Page 19 of Playing to Win

She ponders, overacting the point, the tip of her finger resting against pursed lips. “Mmm, no. I make it my business to know what’s going on in my city. Think of it like citizen’s watch. A good deed. And my good deed for today is asking, on behalf of Kristie, who is the woman you had an altercation with this morning?”

“Why does Kristie need to know that? So she can gossip to her wine club friends?”

“Wow. Nerve. Hit. No, like many women who pay the extortionate membership at your gym, Kristie has a huge crush on you.”

“That’s insane.” I sip from my glass—a manly sip. “My memberships are not extortionate. They include the pool, sauna, steam room, all classes.”

Sarah looks at Drew and says, in her “law firm telephone” voice, “Your honor, the defendant is deflecting.”

Drew sits up straight. “Mr. Adams, please answer the question.”

I growl at Sarah. “It was just some fitness woman who is in New York to promote her new book. She and her publicist came into the gym like God owed them a freakin’ favor. They upset my staff. I didn’t like it. That’s all.”

“Reeeeally. See, Kristie said there was a spark between you and this woman. She also said the woman was a hot blonde and that she could have cracked nuts on her ass.” Sarah throws a glance to Drew. “Rear, your honor. Could have cracked nuts on her rear.”

Trying not to let my amusement show, I tell her, “If by spark you mean the kind you get from dropping a lit match on a diesel bonfire, I’d agree, there was a spark. And you’d hope to be able to crack nuts on her ass. She might be an arrogant jerk, but she’s selling fitness. You have to practice what you preach and all.”

“Hold up!” Jake says. “Which blonde are we talking about here? And, side point but relevant, did she also have a good rack?”

I pick a peanut from a ramekin on the table and throw it at Jake, hitting him flush between the eyes. “It was that chick from the TV commercials on Monday night.”

“The one from London?” Jake asks. “The Salsa Yourself Slim chick?”

“That’s her.”

Almost in perfect harmony, Becky and Sarah chime. “No way!”

“I adore her videos on YouTube,” Sarah says.

“I make cakes for a living and she’s managing to keep the pounds off me,” Becky adds, in her British royals–type accent.

“What is that? British solidarity? Have a word, Drew.” At that, Becky throws a peanut at me but I open my mouth and catch it, giving her a smug grin.

“You two should find yourself someone nice to gush over. Or, better yet, let me hook you up with nutrition plans. I’m telling you, Izzy Coulthard may seem nice on TV and YouTube, but she’s got a pole so high up her ass it’s—”

“Okay, enough,” Madge interjects. “Why was she in your gym anyway?”

“To work out. And to ask if she can use a studio for her new DVD.”

Sarah does a goofy dance in her seat. “Eeek. Can Becky and I come watch?”

“I would let you if I had said yes, but I didn’t. I don’t want her in my gym.”

“Brooks, I’ve got two young kids. I really couldn’t give two hoots about working out when I run around after my Tasmanian devils all day, but this could be good for you,” Madge reasons. “It would promote the gym in the process. I may not work as a full-time publicist anymore but I still know a few things.”

The others jump on the bandwagon, giving me more reasons to say yes than I can count. Some based on breasts and ass. Some based on girly fitness instructor crushes. Drew’s based on helping to build memberships in anticipation of adding another gym to my portfolio.

Against my instincts, I’m left wondering whether it might not be the worst idea in the world to let Izzy “Flower Power” Coulthard film in my gym.

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