by Laura Carter
* * * *
Yesterday’s argument seemingly did not have the desired effect because I’m sitting at my desk, trying not to stare at the delicate line of Izzy’s neck, as she sits in the desk she never moved from my office. My stomach grumbles like a JCB picking up gravel.
“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.”
Chapter 15
Izzy
Little blog. I’ll show him.
I pull up the hood of my black zip-up, which I’ve teamed with black skinny jeans for the task at hand. I’m definitely more unobtrusive in the low light of dusk than if I were wearing my luminous yoga pants.
I had a cab drop me a couple of blocks from Sky Rink and I’m walking, with my head down, along the sidewalk to the building. It’s seven forty-five. I figure if I can get into an inconspicuous position before Brooks and his friends arrive, I’ll be able to take pictures of him entering the building. Hopefully, I’ll follow them inside and catch him in action, playing hockey after I’ve expressly told him not to.
Then we’ll see how he likes my blog.
I can visualize the post title now. “BROOKS ADAMS, CHEAT.” It’s going to be fabulous.
In the parking lot of the skating rink, I start to use the stationary vehicles to shield my approach to the main entrance. I tiptoe, checking my blind spots as I move, until I come to the wall east of the entrance. I tuck in behind it and take a moment to channel my inner ninja, checking to make sure my camera, well, iPhone, is still in the arse pocket of my jeans.
There’s no sign of Brooks and his friends just yet. At the sound of an incoming car, I pop my head around the wall and look. I wait for the driver to turn off the engine and step out, holding my breath. It’s not Brooks. Darn.
A tap on my shoulder startles me. I jump back against the wall and find myself looking at a tall man wearing a security uniform. Oops.
“Ma’am, can you explain what you’re doing here?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, sir; I must seem suspicious but I promise I’m not causing trouble. I’m spying on someone, that’s all.”
“Why are you whispering?”
I look left and right as if I’ll find the answer and whisper, “I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll ask you again. What are you doing sneaking around these premises? I’d appreciate it if you could speak up.”
Clearing my throat and straightening my back, I tell him. “I’m spying on someone. He’s going to play ice hockey and I need to get a picture of him.”
With a perplexed look, the security officer tucks his thumbs into his thick leather belt. “I see. Ice hockey is code. Is this someone having an affair?”
“Huh? No. He— It’s a long story. He’s supposed to salsa dance and only salsa dance. He can’t play hockey. It’s against the rules.”
“The rules? Ma’am, are you feeling okay? Would you like me to take you somewhere to lie down?”
“What? No, you don’t understand.”
“No, ma’am, I don’t. Listen, I can’t have you sneaking around here in an outfit like that. You must know that you look like you’re up to no good.”
I look down over my hoodie, jeans, and black ankle boots. “Erm, well, I can see why you would think that.” I check my watch and sigh. “Damn it, it’s past eight. I’m going inside, sir. I won’t be troubling you anymore.”
“Look, I have no idea what you are or aren’t doing but you seem a harmless kind of insane. How about you take down your hood, head inside, and don’t sneak around here in future?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
I slip down my hood and walk, like a normal person, to the main entrance. Inside, I put my hood back up and tiptoe to the ticket desk. The woman behind the counter looks up at me. “How can I help?”
“I need access to the ice rink, please.”
“Do you have a session booked?”
“Ah, no. Actually, I just need to speak to someone who does.”
The lady taps on her computer keys. “I’m sorry, the rink isn’t booked right now.”
“It isn’t? Are you sure? I heard my, ah, colleague, say he had a reservation for eight p.m. tonight.”
“You can go through and take a look if you like, but that rink should be empty.”
“I will take a look, if that’s okay?”
She shrugs. “Be my guest.”
I follow signs for the ice rink, still hunched over, still tiptoeing, still hooded. When I get to the rink, the rental shed is empty, except for one worker playing on his phone behind the desk. The rink is dimly lit by an overhead light but it is 100 percent, truly, really, empty.
