Playing to Win Page 6

  “What is that? British solidarity? Have a word, Drew.” At that, Becky throws a peanut at me but I open my mouth and catch it, giving her a smug grin.

  “You two should find yourself someone nice to gush over. Or, better yet, let me hook you up with nutrition plans. I’m telling you, Izzy Coulthard may seem nice on TV and YouTube, but she’s got a pole so high up her ass it’s—”

  “Okay, enough,” Madge interjects. “Why was she in your gym anyway?”

  “To work out. And to ask if she can use a studio for her new DVD.”

  Sarah does a goofy dance in her seat. “Eeek. Can Becky and I come watch?”

  “I would let you if I had said yes, but I didn’t. I don’t want her in my gym.”

  “Brooks, I’ve got two young kids. I really couldn’t give two hoots about working out when I run around after my Tasmanian devils all day, but this could be good for you,” Madge reasons. “It would promote the gym in the process. I may not work as a full-time publicist anymore but I still know a few things.”

  The others jump on the bandwagon, giving me more reasons to say yes than I can count. Some based on breasts and ass. Some based on girly fitness instructor crushes. Drew’s based on helping to build memberships in anticipation of adding another gym to my portfolio.

  Against my instincts, I’m left wondering whether it might not be the worst idea in the world to let Izzy “Flower Power” Coulthard film in my gym.

  Chapter 7

  brooks

  I see the same look on Charlie’s face that I know is on my own—somewhere between pulling her hair out and pity. “Next time I have a brain fart like this, please do everything in your power to stop those three letters coming out of my mouth,” I tell her.

  “By three letters I take it you mean, Y-E-S?”

  Rubbing a hand across my chin, I just shake my head, because it’s too late. There really isn’t any way to stop the circus show that has overtaken my unsuspecting gym and made it the farce of the city. “Would you pin these around the place?” I hand her twenty signs, all black caps typed on white, and all saying the same thing:

  SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. FILMING IN PROGRESS. THE CAMERA WORK IS LIMITED TO STUDIO A. PLEASE CONTINUE TO USE THE FACILITIES AS USUAL.

  I head out of the reception area in search of the solitude of my office. I take out my phone and text Drew:

  I AM NEVER DRINKING DOM AGAIN. I’VE BEEN OVERRUN BY SALSA-LOVING TERRORISTS.

  “Look out, dude.”

  I pin my back to the wall of the staircase as two cameramen come charging past, carrying poles and a large camera and those things that look like umbrellas but do something to change the lighting in a shot.

  As I reach the landing of the second floor, I hear the same freakin’ dance track that’s been on loop for the last two hours. The sound is coming from Studio A, where Izzy Coulthard will be filming her DVD Salsa Yourself Slim.

  Dragging a hand through my hair and glaring down the corridor to the open door of the studio, I say for my own pleasure, “I swear to God, one more fucking time and I’m cutting the plug.”

  “Oh, please.” I recognize her accent before Izzy moves to stand in front of me. She’s in psychedelic yoga pants and a workout bra. But that is no ordinary workout bra. Her breasts are pushed up like perfectly formed, round, teasing… I drag my attention to her face, watching her drink from her sports bottle, hoping she didn’t catch my wandering eyes. “You’re getting just as much out of this deal as I am, so stop whining.”

  I don’t have a chance to respond before I’m watching her firm ass cheeks move like silk—smooth, alluring, enticing—as she strides in the direction of the studio.

  Argh, fuck, she’s right. I just need to suck it the hell up.

  I’m still watching her as I round the corner toward my office and walk bang into the wiggling hips of a dancer, who is decked out in brand-new sports gear. Here, on the mezzanine balcony, overlooking my gawking regulars, blocking the route to my office, ten fit-as-sin dancers are swirling and grinding svelte hips, perfecting their prechoreographed moves to Izzy’s salsa class.

  It’s hard to know which comes first—my dry throat, my wandering eyes, the loosening of my jaw, or the twitch of my cock in my sweatpants. I’m thirteen fucking years old again.

