Page 41 of Playing to Win

“So, let’s get back to your saying I’m good looking.”

She shoves me in the shoulder and sets about pouring us each a glass of water. “I said you’re not unattractive. There’s a difference. And I just figured you were maybe divorced or something.”

“No. No divorces. No relationships long enough to move a woman into my place. How about you?”

She takes a seat on a stool while I finish making her breakfast. “Ha, no. Two longish, or medium-term, relationships. One with a pretentious wanker my parents wanted me to marry. One with a guy I dated to piss my parents off…shaved head, tattoos, working class.”

I keep my eyes on the pan in front of me but clench my hand around the wooden spoon. She really is just another Alice.

“Brooks, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offense.”

“No, hey, none taken. You obviously didn’t mean me because I don’t have a shaved head.”

I force myself to smile. She offers a meek curl of her lips in return.

* * * *

Studio A is becoming the bane of my existence. Today, our audience has grown to four reporters. The two new additions are “important bloggers in the fitness circle,” to quote Madge.

Izzy has put one of her YouTube classes on the big screen in the room and she’s standing to one side, her arms folded across her chest, her back pressed to the mirrored wall, one foot casually resting against glass, distracting me because the glass was just cleaned this morning. I decide to choose my battles and this is a small one that wouldn’t give satisfaction worth the effort.

Instead, I focus on Izzy on the big screen; there’s a smile on her face as she dances. She looks happy, an infectious kind of happy that makes me want to smile. Thing is, I can’t because I’m too damn frustrated trying to get my feet to do what I know in my head they should be doing.

“Just keep moving,” Izzy tells me. So, yeah, I end up doing some kind of Chandler Bing dance that isn’t even in time to the music, all in a bid to work up a sweat.

Laughter bursts from Izzy first, followed by the reporters.

“That’s it. I’m done. This is ridiculous!”

Izzy comes to me in the middle of the room. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I think it’s your stiff hips.” She drops her hands to my waist and turns me to face her. “You need to get more rotation here when you’re doing Latin dances. It will help you keep your rhythm and it will stop you from looking like such a tit.”

I scowl down at her and see her amusement in her shining irises. “Put your hands on my hips.” I do and she starts to salsa, her hip bones rotating under my palm. “Can you feel that movement?”

Yeah, in my groin.

She shifts position so she’s in front of me, her back pressed to my chest, her head against my shoulder. She takes my hands again and places them on her hips. I feel every movement through her yoga pants as if she’s wearing nothing.

“Let’s do it together. Ready? Forward on the right. One, two, three, pause. One, two, three, pause.”

I move with her, my hips pressed to her ass, her shoulders moving over my chest, her scent filling my nose, her hair tickling my neck.

“That’s it. You’ve got it.”

Her hands come up to meet mine on her hips and she interlaces her fingers through mine as we dance.

“Let’s take it to the side on the next count. One, two… That’s it.”

I’m lost in her. The roll of her hips. The feel of her soft skin; a contrast to my harsh, weight-lifting hands. We move easier, more freely. When she turns to face me, I keep my feet moving as she taught me and drown in her gaze, as if plunged into serene, warm waters, floating weightlessly through a new world.

When the track ends, we’re brought back abruptly to reality. A camera flash makes her squint and I remember the reporters in the room. Clearing my throat, I tell her, “I think I’ve got it.”

She wipes imaginary dust from her leggings. “Right. Yep. I’ll just be…you know…over there.…” She waves a hand through the air in no particular direction, then sets off for the right side of the room and turns, switching to the left side with a nervous giggle.

Well, fuck me. Dancing can be hotter than screwing. I really am feeling hot and sweaty now.

* * * *

Yesterday’s argument seemingly did not have the desired effect because I’m sitting at my desk, trying not to stare at the delicate line of Izzy’s neck, as she sits in the desk she never moved from my office. My stomach grumbles like a JCB picking up gravel.

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