Page 42 of Playing to Win

“Izzy, come on, I need something to eat. I can barely concentrate here.”

She checks her watch. “You can have carrots as a snack.”

“I’ll take anything.”

“I’ll ask the bistro to cut some up for you. It’s three in the afternoon—what am I supposed to be gorging on for my six millionth meal of the day?”

“I’ll get Angie to fix you a strawberry protein shake.”

“Bulk in a cup. How tempting.”

If only she could be the quietly sexy Latin-style dancer all the time. “Let me finish this e-mail and I’ll go down.”

“It’s fine,” she says, already standing. “I could use a change of scenery. I’m not doing anything anyway.”

“Really? Not writing another blog about how I’m trying to cheat on your plan by ordering eggs on toast? Yeah, I saw that. I also saw the shitty pictures of my dancing yesterday. Thanks for making me look like a tool.”

“You know what, I’ve changed my mind. You can get your own bloody carrots.”

Before my retort comes, my cell phone rings and teenage Drew, wearing a school tie around his head, lights up my screen. Never fails to entertain me. “Drew, what’s up, buddy?”

“Did you get that hockey game fixed up for tonight?”

“Yeah, I was going to send everyone a message. I’ve booked Sky Rink for an hour at eight. Can you bring a puck? I couldn’t find mine this morning.”

“No worries. Catch you later.”

When I hang up, Izzy is standing by my desk with her pouty lip thing going on and her hands on her hips. “Are you arranging to play hockey? You can’t do that. You have to follow my plan.”

I push out from my desk and lean back in my chair. “It’s a game of ice hockey with my friends. You can’t tell me not to go out with friends.”

“I’m not telling you not to see friends. I’m telling you to eat and drink what I say and exercise as I tell you and only that.”

“Oh really, and what are you going to do, photograph me and cry about it on your little blog?”

She takes a breath that lifts her chest and flares her nostrils. “You’re a twonk.”

“A twonk?”

“Yes. A twat-wanker.”

“What the fu—”

“And I’ve changed my mind; you can’t have carrots.”

As she slams my office door behind her, I ball up the first piece of paper I put my hand on and launch it at the door. I put in a call to my friend who manages the ice rink at Chelsea Piers and call Drew back.

“Hey, it’s me. Change of plan. The rink is booked for nine o’ clock now. The fun police have intervened.”

“Should I ask?”

“No, man, just remember me how I was before my ruin.”

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