Page 21 of Playing to Win

“Look.” Kerry’s tone shifts to annoyance. For some unknown reason, I have an urge to walk out there, give her what for, and take Izzy away from the situation. “Any traffic is good traffic, Izzy. This isn’t a joke. People have put money behind this book. And I thought you told me this book was your chance to prove something, huh? That you can be who you want to be and make a success of it?”

The physical shift in Izzy is visible. The change in the air is palpable. Whoever Izzy has to prove something to, the person is worth trying something she doesn’t really want to do. She nods. “You’re right. Fine. I’ll do what it takes.”

Yep, that’s more like the Izzy I’ve seen.

I try to work but the constant stop, restart, boom boom freakin’ boom, is driving me crazy. An amped microphone projects Izzy’s shouted instructions along the corridor. And, yeah, maybe curiosity gets the better of me.

My next PT client is coming in three minutes. So, I find myself moving along the corridor to Studio A. No wonder the music is so loud; they’re filming with the doors open. Huge amps, the size my band used to gig with in high school, are lined along one wall of the open space.

“All right, ladies. Let’s take it from the top.”

Restart and boom, boom, boom. My head is going to explode in time to this fucking track. Out in the empty corridor I stubbornly fold my arms across my chest. I watch as Izzy begins to salsa. She moves one foot forward then back, her hip rolling under her tight leggings.

“Let’s get some sexy arms involved, ladies. Show me how hot you are.”

With smiles on their faces, Izzy’s fake clients move their hands over their bodies as they follow her moves. But there’s only one person in that room I cannot take my eyes off. I imagine dancing with her. Rolling my pelvis against hers. Running my hands up her sides where her own are touching. And I’m doing it. I’m salsa dancing in the corridor. I’m moving my feet Latin-style. Holding out my arm as if I were gripping her waist and moving with her pressed against me.

“Brooks?”

I spin quickly and come face-to-face with Daryl—six four, built like the Rock, and my fucking client.

I stop dead, my arm still around Izzy’s invisible waist. I look at my arm, as if this really cannot be happening. As if I didn’t just get caught salsa dancing by my most butch client. I clear my throat. In the most masculine voice I can muster—somewhere between Johnny Cash and Barry White—I tell Daryl, “Let’s get to it, man.”

* * * *

By lunch, Studio A has been cleared and the gym is in the process of being restored to normality. I have undoubtedly lost man points with one of my clients today but the gym may have gained more followers. Which really raises the still lingering question: Do I want to franchise the gym?

My cell rings as I’m unstrapping my hands after fitting in half an hour on the punch bags. I use the strap to wipe sweat from my forehead and swipe my thumb across Cady’s picture.

“Hey baby.”

“Hey, Dad. I’m on Fifth Avenue. I was supposed to be meeting a friend but her mom had some kind of drama and she has to babysit her kid brother. Anyway, she’s going to be at least another hour and a half. Do you want to meet?”

I check the large clock on the boxing room wall. It’s almost four and my next client is booked at six thirty. “Ah, yeah, sure. Let me grab a quick shower. Where should I meet you?”

“Mmm, outside the Lindt store?”

“Okay. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Cool. Oh, and Dad, don’t wear your sweatpants, okay?”

My next breath comes short and hard through my nose. “You know, five years ago you thought I was cool.”

* * * *

Fifth Avenue is as packed as ever, with people carrying shopping bags, women strutting in ludicrously priced heels, men in suits walking with cell phones and paying no attention to the people they’re bumping into. Tourists stop to unfold and read a map, completely failing to grasp the grid system.

I spot Cady walking out of Lindt. Her hair is still pink. Her skater dress is teamed with black lace-up boots today and her leather jacket is tied around her waist. I dodge the traffic and run across the road to meet her, coming up behind her as she’s about to put a dark chocolate Lindt ball into her mouth.

“You shouldn’t eat too much of that stuff. It’s just a ball of fat and sugar.”

She turns to face me and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly as she puts the whole ball into her mouth with a satisfied groan.

“That’s disgusting,” I tell her. She chuckles and covers her mouth as she bites down on the ball.

We set off walking without a plan. When her mouth is empty, she tells me, “I’ll give up chocolate if you give up beer.”

I narrow my eyes and pretend to mull that over. Then I grab her shoulder and turn her back toward Lindt. “Let’s get you another bag of those.”

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