  With my forearm leading the charge and semiblocking the view in a bid to stop me from getting a hard-on, I make my way through the crowd of temptation and into the sanctity of my office.

  I take a bottle of water from my minifridge and soothe my dry throat, contemplating whether I should pour the whole damn thing down my boxer briefs to put out the flames. Hey, I’m a hot-blooded man at the end of the day.

  Pulling up my schedule for the day, I sink into my desk chair. I’m not sure how it happens but next thing I know, there are images of Izzy Coulthard on my screen. My mouse cursor is hovering over a YouTube fitness video when I hear her voice in the corridor.

  “You’re looking great, ladies. You can head into the studio now. We’re about ready to film.”

  Pushing back in my chair, I see her through my open office door. The smile she offers the others leaves as quickly as they do, and Izzy comes to lean on the balcony rail. Her shoulders drop an inch and she seems to be focused on nothing, lost in thought. Wow, she is insanely attractive. Even more so now, with her hair tied back, her lips relaxed and not forced into a pout. I realize for the first time just how slim she is. I want to go to her, wrap my arms around her, and take care of her.

  What the fuck?!

  “Izzy, now is as good a time as any to have a chat about presales.” Kerry, in her high heels and skinny jeans—completely out of place in the gym—comes into view. Izzy stands, turning to her. “We need to do more ahead of Tuesday. The TV ads have definitely helped but we aren’t seeing the numbers we’d hoped for. At least not yet.”

  I watch Izzy’s back constrict and then relax with a deep breath. “What can I do?”

  “The book signings start this afternoon, but I really think we need to give people a reason to want to know more. A reason to visit your page. I think you need to do what we talked about with your blog. The blog is doing okay. I think you have to drive more interest there and try to convert some of those readers to sales.”

  “Kerry, I’m not comfortable with it. I don’t see why I have to insult others to sell books.”

  Those are not words I ever thought I’d hear Izzy say. Of course, the soft tone of her voice and the defeatist fall of her shoulders aren’t things I’ve seen yet, either.

  Kerry waves a hand flippantly. “Stop thinking of it as bad-mouthing. Think of it as playful. Joking around. Showing a new dimension to your personality that attracts people.”

  “Surely, if what I’m doing is mean, people wouldn’t like me. How would that help sales?”

  “Look.” Kerry’s tone shifts to annoyance. For some unknown reason, I have an urge to walk out there, give her what for, and take Izzy away from the situation. “Any traffic is good traffic, Izzy. This isn’t a joke. People have put money behind this book. And I thought you told me this book was your chance to prove something, huh? That you can be who you want to be and make a success of it?”

  The physical shift in Izzy is visible. The change in the air is palpable. Whoever Izzy has to prove something to, the person is worth trying something she doesn’t really want to do. She nods. “You’re right. Fine. I’ll do what it takes.”

  Yep, that’s more like the Izzy I’ve seen.

  I try to work but the constant stop, restart, boom boom freakin’ boom, is driving me crazy. An amped microphone projects Izzy’s shouted instructions along the corridor. And, yeah, maybe curiosity gets the better of me.

  My next PT client is coming in three minutes. So, I find myself moving along the corridor to Studio A. No wonder the music is so loud; they’re filming with the doors open. Huge amps, the s
ize my band used to gig with in high school, are lined along one wall of the open space.

  “All right, ladies. Let’s take it from the top.”

  Restart and boom, boom, boom. My head is going to explode in time to this fucking track. Out in the empty corridor I stubbornly fold my arms across my chest. I watch as Izzy begins to salsa. She moves one foot forward then back, her hip rolling under her tight leggings.

  “Let’s get some sexy arms involved, ladies. Show me how hot you are.”

  With smiles on their faces, Izzy’s fake clients move their hands over their bodies as they follow her moves. But there’s only one person in that room I cannot take my eyes off. I imagine dancing with her. Rolling my pelvis against hers. Running my hands up her sides where her own are touching. And I’m doing it. I’m salsa dancing in the corridor. I’m moving my feet Latin-style. Holding out my arm as if I were gripping her waist and moving with her pressed against me.

