Page 89 of Playing to Win

“Brooks, what my mother said…”

I shake my head. “It’s fine, Izzy. I get it.”

“You mean so much to me, Brooks.”

“Just not as much as credit cards and a nice apartment.”

“That is unfair!”

“Is it? You and I are very different people, Isabella.”

“You’re being a dick.”

I push off the wall so we’re standing face-to-face. “No, I’m being a realist. You come from money and you like money and wealthy circles. I’m just a small-town guy lifting weights in the city.”

“You know I don’t think that.”

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t tell your mother any different, did you?”

She exhales tightly and heavily, shaking her head. “Well, you didn’t manage to tell me that you aren’t still in love with your ex. I guess we both have shit to figure out before we hurt each other.”

It’s way too late for that. We stare at each other for seconds that feel like an eternity. I wish I could take her in my arms. I wish we could go back to the gym and bicker about the Charleston. I wish we could stay in bed, just the two of us, where we make sense. But that isn’t real life. Real life grinds you down and tears you apart.

“We should go. We’ll be late,” I tell her.

She looks to the ground, not meeting my eye again as she walks to the limousine.

* * * *

When we arrive at the studio, Izzy and I are met in the lobby of the high-rise by Kerry. In her usual stylish way, she’s in heels, pencil skirt, and blouse. Her shoes make a clicking sound against the marble floor as she comes toward us. “Wow, did someone die? You two are going to have to cheer up, at least for an hour. Brooks, I thought we agreed you would wear a tie?”

“I’m in a suit, aren’t I?”

I hear Izzy’s mother tut behind my back and feel Izzy tense at the sound. Her mother hardly spoke two words to me on the ride over. Her father asked a few questions and made small talk about the city. I can tell neither of them have an interest in getting to know me and I’m certain my life wouldn’t be incomplete if they weren’t in it. But I was polite, for Izzy’s sake.

“True. It beats sneakers and running shorts. Follow me. We’ll go up to AMTV’s floor. Makeup might want to see you, and then there’s a breakfast buffet.” As we reach the elevators, one of six opens and Kerry leads us inside. “I’m sure you can fight over what you can and can’t eat.”

Kerry leads Izzy’s parents to some place in the studio, where viewers are permitted to stand behind the cameras. Izzy and I are brushed and fussed over by the makeup team—not something I take kindly to—then a studio runner leads us to the breakfast room.

Two guests of the show are already inside the small room, sitting on a red sofa and talking about their upcoming political segment. We have short introductions; then they get back to discussing the latest Senate scandal. Two flat-screens on the walls show AMTV in real time. The clock in the corner of the screen tells me it is eight fifty. Izzy and I are on at nine fifteen.

I watch the show for a few minutes, then move to Izzy’s side as she scours the breakfast buffet. Pastries. Muffins. Cream cheese bagels. “I’m guessing I can’t have any of this?”

She looks up at me quickly, I think surprised that I’ve broken our silence. “You can have fruit,” she says, gesturing to the far end of the spread.

“Why don’t you go for half a cream cheese bagel and add some of that smoked salmon,” I tell her. I hate that we are speaking to each other like robots. But I don’t think there’s anything meaningful left to say. That thought alone has me rubbing a fist against the lingering ache in my chest. My worry is, like the DOMS—delayed onset muscle soreness—this pain is only going to get worse tomorrow.

We plate our breakfast and each take a bottle of sparkling water from the minifridge. We stand to eat. Izzy picks at her bagel, her gaze focused on her plate the entire time.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

She finally looks at me. “We are still going to say what we agreed, aren’t we?”

I should have known she would be less bothered about what is happening between us and more concerned about her public appearance. “Yes, Izzy.”

“Please don’t be like that.”

The runner is back. “Ms. Coulthard, Mr. Adams. Can you follow me, please?”

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