Hate the Game

by Holly Hall

  I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. It was an interesting concept; happiness, which most people make their life’s mission to procure, being that simple. “You’re a walking motivational poster.”

  “It’s part of the job.”

  “As a gym owner?”

  “I train clients, too. And remember what I mentioned about nutrition? I do personalized meal plans for my clients. If I didn’t have the attitude to back up what I preach, I’d have failed a long time ago.”

  “Good for you, Theo Hartley,” I said. “I could use some help with that.”

  “You? You’re like bottled sunshine.”

  My eyebrows crumpled as I pondered that.

  “But”—Theo stood—“I’m around if you need me. And I’m open twenty-four hours a day.” He brought the copper mugs over to the sink and dumped them in the empty side.

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded once. “I should go. 4 a.m. comes early.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “See you around?”

  “Okay,” I said feebly.

  I didn’t know what was standard for our situation. Were we supposed to hug? We weren’t on that level of friendship, although hugs were becoming more and more impersonal. And if he did want a hug, I had water and soap up to my elbows; I’d soak his shirt.

  Now I was thinking how transparent his shirt would be if it were soaked with water.

  Theo made the decision for me and grabbed his drill off the counter, turning for the door. I felt like there might be more I could say, but what else was there other than a simple good-bye? I didn’t presume we’d be hanging out again, especially not anytime soon. We were like apples and oranges. Scratch that, we were more like . . . pears and filet mignon.

  He was halfway through the door when he paused and popped his head back into my line of vision. “Good night, Ava. Thank you for the day.”

  I waved, realizing too late I was splashing water on myself. “Night, Theo.”

  And then he was gone, and there was nothing but the warmth in my chest and the ghost of a smile I couldn’t quite fight off as evidence that he’d even been here at all.

  Chapter 7

  Theo

  Georgia moaned, her eyes rolling back in her head as she licked the juices from her lips.

  “Right?” I said, satisfied. “I mean, I don’t like to brag, but. . .”

  “No, you should brag. I give you permission.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, all manner of politeness gone. We’d known each other for about two years, the amount of time the gym had been open, so there was no need for pretense. “Damn. That was almost orgasmic.”

  I turned and busied myself with loading the dishwasher.

  “Sorry, sometimes I say the first thing that comes to mind. Professionalism and the fitness industry don’t always go hand in hand.”

  I laughed easily. “You’re not the only one.” Georgia was friendly and fun to hang out with, but that’s all we were—friends. I wasn’t her type. For one, I had a dick.

  “Really, you too?” She popped another bite of flank steak into her mouth.

  “No.” I inclined my head toward my front door and the hallway beyond. “You and my neighbor share that curse. Or maybe it’s a gift?”

  “Depends on the context.”

  “Where you mean to say those things, she doesn’t. It’s kind of hilarious.” I started the washer and hoisted myself onto the countertop. Almost a year since I’d moved in, and my place was still sparsely furnished. Quinn had bought everything for the apartment we’d had together, and even if she hadn’t, I didn’t stick around long enough to divide assets when everything went to shit.

  Walking in on your fiancée screwing her boss will do that to a guy.

  Anyway, my place was nothing like Ava’s. I grinned to myself thinking of how she’d put her personal, fancy-ass touch on every inch of her apartment. Everything she owned was gold or white, or maybe light pink, and everywhere you looked there were candles or plants or stacks of those thick decorative books women love. It was tiny, but it was homey. Which was more than I could say for the generic box I lived in.

  “Making friends with your neighbors finally?” Georgia said, interrupting my train of thought.

  “You could say that, though it wasn’t exactly planned. I just kinda ran into her.” It was half a lie, but she didn’t need to know the details.

  Georgia’s grin was wicked. “And she’s a lady friend. The plot thickens.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. The girl is terrified of me.”

  “You?” She snorted.

  “Yup. Though I think I got her out of her shell last night.”

  “Last night,” she echoed, although her tone was more suggestive.

  “Last night when I helped her fix her door.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Super.” I chuckled. “I’m out of practice.”

  Georgia stacked plastic containers filled with the flank steak we’d made and carried them to her backpack. Her bikini competition was coming up, so I saw her often at the gym, and now I was also helping her out with meal-prep. We were close without being that close. “You could ask her out,” she said from a crouch, packing her bag.

  “And have her spontaneously combust? Not on my watch.”

  “Wow. Who’s the cocky douche now?”

  “Still you.” I grinned. “And it’s not because of me specifically. I think maybe it’s just talking to dudes that makes her flustered. Just a theory.”

  “Cute. But you like her, so. . . What is it they say where you’re from? Shit or get off the pot?”

  “I thought everybody said that. And how did you know I liked her?”

  Shouldering her backpack, she stood, shit-eating grin splitting her face in two. “That look right there. You have an honest face, has anyone told you that? And you fixed her door.”

  “It was the nice thing to do,” I exclaimed.

  “This is Chicago, dude. People don’t do things like that for noth—” Her statement was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door. Georgia raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Another friendly neighbor?”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, but she’d already disappeared to answer it.

