Playing to Win

by Laura Carter

  I was a fool to think I could fall in love with someone after two weeks, that she would love me back, and that any of it would be enough to erase eighteen years of pain. I was an idiot to think Izzy isn’t just another rich girl.

  “We’ll meet you in there,” Izzy says. “I just need to speak with Brooks.”

  I open my eyes to see her folks walking to the limo. Her mother has on a cream-colored suit. Her blond hair is perfectly styled into a roll at the back. Pearls decorate her neck and ears. Even her goddamn shiny shoes look expensive.

  “Brooks.” Izzy’s hair falls in waves across her shoulders. I love seeing her with her hair down. She has on a peach-pink dress that sits off her shoulders, hugs her slender waist, and finishes below the knee. Her high heels make her entire body taller and straighter. What looks like a diamond bracelet sparkles on her delicate wrist. Her nails are painted to match the dress. She looks incredible and out of reach, all at once.

  “You look beautiful.”

  Her smile is soft and doesn’t shape the rest of her face. “You look good in a suit.”

  Men in suits. That’s what she’s used to. It’s not me. I’m just the mechanic who got lucky when Crazy Joe left a little pot of cash to me and I started a gym. The kid with no direction and no money is still inside me. The kid who got his girlfriend knocked up at sixteen is right here. The man who has an adult daughter and no fucking clue how to move on with his life is hiding behind the suit she likes.

  “Brooks, what my mother said…”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine, Izzy. I get it.”

  “You mean so much to me, Brooks.”

  “Just not as much as credit cards and a nice apartment.”

  “That is unfair!”

  “Is it? You and I are very different people, Isabella.”

  “You’re being a dick.”

  I push off the wall so we’re standing face-to-face. “No, I’m being a realist. You come from money and you like money and wealthy circles. I’m just a small-town guy lifting weights in the city.”

  “You know I don’t think that.”

  “Well, you sure as hell didn’t tell your mother any different, did you?”

  She exhales tightly and heavily, shaking her head. “Well, you didn’t manage to tell me that you aren’t still in love with your ex. I guess we both have shit to figure out before we hurt each other.”

  It’s way too late for that. We stare at each other for seconds that feel like an eternity. I wish I could take her in my arms. I wish we could go back to the gym and bicker about the Charleston. I wish we could stay in bed, just the two of us, where we make sense. But that isn’t real life. Real life grinds you down and tears you apart.

  “We should go. We’ll be late,” I tell her.

  She looks to the ground, not meeting my eye again as she walks to the limousine.

  * * * *

  When we arrive at the studio, Izzy and I are met in the lobby of the high-rise by Kerry. In her usual stylish way, she’s in heels, pencil skirt, and blouse. Her shoes make a clicking sound against the marble floor as she comes toward us. “Wow, did someone die? You two are going to have to cheer up, at least for an hour. Brooks, I thought we agreed you would wear a tie?”

  “I’m in a suit, aren’t I?”

  I hear Izzy’s mother tut behind my back and feel Izzy tense at the sound. Her mother hardly spoke two words to me on the ride over. Her father asked a few questions and made small talk about the city. I can tell neither of them have an interest in getting to know me and I’m certain my life wouldn’t be incomplete if they weren’t in it. But I was polite, for Izzy’s sake.

  “True. It beats sneakers and running shorts. Follow me. We’ll go up to AMTV’s floor. Makeup might want to see you, and then there’s a breakfast buffet.” As we reach the elevators, one of six opens and Kerry leads us inside. “I’m sure you can fight over what you can and can’t eat.”

  Kerry leads Izzy’s parents to some place in the studio, where viewers are permitted to stand behind the cameras. Izzy and I are brushed and fussed over by the makeup team—not something I take kindly to—then a studio runner leads us to the breakfast room.

  Two guests of the show are already inside the small room, sitting on a red sofa and talking about their upcoming political segment. We have short introductions; then they get back to discussing the latest Senate scandal. Two flat-screens on the walls show AMTV in real time. The clock in the corner of the screen tells me it is eight fifty. Izzy and I are on at nine fifteen.

  I watch the show for a few minutes, then move to Izzy’s side as she scours the breakfast buffet. Pastries. Muffins. Cream cheese bagels. “I’m guessing I can’t have any of this?”

  She looks up at me quickly, I think surprised that I’ve broken our silence. “You can have fruit,” she says, gesturing to the far end of the spread.

  “Why don’t you go for half a cream cheese bagel and add some of that smoked salmon,” I tell her. I hate that we are speaking to each other like robots. But I don’t think there’s anything meaningful left to say. That thought alone has me rubbing a fist against the lingering ache in my chest. My worry is, like the DOMS—delayed onset muscle soreness—this pain is only going to get worse tomorrow.

  We plate our breakfast and each take a bottle of sparkling water from the minifridge. We stand to eat. Izzy picks at her bagel, her gaze focused on her plate the entire time.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask.

  She finally looks at me. “We are still going to say what we agreed, aren’t we?”

  I should have known she would be less bothered about what is happening between us and more concerned about her public appearance. “Yes, Izzy.”

  “Please don’t be like that.”

