Page 10 of Playing to Win

Chapter 4

brooks

I’m sitting in my office sampling new products—currently eating a gluten-free, high-protein bar, and reading the related marketing paperwork from the supplier—when there’s a tap on the door.

“It’s open,” I call.

The door opens onto the mezzanine balcony of the gym and my friend Sarah, in her sweaty gym wear, is leaning on the door frame. Even with a red face and her dark hair tied into a knot on the top of her head, she looks good. Don’t read into that. I am 100 percent friends with Sarah and no more. That’s why I can tell her, “You look in good shape,” even when she’s wearing tight-fitting Lycra.

“I ought to. I spend ten hours of my life in this place each week. I avoid carbs like they’ll give me the plague, and I can’t remember the last time I gorged on a tub of my favorite thing…BJs.” That’s her code name for her best guys, Ben and Jerry. She plants a hand on her hip in an oh-so-Sarah way. “I’ve actually just been to the Zumba class. I’ve gotten into the idea of dancing to stay slim since that new fitness girl came on the scene. You know, the British one. She does some dance-yourself-skinny kind of thing. Anyway, I’ve seen one or two of her YouTube videos and thought I’d give Zumba a try.”

I lean back in my desk chair and swivel. “Did you rate it?”

“It was cool. A nice change from being in the gym. That woman you have instructing is kind of crazy, though. Said she’s been divorced something like ten thousand times and, hell, for a middle-aged woman, she rocks the twerk.”

“Nice critique. I’ll be sure to rate her high in the box that says ‘twerking’ in her performance review.”

She laughs, something I love to hear from her. Despite her tough bravado, behind closed doors, Sarah can be really down. I mean, who can blame her when she was widowed in her thirties, but I get a kick out of seeing her happy.

When I realize I’ve paused to reflect on her smile, I break our silence. “Hey, I’m almost done here for the night. Don’t suppose you’d indulge in some Monday night wings?” I would usually use the guise of Monday night football to cover my obsession with wings but it’s out of season.

“Wings?” She gestures to herself, pointing from her head to her toes. “And ruin this? Actually, I might have to go back to the office. Drew is pulling an all-nighter. Another time.”

She drops a kiss to my cheek, comments on how bad she must smell, and leaves. It’s funny to remember that Sarah and I actually met because Sarah is Drew’s legal secretary. Drew introduced us more years ago than I care to remember. Now, Sarah’s a pretty close second to Drew in my best friend rankings. Although she did just lose points for refusing wings.

With Drew at work, I call a few of my other friends. Kit refuses on grounds that his wife, Madge, won’t let him out. Madge is pretty awesome, for the record, but Kit is like a big kid and since they have two young children now—the real kind, not the thirty-odd-year-old, hairy kind—sometimes she has to enforce a few rules with him.

I call Edmond. Also known as Super-chef and the owner of the swanky restaurant Becky works in. You might remember him from that reality TV show Sweet Tooth, where he was a judge. It’s a long shot because I know, if he is free, he’s probably spending his rare night off with his wife and kids. Sure enough, he answers the call and tells me that because the restaurant is closed on Mondays, he’s having a quiet one with his family.

I try Marty, the other half of Statham Harrington law firm, alongside Drew. He’s taking some clients to a boozy dinner—code for schmoozing.

On the “good friends” front, I’m all out. I can’t really be assed to make small talk with the guys from the gym. Even when we’re out for drinks, I always get the sense they see me as their boss and don’t fully relax.

The proverbial lightbulb suddenly shines bright in my mind. Jake.

I mentioned I went to school with Drew. Grew up with him, really. Our families both lived on Staten Island when we were kids. His mom all but adopted me when my folks decided to get a divorce and were gunning for each other’s blood every night. Well, Jake is Drew’s kid brother. He’s a twenty-five-year-old man now, but to me he’ll always be Drew’s kid brother—who we tortured for fun but always loved. He’s doing well for himself these days, working for a hedge fund in London. He flew over here so we could all celebrate Drew making named partner at Statham Harrington. As far as I know, he’s still in the city. I hit his number in my phone.

“Brooks, my man. How you doing?”

“Jakey. You still in New York, buddy?”

“Not for long but I am right now. I’m currently watching some bullshit game show with my folks, going out of my mind.”

“Is your mom in earshot?”

“She sure is. That’s why she just tossed a sofa cushion off my head. Hang on.” I hear him in the background: “I’m going into the other room, relax. You wouldn’t have answered that question right anyway. Ouch! Stop throwing cushions!”

I’m shaking my head but can’t help smirking when I hear a door close and he comes back on the line. “Sorry ’bout that.”

“No worries, man. You want to escape for beer and wings? We can’t do Monday Night Live but we can catch some football reruns. I doubt you’ve seen them in London. You can stay at my place.”

“I’m on the next fucking ferry to the city.”

* * * *

“All right, guys, I got one Texas smoked burger with sweet potato fries, and one extra-large stack of firecracker wings.”

Jake has his head tipped back to drain the dregs from his bottle of Samuel Adams, so I tell the waitress, “The burger is his. Wings for me. Thanks.”

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