Page 13 of Playing to Win

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?”

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.

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