  The runner is back. “Ms. Coulthard, Mr. Adams. Can you follow me, please?”

  We do, relieved—at least for my part—to be spared another discussion about how we just aren’t compatible. The guy leads us to the edge of the studio, where we are wired up with microphones. Two presenters are sitting on a cream-colored sofa.

  “All right, guys, you’re up. Take a seat on the sofa here opposite Marcha and Aaron.” We briefly shake hands with the presenters and take a seat opposite them. We both shuffle, crossing and uncrossing our legs, sitting taller, then more relaxed. Izzy settles for crossed legs and I settle for parted knees.

  I glance around at the cameras and lights on us. I read the autocue, set up for Marcha’s first line after the weather segment that is currently airing. I’m nervous as hell and way out of my comfort zone.

  Izzy’s hand comes down on my thigh, stealing my attention. “You’ll be great,” she says.

  I lock my fingers in hers and squeeze her hand, grateful to have her next to me, letting her know I’m here with her too.

  The moment is gone and we part our hands when Marcha welcomes back viewers.

  “Next up, we have Brooks Adams and Izzy Coulthard on the sofa. Brooks, you are the owner of the gym Brooks Adams and a renowned trainer here in the city. Izzy, you are visiting from the UK to promote your book, Be Green. Be Clean. Now, to help any viewers who haven’t followed the story, you two have slightly different approaches to health and fitness. That’s fair to say, I think. Brooks, why don’t you start by telling us about your methods?”

  My nerves are back with a vengeance. Remembering Madge’s advice, I try to imagine this is just four people chatting on two sofas in a private living room. “My method really revolves around the idea that no one size fits all.” I feel my voice strengthen as my heartbeat calms. “I believe a plan for exercise and nutrition advice should be tailored to each client. As a starting point, I would include cardiovascular and muscular training. I would include healthy carbohydrates and proteins. But the rest depends on what the client wants to achieve. They could be training to run a marathon, for example, or they might want to
increase muscle mass.”

  “Interesting. So, for you, Izzy’s method of dancing and structured detox recipes would be incorrect?”

  Izzy fidgets uncomfortably beside me. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Incorrect is not the term I would use. For some people, dancing as exercise and going green, detoxing, would be a fine way to achieve their goals.”

  “But it wouldn’t work for everyone?”

  I glance at Izzy, conscious that I don’t want to say or do the wrong thing. She doesn’t deserve that. “In my opinion, it wouldn’t work for everyone, no. But I will say, I feel good after following her plan for two weeks. There are some things I will take away and continue to do.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, I feel cleaner and leaner. I’ll continue to include detox shakes and superfoods along with my regular diet.”

  “Will you still do the Charleston as exercise?”

  I don’t feel like it, but I recognize that I should laugh with Marcha, Izzy, and Aaron, so I do. “I don’t think the Charleston will be one of the things that stays.”

  Laughter seems to have suited Izzy. She appears to relax a little.

  “So, Izzy,” Marcha begins. “How did you feel following Brooks’s plan?”

  She glances at me and smiles. I don’t know if it’s genuine. “Honestly, I hated it initially. I felt like I was eating a lot more than usual. I missed dancing and disliked the regimented approach to exercise. But now, I feel great. I’ve actually gained weight but not body fat, which means it is all strength and toning. I feel better for it, physically and mentally. So, I do recognize that advice should be tailored. I stand by Salsa Yourself Slim and clean eating. I also appreciate that if you want to build muscle, or really enhance your cardiovascular fitness, introducing weights and interval training could be beneficial.”

  Marcha leans forward across her knees and presses her hands together. “This is interesting. For viewers who don’t know, Izzy and Brooks’s relationship has been dubbed ‘love, hate, salsa, and weights’ by some reporters. Which I love, by the way. Very catchy. But what I’m seeing here is definitely more reconciliatory. So, tell us, are the rumors true? Has this competition led to a blossoming romance?”

  Izzy and I look at each other. What the hell kind of question is that? I glance at the cameras and see Izzy’s parents looking on, worry lacing her mother’s expression.

  “We’ve certainly come to respect each other,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “I’m sure we’ll stay friends after this and continue to give each other grief about weight training and salsa dancing.”

  Marcha laughs and pats Aaron on the arm. I keep my gaze on the coffee table between the sofas. “What about a collaboration? Are we likely to see a salsa and weights book being released next?”

  I open my mouth to speak but Izzy beats me to it. “We both have things to work on as individuals. A collaboration is highly unlikely. Plus, I’m not sure I could stand more than two weeks of Brooks Adams. I like designer handbags and kale. Brooks hates extravagance and enjoys burgers.”

  I look at her now. Though a fake smile is planted on her face, I don’t misunderstand one word she said. She’s acting like the Izzy she was two weeks ago, not the Izzy she wants to be. The fact is, she is going back to the Izzy of two weeks ago, and she isn’t putting up any fight.

  Whatever we were or might have been, we’re done.

  “Well, we think you both look great, and that you would look great together, don’t we, Aaron?”

  “We sure do, Marcha.” He turns to the camera. “You can find the results of Brooks and Izzy’s competition on our Web page. Next, we have Nigel Anderson discussing his new sitcom Anything Goes.”

