The “stage” area for the budding karaoke stars is lit by eighties-style multicolored bulbs. It’s an awful place, but we’ve had some seriously good times in here. Two men in vests and shirts are onstage taking the parts of George Michael and Elton John as they slur-sing their way through “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.”

  We gather around one tall table. Sarah already has the songbook and she’s looking through it with Izzy.

  “Another Brit to keep me company,” Bec
ky says, leaning toward me but inclining her head to Izzy.

  “Not you too. She’s not a permanent feature.”

  Becky smiles, that cute dimpled smile she has. Drew drapes a lazy arm across her shoulder and kisses her cheek. “You giving my friend grief, baby?”

  “I’m just saying it’s nice to have another British infiltrator around here. I approve of the choice. She was really sweet when I met her in Barnes & Noble the other night. And it was kind of you to set that up for her.”

  I wiggle my head subtly. I don’t want Izzy to know I sent them. I don’t know whether I cut Becky off soon enough because when I glance at Izzy to check, she is as still as a statue, staring back at me.

  “What will you sing, Iz?” Sarah asks, stealing Izzy’s attention.

  With his free arm, Drew drops his hand to my shoulder. “Hate to tell you, buddy, but once Sarah has gotten involved, it’s a done deal.”

  “Can no one see that the woman is going to put me in a mental asylum?”

  This time, Izzy definitely overhears. She glowers at me before turning back to Sarah. “I’ve never done karaoke sober. It’s your night tonight.”

  “Or, we could remedy that,” Kit says, returning from the bar and planting a glass of wine in front of Izzy, then a beer in front of me.

  Damn, I want that beer. My eyes are fixed on Izzy’s. She wants it too. But she says, “I’m okay, thanks. I don’t really drink.”

  “Yeah, that’s why she has no friends,” I quip belligerently, knowing it will rile her.

  “That was a low blow, tit-face.”

  I pick up the bottle of beer and snort-laugh as I take a drink.

  “Ha! I knew you couldn’t stick it!” Izzy shouts so loud other heads twist to look at us.

  I remove the bottle from my lips and look at it like it picked itself up and climbed into my mouth. “Fuck!”

  Izzy laughs and starts doing some goofy dance on the spot. “I win!”

  “What the hell is that?”

  She stops dancing.

  Sarah lifts up the wineglass in front of Izzy and wafts it under her nose. “Why don’t you two call a truce and just have some fun with friends for tonight?”