  “Brooks?”

  I spin quickly and come face-to-face with Daryl—six four, built like the Rock, and my fucking client.

  I stop dead, my arm still around Izzy’s invisible waist. I look at my arm, as if this really cannot be happening. As if I didn’t just get caught salsa dancing by my most butch client. I clear my throat. In the most masculine voice I can muster—somewhere between Johnny Cash and Barry White—I tell Daryl, “Let’s get to it, man.”

  * * * *

  By lunch, Studio A has been cleared and the gym is in the process of being restored to normality. I have undoubtedly lost man points with one of my clients today but the gym may have gained more followers. Which really raises the still lingering question: Do I want to franchise the gym?

  My cell rings as I’m unstrapping my hands after fitting in half an hour on the punch bags. I use the strap to wipe sweat from my forehead and swipe my thumb across Cady’s picture.

  “Hey baby.”

  “Hey, Dad. I’m on Fifth Avenue. I was supposed to be meeting a friend but her mom had some kind of drama and she has to babysit her kid brother. Anyway, she’s going to be at least another hour and a half. Do you want to meet?”

  I check the large clock on the boxing room wall. It’s almost four and my next client is booked at six thirty. “Ah, yeah, sure. Let me grab a quick shower. Where should I meet you?”

  “Mmm, outside the Lindt store?”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  “Cool. Oh, and Dad, don’t wear your sweatpants, okay?”

  My next breath comes short and hard through my nose. “You know, five years ago you thought I was cool.”

  * * * *

  Fifth Avenue is as packed as ever, with people carrying shopping bags, women strutting in ludicrously priced heels, men in suits walking with cell phones and paying no attention to the people they’re bumping into. Tourists stop to unfold and read a map, completely failing to grasp the grid system.

  I spot Cady walking out of Lindt. Her hair is still pink. Her skater dress is teamed with black lace-up boots today and her leather jacket is tied around her waist. I dodge the traffic and run across the road to meet her, coming up behind her as she’s about to put a dark chocolate Lindt ball into her mouth.

  “You shouldn’t eat too much of that stuff. It’s just a ball of fat and sugar.”

  She turns to face me and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly as she puts the whole ball into her mouth with a satisfied groan.

  “That’s disgusting,” I tell her. She chuckles and covers her mouth as she bites down on the ball.

  We set off walking without a plan. When her mouth is empty, she tells me, “I’ll give up chocolate if you give up beer.”

  I narrow my eyes and pretend to mull that over. Then I grab her shoulder and turn her back toward Lindt. “Let’s get you another bag of those.”

  She giggles and I swear, my life may not have panned out the way I would have liked, but if there’s one thing I am proud of, it’s this girl.

  We window-shop with take-out drinks. I get the lowdown on what’s hot and what’s not when you’re eighteen these days. I’m lucky enough to get to sit on a chair in Abercrombie & Fitch and wait for Cady to try things on. Two young men with pecs and tans give me peculiar looks. A couple of girls, younger than Cady, bat their eyelids at me.

  “Cady, are you done? I need to get out of here before I’m arrested.”

  She comes swinging out from behind a red curtain, carrying two check shirts across her arm. “Do you want those?” I ask.

  “Yes, but I have money.”

  Those five words thrill me. She knows the value of money. That’s something I want her to know and I’m not sure many kids do these days. I take the shirts from her. “Since you didn’t ask, I’ll get these.”

  When we’re paid up, Cady swings her bag as she walks. She seems to have grown happier since we were last together and I decide not to bring up the older boyfriend or underage drinking again. Not this time. Something tells me my girl could just use some love today.

  “Ooh, could we pop into Barnes & Noble? Then I’m going to have to love and leave you because Meghan is on her way.”

  “Sure, kiddo. What are you doing with Meghan anyway?” I hold open the door to Barnes & Noble for her to walk in ahead of me.