  “Hi, sorry, is Theo here? He left this at my place.” I recognized the voice instantly, and if my guess was correct, she was holding the bottle of wine I’d left over there accidentally. Or on purpose. Whatever.

  I hopped off the counter, and before I made it to the entryway, she was already backpedaling. “I mean, it was a gift. From me to him. He forgot it last ni—”

  I popped my head around the door just as Ava put a hand to her reddening chest. Her skin told me everything I needed to know about what she was feeling. She was like a walking, talking mood ring.

  “What brings you across the hall?” I asked, and her teeth dug into that thick lower lip of hers.

  “Your wine.” She thrusted it toward me, and Georgia nudged past with a knowing smirk on her way out.

  “Right.” I accepted it, though not without reluctance. It’d been nice to cook for someone besides a client for once, and last night I’d glimpsed the side of Ava she normally kept guarded. I would’ve been lying if I said I didn’t want to spend more time with her, see more of who she was when she was in her space, where she was comfortable.

  I cleared my throat. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

  “No problem.”

  “Do you want to stay for awhile?” I offered. My plan might not have worked like I’d wanted it to, but I could improvise. “Have a glass?”

  “Oh my gosh.” She buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t even think to ask if you liked wine. You could totally be a beer guy, and here I am, forcing this glorified grape juice on you.”

  “I like wine,” I interjected.

  “Oh.” She was flushed, but there was some relief in her features. “Well, while splitting a bot
tle sounds pretty fantastic right now, I . . . I have plans. With . . . people.”

  I raised a brow. The way she’d stumbled over the words made me think the people she spoke of were fictional. But something about her caution was endearing. “People, huh?”

  “Enjoy your evening,” she chirped, spinning on her heel. Before I could crack a joke to break the ice, or think of something else to say that’d summon her back, she was across the hall and behind her newly repaired door.

  Dammit. Well, that was swell. Women pursuing me, I was used to. Hell, I’d had my fair share of straight-up rejections and indifference. But this was new. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to disassemble all Ava’s hastily constructed walls to see what made her tick. After all, she contradicted everything I’d been led to believe about her, and what had started as curiosity grew into something more.

  I just didn’t know what that more meant.

  Chapter 8

  Ava

  I bent over my laptop and massaged my temples, taking what had to be my first break in days. Rarely did I feel like I didn’t have someone lurking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment when I appeared to be unproductive for more than five seconds.

  Leigh was out of the office for a project, and while I should’ve felt like I could finally take a breath, I was buried beneath too much work to waste time on that.

  “Rough day?” Eddie asked from his workspace across the table.

  “I would say yes, but I feel like it’s becoming a pattern. So, no. Normal day, maybe?”

  “I feel you. Leigh is on another level today.”

  “Try this month.”

  Eddie glanced around, then leaned over the table, his voice low as he said, “I heard she’s having trouble earning out the advance from her book. She blames it on piracy.”

  “What? That’s insane. She has enough fans to buy it legitimately and make up for all that.”

  “Just what I heard.” He shrugged. Eduardo might’ve been a genius at graphic design, but he was an absolute glutton for gossip. As for me, I was drained and couldn’t bring myself to care about inter-office relations or why Leigh was the way she was.

  Eddie’s gaze turned scrutinizing. “You’ve never looked this stressed before.” He dragged the client profile I’d been working on toward him with a finger and scanned over it. “What’s giving you trouble?”

  “I’m just distracted.” He tilted his head dramatically, but not one hair shifted out of place. From his barbered hairstyle down to his wingtips, he was always styled to the nines. And in the middle of all that was an expression that told me he saw right through my paltry excuse.

  If I wanted to avoid interrogation, I couldn’t mention how Theo had flitted through my mind all morning. I suspected he’d only invited me in to be polite when I’d brought over the wine last night, although Holland suggested he’d left it at my place on purpose. No way could he be desperate enough to resort to such tricks, if the presence of yet another woman at his apartment was any indication. Nutrition sessions, shmutrition sessions.

  “I’ve been working on something on the side,” I said.

  “A side hustle?” Eddie leaned closer. “Tell me more.”

  I lowered my voice. “Not quite. You know I’ve always wanted to write content, right? I’ve been biding my time, waiting to tell Leigh when I finally have the courage.”

  “The courage to tell her you want more creative freedom?”

  “Any amount of creative freedom at all. I mean, I’m basically teaching people how to win over whomever it is they want to bang. Not much creativity involved.”

  Eddie winced. “Good luck with that. I’ll pray to Jesus, or Beysus, or whatever ’sus stands a chance of helping you out, because you need it. Leigh wouldn’t know the concept of ‘creative freedom’ even if it shit in her Prada bag.”

  I rubbed the heels of my hands against my eyes, before remembering the winged liner I’d labored over this morning.

  “But I wish you the best,” he said with a flick of his hand. “Did you get a look at the intern?”