  After dewiring, I chase Izzy along the corridor to the elevators. Her parents are already waiting on the landing. “Izzy, can we talk?”

  She spins on her heels to look at me. “There’s no need, Brooks. I got the message, loud and clear. You’re right. We are two very different people. I have no clue what I’m going to do with my life. You have a business, Cady, and Alice in Wonderland. I’m supposed to move in circles with skinny, wealthy people and you like grungy karaoke bars. I want to be number one to someone. You already have a number one in your life. I’m not even mature enough to be able to accept that. We have nothing in common. This would never have worked. I’m a fool for thinking it could have.”

  The elevator doors open and she steps inside. I don’t follow.

  * * * *

  I decide to walk from the studio, knowing it is miles from home. I don’t care. I take off my suit jacket and hold it over my shoulder, my other hand in my pants pocket, as the sun beats down on me. After a while, I reach my street but I keep walking. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t need to see Izzy packing to leave. I don’t need to know she’s only two doors away from me but will be gone by tomorrow.

  My goddamn shoes start blistering my feet but I keep walking, all the while remembering why I prefer to wear sneakers. Without realizing, I find myself in Central Park. I sit on a bench, alone, watching families and tourists smile and laugh, watching Rollerbladers and runners zip by me.

  She’s right. We are two very different people. But I don’t believe what she said about social circles and handbags. She hates those people. She’s so much better than those people. They put her down, made her feel like shit. And we do have things in common, so much. Music, movies, sports, exercise. She challenges me. I thought I hated that at first; then I realized she makes me feel alive.

  But she does deserve to be someone’s number one and right now, I can’t figure out how to make room for her. She isn’t just talking about Cady; she’s talking about all the other shit inside me. I’m lost. I’ve been lost for eighteen years because I’ve been so focused on Alice. Every move I’ve made, every thought I’ve had, Alice has been in there somewhere. Alice. Alice who broke my heart.

  Sitting here, I see the difference between Alice and Izzy. I feel it. Izzy has caused a different kind of hurt. Not deeper or more painful, just different.

  But it ended the same. She’ll go back to the life she hates, with her parents telling her who she can and can’t date.

  This time, I won’t just accept it. Things are going to change.

  Chapter 29

  izzy

  Day 15.

  “Are you ready?” Dad asks from the doorway of the bedroom, where I’m zipping up my suitcase.

  “Yeah. Would you do me a favor and meet me downstairs?”

  I need some time alone and though I know he feels the same way as my mother—that I’m better off without Brooks in my life—he can at least see that I’m hurting.

  “We’ll see you down there.”

  When I hear the door of the apartment close, I drag my luggage into the living room and sit on the sofa one last time. I rub the cushion next to me, remembering where we made love. I look at the TV, remembering how we talked for hours about movies. I turn to face the kitchen and picture us making eggs and smoothies together. I smile at the thought of the first time he came over because he was worried I would cremate a good steak.

  God, I’ll miss him.

  Summoning strength I don’t feel, I pull my suitcases out to the hallway, closing the door behind me for the last time. Who would have thought I’d come to New York to promote a book and end up finding the only man I have ever loved? Who could have guessed that man would be Brooks Adams?

  I drag my suitcases past his door, pausing, remembering how he wouldn’t let me go in the first time we came here, wondering if he’s in there or if he is already at the gym. Wondering whether he went right back to having eggs for breakfast. Wanting so much to go and make his breakfast for him.

  I move on, as I know I have to do, making my way down the hall. Suddenly, my cases become lighter and leave my hands. My stomach sinks.

  “Brooks.”

&
nbsp; “I’ll help you down.”

  I don’t know what I expected him to say. There are so many things unsaid between us, yet nothing to be said. We know how this ends.

  “Thank you.”

  He carries my luggage to the elevator and we ride in silence. Outside, my parents are waiting in a black Cadillac.

  Brooks hands the cases to the driver. Now, there is nothing between us except heavy, silent air. He reaches out for my cheek, the way he does, and I lean into his palm, closing my eyes, wishing I could bottle his touch and always have it with me.

  He steps closer to me, his hand on the small of my back. I give in to the temptation to touch him and wrap my arms around his waist.

  He drops his forehead to mine. Finally, I open my eyes and find his gaze. “What would you have said if I had asked you to stay?” he asks, a tremor in his voice.

  “I have promotional stuff to do in London. I have to go.”

  He presses his nose to mine and I smell fresh mint on his breath. “What if I had asked you to come back, so I could take you to dinner? Or to let me come to England?”

  I take a breath, hating what I’m about to say, but knowing the truth. “I would have said, I wish that were the right thing to do. But we both know it isn’t.”

  His lips gently graze the tip of my nose and my body dissolves into his.

  “The only part I wish we could change is the ending,” he says. God, he has no idea how much I want that to be possible. “And maybe the Charleston.”

  I laugh as much as my heart will let me and feel his chest shudder as he pulls me tight against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, his hand in my hair.

  “Izzy, darling, we have to go,” my father says, leaning out of the car door, then moving back inside.