  “Just going to grab some food, and maybe a movie.”

  I can live with that. Cady takes off ahead of me and I’m left alone, doing a double take when I catch a face I recognize pinned to a sign by the cashier’s desk.

  IZZY COULTHARD

  AUTHOR OF BE GREEN. BE CLEAN.

  SIGNING, TODAY, 5:30 P.M.

  I check my watch as an irrational sense of panic makes my insides judder. She must be here now. Thumping my chest in a King Kong–esque way to kill the erratic beat beneath, I head in search of Cady.

  Not seeing her on the ground floor, I move upstairs. At the far end of the store, next to the café, I spot Izzy. She’s alone, sitting behind a table, with her phone in her hand and a stack of her books at her side. Her head is down and she seems to sigh as her fingers move across her cell screen.

  My stomach seems to become weightless. She’s an ass, I know. A beautiful ass but still a self-important ass. But her conversation with Kerry today, the way she stood, defeated, and now, seeing her alone at the table, I don’t know, maybe it melts my iron heart or something.

  I don’t know how long I stand there watching her, hoping someone will take a book to her and ask her to sign it. I contemplate going myself, but she’s more likely to think I’m gloating than genuinely asking her to sign a book I’ll never read.

  As if she senses me gawking, she raises her head. I panic, shuffling right, then darting left behind a shelf of books. I pin my back to the shelf, panting, as if I’ve just run a record time in the New York Marathon.

  “Dad, what are you doing?”

  I roll my head to the right and see Cady. My eyes quickly follow hers to the label on the shelf in front of her. “Erotic romance!”

  “Dad, shut up. Jesus!”

  I’m at her side in a flash and see the Fifty Shades trilogy in her hands. She needn’t know I’ve actually read the thing. No one needs to know that. But in light of the fact I have read it… “No way!” I take the books from her hands and plant them back on the shelf.

  “I’m not five, Dad. I do know what sex is.”

  Christ. “And if some boy sees you reading that stuff, he’s going to think it’s an open invitation to take a flogger to your ass. Let’s go.”

  “Oh my God. How do you even know what a flogger is?”

  Am I allowed to laugh in this situation?

  “Out. Now.” I turn her by the shoulders and fight my smirk behind her back as I guide her down the staircase and out to the street.

  “Oh, Meghan’s there. See you, Dad.”

  Just like that, I’m abandoned on Fifth Avenue, my
face uncharacteristically burning red for more than one reason.

  I take out my cell phone and dial Sarah.

  “Hey, you!” she answers. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Sarah. Could you do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Could you maybe round up a few friends and head to Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue? The, ah, salsa guru you like has a signing there. I…I don’t even know why I’m asking but could you go get a book signed? I’ll buy it. Get one for Becky and Madge too. Or, better, take them if they can get here like, yesterday.”

  “Uh, I’m going to ask you more about this later but sure, I can do that.”

  Chapter 8

  izzy

  This is mortifying. Maybe my parents were right. God, if they could see me now. That song pops into my head, “If My Friends Could See Me Now,” from the musical and movie Sweet Charity. Except, if my friends could see me now, I’m not eating fancy chips and drinking fancy wine. No, I’m sitting at a table in Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue, feeling utterly embarrassed. One book. From the stack of twenty on the table and the box full of additional copies hidden by my feet, I’ve sold and signed one copy of my book.

  “It’s one signing, Izzy. It’s your first signing. We’ll work on more promo,” Kerry tells me, returning from wherever she disappeared to ten minutes ago.

  It doesn’t matter what she says because I know this is bad. Presales aren’t going well. It’s my first book, so I knew it wouldn’t hit the best-seller lists or anything—although there was a small part of me that hoped—but so far it has sold a couple thousand copies, that’s it.

  How can I go home and look my parents in the face and tell them I made the right decision to follow my heart, then immediately ask them to write me a check to help with my rent?

  Maybe Mum is right. I should give up on my need to perform and be something more than ordinary. Perhaps I should do something stable. Something with a steady income that could pay my rent.