Page 77 of Playing to Win

Chapter 25

izzy

Brooks hasn’t turned up at the gym and it’s almost eleven. I know he has a client booked for a session in half an hour.

Will he show? It’s Brooks; of course he’ll show.

That thought doesn’t make me feel less nervous; it makes me feel worse.

Will he have seen the blog post?

Sitting at my laptop in the bistro, I read the post for what must be the fiftieth time.

PUBLIC APOLOGY

Two days ago, I wrote a nasty post about Brooks Adams. The post has since been removed and I won’t repeat what it said. Suffice it to say, I hurt Brooks and someone very close to him.

To both of you, I am truly sorry for how I behaved.

I wrote that post in a hurt and catastrophically jealous fury. It was childish and I am deeply regretful.

The truth is, Brooks Adams is a good man. The best, even. I think I have brought out the worst in Brooks since we met and I know he brings out the worst in me. But, here’s the thing: I believe we bring out the best in each other, too.

The last two weeks have been the greatest of my life and I’ll be sad to see our competition end. More than that, I’ll be sad to no longer have a reason to have Brooks in my life every day.

From the bottom of my heart, Brooks, I’m sorry. Please find it in that enormous heart of yours to forgive me.

To the other person I hurt. I hope to get the chance one day to tell you in person how truly remorseful I am.

Izzy.

Why did I write the post?Conscience. Guilt. Sarah.

The last person I expected to see when I answered my apartment door at nine thirty on a Friday night was Sarah. My first moment of realization was staring her in the face and wishing it had been Brooks knocking on my door, because I would rather fight with Brooks than be in anyone else’s company.

My second moment of realization came over a cup of Earl Grey tea on my sofa. Sarah told me how she lost her husband to a motorbike accident five years ago. I found it so hard to believe that someone as confident and outwardly happy as Sarah could be hiding something so painful inside. It occurred to me that I couldn’t stand the thought of something so tragic happening to Brooks.

The biggest moment was when Sarah told me that she introduces herself to new people she meets as a single woman. “Sometimes it’s easier to keep up the front if I’m just Sarah, not Sarah the widow. Sometimes it’s nice to just be uncomplicated Sarah, who isn’t deep down scarred by the past,” she told me.

“Are you telling me Brooks was putting up a front?” I asked her.

She put her hand in mine then. “I’m saying maybe he just wanted to be Brooks with you. Not Brooks with baggage. Not Brooks with a broken heart. He adores Cady and she’s a great girl. But honestly, Izzy, how would you have reacted if he had told you he has a daughter who is about to start college?”

I stared at her then, blankly, as I replayed that question in my head, thinking two things. The first: I probably wouldn’t have fallen for him—the guy with tattoos and big muscles and a kid. The second: he would be an amazing father.

When Sarah left, I wrote the blog. In part because I wanted everyone to know that Brooks is a good man. The other reason was that I didn’t know how to tell him to his face that I’ve fallen for him and I wish things were different. I wish we had met without this stupid competition between us. I wish I had my shit figured out and I wasn’t such a “brat,” as he so politely puts it.

As I close the lid on my laptop, Brooks comes into the gym. He walks right by the bistro and toward the staircase. I want to follow him, but my heart is hammering in my chest and I need just a minute.

I close my eyes and lean my head back with my hands across my face, trying to remind my lungs to breathe.

“Why isn’t your desk in my office anymore?”

I sit upright but keep my eyes closed, not able to tell from his tone whether he’s still pissed at me. “I don’t want to upset you anymore, Brooks. I know you didn’t want it there so I had it taken out.”

I feel him sit at the table across from me before I open my eyes to his. “I didn’t want your desk, but you put it there anyway and I like having you in my room. I like hearing that sweet voice singing to my guitar. Damn it, I even like arguing with you incessantly.”

“What about my shitty attitude?”

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