  My eyes darted to the table at the far end of the office, where an eager new graduate was culling social media platforms to identify current and emerging trends. It was an exercise Leigh delegated to the newest of employees, which they took on with gusto. After all, what twenty-something would be opposed to scrolling through Instagram? She’d soon learn it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  I cocked my head. “Ahh, so full of hope and ambition. Remember when we were like that?”

  “Yup.” The word popped from his lips. “That’ll change real quick. Oh no, she’s leaving her desk to get a cup of coffee. Do you want to tell her the machine is just there for looks, that we’re supposed to run on the fumes of caffeination and not the actual consumption, or should I?”

  “I’ll let you do the honors. I have too much to do.”

  “We all do, honey. That’s the thing about Leigh. She’s front-loading our lives so that when we experience burnout at a drastically young age, she’ll at least have gotten a few of our best years.”

  I reached for the thermos I’d brought from home and took a long gulp of French roast. “That’s morbid.”

  “That’s our future.” He stood from his chair and headed to intercept the newbie.

  I turned my attention back to the planner laid out in front of me. I was an obsessive organizer, and the extra effort I was putting into writing occupied what little free-time I had. There was already an unnerving lack of blank space on the pages as it was.

  On paper, this was a dream job. Leigh Everstone was a trailblazer in the life-coaching industry. I imagined communications, marketing, and media graduates were all vying for what limited positions she offered. But reality paled in comparison to the vision I’d had three years ago, when I’d moved to the big city.

  The streets at LoveLeigh Lifestyles weren’t paved with passion, they were lined with the crushed dreams of Leigh’s minions. But I wasn’t ready to tuck tail and retreat to small-town Illinois, and with the big-city dream came the big-city bills. Hence the necessity of a job that was soul-sucking on its best days.

  My phone buzzed from my lap, making me jump. Another sign of Leigh-inflicted panic. I’d meant to stow it in my bag with even the vibration turned off, but it must’ve slipped my mind during the usual morning hustle. I glanced at the screen: Holland. Unlike some people, she made personal phone calls straight from her cubicle without being chastised. Perks of having a boss who worshiped the ground she walked on.

  “You know I can’t pick up phone calls from the office,” I whisper-shouted.

  “Monster Boss must not be around, or you wouldn’t have answered,” she shot back.

  “True. What do you want?”

  “We still on for a girls’ night later to plan my birthday?”

  “I’ve already done all the planning. Duh,” I said. She knew better.

  “I assumed as much, but I want to see what you’re scheming.”

  “You want to make sure whatever I’ve planned stays below your predetermined threshold for attention.”

  “You know I don’t like making a big deal about things,” she whined. Holland was the kind of person who despised the spotlight. She’d rather mingle among the crowd than stand out, and that included birthdays and most other milestones in life. But if turning a quarter-century old wasn’t reason enough to celebrate, what was?

  “How long have we been friends again? Scratch that—how long have we been best friends?”

  “Three years. Since you arrived in the city and took me under your wing.”

  I nodded to myself, although the sheltering had never been one-sided. Where she was energetic and outgoing among her friend group, she wouldn’t dare go out by herself to explore the city or make new friends. I was quiet in crowds but a glutton for new sights and experiences, and when we’d met in the bathroom line at a renowned pizza joint and she’d told me she’d never ventured to Millennium Park, I’d made pla
ns for us for the following day. It’d been out of character for us both to go out on a limb like that with a stranger, but we’d come out the other side as best friends.

  “Right. Long enough to know your preferences.”

  “And to know how to weasel your way around them.”

  I ignored that. It was mostly true. “Anyway, if you’re coming over to sabotage your own birthday plans, you’d better be bringing dinner.”

  “Duh,” she mimicked, because if Holland was down with anything, it was food. “Six o’clock?”

  I groaned and massaged my forehead. It was noon and my work day was far from over. “Better make it seven.”

  “Long day?”

  “I have a follow-up consultation at five.”

  “You don’t think it’ll run that long, do you? If it’s just a follow-up?”

  “If you knew my obsessive client, you’d think otherwise. I’ll fill you in later.”

  “See you at seven,” she said.

  And with that, I hung up, downed two pills for a headache, and dug back into finding non-existent time for more projects.

  “You look like hell,” Holland said when she arrived.

  I’d been in the middle of taking the pins out of my hair, and half of it was dangling listlessly from what had been a relaxed sort of chignon. Leigh held us to strict standards when it came to appearance, and although she permitted my retro wardrobe, bedhead and/or a makeup-free face was unacceptable. Hence my YouTube-inspired look.

  I struck a pose in the doorway. “Aren’t you lucky you get to spend an evening with this?”

  “The luckiest,” she said with a grin. Then she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially. “Is that where Hottie McNeighbor lives?”

  Leaping out of the entryway, I waved wildly to her. “Shh! Get in here. I don’t want him questioning my sanity.”

  “If he isn’t already.” She quirked an eyebrow and edged toward his door, miming like she was going to knock, and all the while I gestured nonsensically for her to stop. She was always testing my boundaries. I guess that was my punishment for tiptoeing along hers.