Page 35 of Playing to Win

Chapter 13

Brooks

Day 1.

Izzy arrives at the gym around nine. She’s wearing large sunglasses, even though she’s inside and looking down from the mezzanine level to where I’m training a client.

“Don’t tell me Tom Ford has started doing shades for artificial lighting,” I call up to her.

She lifts the glasses to the top of her head and scowls down at me as she sucks through the straw of a smoothie cup.

“Steve Sitwell from NYC FM is here. He wants to talk to us about our competition,” she says.

“Yeah, well, he’ll have to wait. I’m busy. And, baby, there is no competition.”

“What have I told you about calling me baby?”

I get a cheap thrill out of watching her huffily stomp away from the balcony rail.

I put my client through one more round of squats, then guide him through stretches. “Nice workout, Jimmy,” I tell him.

“I’m feeling good, Brooks.”

“That’s the aim. It’s week twelve so we should revisit your goals and think about where you want to go from here. Let’s finish stretching those hamstrings and go up to my office.”

Upstairs, the door to my office is closed, despite the fact I left it open. When I step inside, I’m assaulted by woman. A floral scent, not perfume, hits my nose. Izzy is sitting behind my desk with a pink laptop. A bright box of tissues has been placed on the edge of the desk. And the shelves that line the back wall are empty.

“What are you doing? Why are you sitting at my desk? Why does it smell like a beauty salon in here? And where the hell are the tubs of protein that were on my shelves?”

She holds up a finger. “Just one sec.” She continues to type on her screen as my blood reaches boiling. “There. E-mail sent. What was your question? Oh, your protein crap. I removed temptation. You can thank me later.”

“Thank you?” I’m about to lose my shit when I remember my client standing behind me. “I need my office, so you and your pink laptop will have to vacate.”

“But where will I work?”

“I don’t know, Izzy; the bistro, anywhere that isn’t my office.”

She rolls her eyes and closes her laptop. “Are you an only child? I bet you are.”

Pointing out to the hallway, I say, “Out. Now.”

“Fine. Don’t forget we need to speak with Steve Sitwell.”

Lord, give me strength.

“Come on in, Jimmy. Take a seat.”

As he and Izzy pass each other, she tells him, “If you want a clean, refreshing nutrition plan, Jimmy, I’ll be in my new bistro office.” I know she said that for my benefit by the smug look she casts across her shoulder before she leaves.

Jimmy takes a seat on the opposite side of my desk and chuckles when I pick up the pink tissues and throw them into my wastebasket.

“Did you get married and forget to tell me, Brooks?”

“Man, don’t even joke about that shit.”

By the time Jimmy leaves, I’m ravenous. The almond milk, ginger, and carrot smoothie I was allowed for breakfast—which was as disgusting as it sounds—is just an unpleasant memory. In fact, it did nothing to curb my appetite this morning. Silently cursing Izzy, I head down to the bistro. I spot her right away, talking to a man I assume is Steve Sitwell. Not ready to deal with another round of smart-ass quips on an empty stomach, I catch Angie’s attention.

“Good morning, soldier. What can I get you?”

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