Page 87 of Playing to Win

“Look at his background, for goodness’ sake,” her mom said. “He comes from nothing and will come to nothing, Alice. We let you have Cady—”

“Let me have Cady? Is that a joke? She’s my daughter. Our daughter. Mine and Brooks’s. And he’s a good dad.”

Her father’s voice grew sterner. “He comes over every night for two hours, Alice. How can he be a good father?”

“I only see you for two or three hours a night. Are you saying you aren’t a good father?” Alice yelled.

“Now you watch that mouth, young lady. I put this roof over your head. I have given you a good education and, once this mess is straightened out, you’ll go back to having good prospects.”

“Did you just call Cady and Brooks a mess?”

“Open your eyes,” her mom shouted. “It is a mess, Alice. If you listen to your father, you might be able to salvage something of a life for yourself. You’ll be lucky now to find yourself a good, wealthy man who’ll take you on with baggage.”

I was rooted to the spot.

“I don’t want a wealthy man. I want Brooks. I want my family.”

Her mom cackled, and I felt my face twist with hatred as I imagined her perfectly made-up face and salon-styled hair thrown back. “We are your family, Alice. The people who put a roof over your head.”

I had heard enough and my baby was screaming. I walked upstairs and found Cady in her basket. I picked her up and held her to my chest. It surprised me every time I held her how tiny her head, her toes, her fingers were. How delicate she was. She was everything. And I would be everything for her.

I kissed her cheeks and swayed with her in my arms until her body relaxed and her tears disappeared.

“Brooks.”

I turned to see Alice, tears streaking her face, her eyes red and swollen. She still looked beautiful. “I love you,” I told her, because I had nothing else to say. Her parents were right. I was a mechanic and didn’t even earn minimum wage based on the hours I worked.

She sniffed. “I love you too.”

“I’ll show them, you know. I will. I’ll make something better for us, Alice. I promise.”

She crossed the room and put one hand on my head, the other on Cady’s back. “I know, Brooks. I know.” She dropped her cheek to my shoulder and we stood like that for what seemed like hours. Perfect. My family.

The next day, Alice broke up with me.

The wind rises from the Hudson in gusts. It hits my eyes over and over again, until they start to water. I can’t do it again.

* * * *

Day 14.

I hate wearing suits. Men like Drew and Marty look good in suits. They own the look. I, on the other hand, look like the Michelin Man being squeezed into fine fabrics. I own two suits. One I wore to my grandfather’s funeral when I was twenty-four, with skinny shoulders and about forty pounds lighter than I am now. The one I’m wearing is a suit Drew convinced me to splurge on for a networking event we went to last year. He told me it was an investment, which was why I eventually caved. This is appearance number two for the dark blue two-piece.

I fight with my tie in the mirror, with one eye on YouTube and the video that is instructing me how to tie a Windsor knot. Once I’m finally suited and I have run product through my hair—enough to look like I’ve made an effort, not enough to make me look like Leonardo DiCaprio’s Jay Gatsby—I shine my shoes and get set to leave.

When I receive a message telling me the car sent by AMTV is downstairs, I close my apartment door, really wishing I could spend the morning at the gym, rather than a television studio.

The door to Izzy’s apartment is ajar, as if someone exited and intentionally left it open so they could reenter.

“You don’t know anything about him,” I hear Izzy say.

The voice that replies is stuffy—with overpronounced vowels and drawn-out consonants. “I know that our friends and family have seen your blog. You’ve made your point, Isabella. You’ve flaunted a relationship with a man I could never approve of. Imagine what the ladies at the Savoy will think. The man is covered in tattoos. He’s a weight lifter, for crying out loud.”

“He’s a fitness instructor and he owns his own gym,” Izzy fires back, her words sharp, almost a shout.

“A fitness instructor, then. It’s hardly a life I want for my daughter.”

“How can you say that? I’m a fitness instructor.”

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