Page 25 of Playing to Win

Chapter 9

brooks

It just keeps going. The verbal diarrhea.

The best gym in the city, I was told. Everyone wants to be trained by Brooks Adams, I heard. Well, while I can vouch for the perfectly adequate facilities of his gym, the man himself leaves a lot to be desired. I’d heard he was like diamonds to women, irresistible. In this woman’s opinion, once you look beyond the allure of bulging biceps, there’s nothing but an ill-mannered, arrogant ape.

Putting the beast’s personality aside for one second, I must say, I find it hard to believe that he looks the way he does (read: extremely buff), if he follows his own advice. The man was annoyed at me for requesting a green smoothie from his new bistro. Even though I offered one of my new recipes to the server (see links below to my new book Be Green. Be Clean—preorder quick, hard copies are selling out fast), Brooks Adams saw red (not green, at all). I won’t go on about the quarrel we had over the matter, which was not only embarrassing to me but also other clients in the bistro. My point is this, Brooks Adams doesn’t believe in good nutrition, so what is he really doing to get that body? I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. All I’m saying is, I’m guessing he doesn’t practice what he preaches.

Why not try a fitness and nutrition regime that works? *winks*

“Is she for fucking real?” It’s a rhetorical question but Charlie answers, her tone as wary as her stance as she hovers at the doorway of my office.

“I’m sorry, Brooks. I thought you would want to know.”

I finally take my eyes off the smug face of Izzy Coulthard on my screen. “I do, Charlie. Thanks.”

She leaves me shaking my head. I don’t know if I’m shaking my head in disbelief—how can anyone, especially in the same professional circle as me, be such a jackass? Or because I thought I recognized something in her today, something that said there was a good side to her, and I’m surprised at my own enormous misjudgment.

I push back in my desk chair too harshly, sending it crashing into the wall. And I actually felt sorry for the woman. While I was arranging for Sarah to go to Barnes & Noble, Izzy was probably posting this blog from her cell.

What a fool. When will I learn that women, even the prettiest women, with the most beautiful accents, can be…poison?

My hands are balled into fists on top of my desk as I stare at the blog post, still certain this cannot be real. It would be one thing if she didn’t like something changeable about the gym. If she thinks there are better health and nutrition methods than mine, that’s okay. But to trash my methods and my gym. Then to attack my character. All in fucking public!

I don’t bother reading the 111 comments already amassed in the hour this thing has been published.

“Goddamn it!”

I throw out an arm and knock a pen pot from my desk, scattering stationery across the floor. That only pisses me off more because now I have to pick the damn things up.

As I crouch to refill the pot, it occurs to me I’m not even maddest about other people reading the post. My clients are loyal. I’m more annoyed that I feel like a fool over a woman. I’ve spent eighteen freakin’ years being crazy over a woman. But this one…she’s something else.

Replacing the pen pot on my desk, I switch my jeans for shorts and head down to the boxing room. I dip my head to two guys sparring in the ring and mutter acknowledgments to others hitting speed bags and body bags.

I find one free hanging bag, strap my hands, and put every drop of anger I feel into my fists, as I burn up the bag. When my anger doesn’t subside, I thrust a roundhouse kick at the bag, sending it swinging. The taste of salt pushes through my lips and onto my tongue. Sweat drips into my eyes. I can feel the focus of the faces in the room trained on me. I realize I must look insane, going hell for leather over nothing. But this is what I profess—take your shit and put it into your workout. She wants to know why I look the way I do? Because I have a lot of fucking anger and hurt to put into a workout. Because I’m fed up with always trying and failing to be something for one person. One person who will never take me back.

And for some goddamn reason, Izzy Coulthard has managed to bring my shit to the surface more fiercely than I’ve felt it for a long time.

“Brooks. Brooks!”

I grab hold of the punch bag and look at Charlie, not prepared to see the person standing beside her.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “She was adamant about coming to see you.”

Izzy eyes me cautiously. If she can see on my face the burning rage I feel at the sight of her, I don’t blame her for being wary. “Brooks, I’m so—”

I hold up a strapped palm and break the glare I’m giving her, trying to cool my temper. I won’t do this again. I won’t prove her and her pretentious, childish blog to be right. With professional resolve, I all but growl, “Go to my office. We’ll talk there.”

She nods and turns on her feet. I watch her walk away, noting the black filth on the bare skin of her heels and the shoes she’s holding in her hand.

I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. All I know is that my anger usually simmers, quietly. But with this woman, for some reason, I feel out of control with rage.

The AC in the stairwell chills my saturated shirt and my body in the process. I pull my shirt over my head, flick it across my shoulder, and start to unwrap my hands. I see Izzy pacing the floor of my office.

Taking a calming breath, trying to put myself in my usual mind-set, I move into the room and knock the door shut behind me. I don’t meet her eye as I continue unstrapping my hands and drop my shirt onto the rim of my laundry basket to dry.

“Brooks, I’m so sorry. Those words weren’t all mine. I sent the post to Kerry and—”

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