I take out my phone and dial Kerry. “He isn’t here. I think he played me. I don’t think he was ever coming, Kerry.”
“Conniving, deceitful… Well, you’re going to have to think of something else, Izzy. Posting about him ordering eggs and how your training is going just isn’t going to draw enough interest.”
I hate this. I hate that my book isn’t enough to sell itself. But I have something to prove. I must remember the bigger picture. “I’ll think of something.”
I walk to the edge of the rink and lean on the wood wall around the perimeter. The chill from the ice hits me and takes me back to memories of my childhood. Running my hand along the rim of the rink, I make my way to the gate and bend down, sliding my fingertips along the cold ice.
Gosh, I remember how it felt. I remember how the cold would seep through my clothes when I fell. How it would chill me to the bone at first, until I got moving.
“Excuse me. Can I help you?”
I walk over to the guy behind the rental desk. “No, thank you. I thought a friend was supposed to be here right now but I must have been mistaken.”
“The rink is free if you want to skate?”
I put my hands in my pockets and look back at the ice, remembering that last fall. The fall that gave my mother leverage to tell me to quit figure skating. God, I loved it before that fall. One broken arm was all it took for my mother to make the seed of fear grow. Just another thing I loved that she stopped me from doing. All because she wanted me to focus on more “highbrow” life options.
Could I do it? Could I still skate?
I look back at the guy and past him to the rows of rental skates. “Do you have any figure skates?”
“Sure do.”
I give him my size and the next thing I know, my feet are strapped into white skates and I’m standing on the threshold of the gate and the ice.
I used to be an amazing skater. I had so many friends in my classes. When things got serious, when the competitions started to take up time that my mother thought I should spend doing spelling and math, she started talking to me about how I could hurt myself. She planted the seed and it grew, until the fear made it happen.
The overhead sound system breaks into my trance. “Defying Gravity” from the musical Wicked begins. I take a breath and step onto the ice. I let the gentle momentum nudge me forward, until I can no longer hang on to the side.
Eventually, I nudge myself forward with one foot and glide slowly with the other. Picking up pace, I’m soon halfway around the enormous rink, then back to where I started.
I grip the safety of the gate and start to laugh. I made it. I push off again and do another lap, then another, and another. Each time I get quicker.
On my fifth or sixth lap, I dare to turn and skate backward. I pick up speed and start flying around the rink. The wind of my motion blows against me. I hold out my arms and close my eyes, letting my feet guide me around the slick ice.
My skin feels flushed. My lungs are working hard. My pulse is racing, as I go and go and just keep bloody going. I feel light, weightless, free, and defiant all at once.
Maybe I used to be scared but now I feel the exhilaration that follows when fear is conquered. Fear can lead to freedom.
I have no idea how long I skate for before I start to do tricks. First, I skate on one leg, then I kick up into a flying camel, amazed I can still do it. On my final lap, I build my speed until I can’t go any faster, like I’ve reached the peak of a mountain I’ve been climbing. I bring myself to the middle of the ice and start to spin on the spot, a basic one-foot move. In a split-second, crazy decision, I bring one leg behind me, bending it toward my head, and take hold of my skate. I’m stiffer than I used to be but I’m doing it. I’m doing the bloody haircutter spin! I turn and turn, elated and energized, until my momentum stops and I stop with it.
I lower my leg and bend over my knees to catch my breath, laughing with pure joy, the kind I don’t often feel, the kind that should be cherished.
Chapter 16
brooks
The first thought I have is, So she did come here trying to catch me. The second thought is, Wow. Drew and Kit stop alongside me and we watch Izzy skate. She flies around the rink, fearlessly, like a fine sports car, smooth and wild all at once, magnificent.
We watch her move into the middle of the rink, and as the music builds to a crescendo, so does she. She starts to spin, and then her leg is up toward the back of her head, her back bowed. All I can do is watch in awe.
“Tell me this is the woman who is driving you half-insane,” Kit says.
I can’t take my eyes off Izzy. I’m fixated, like a child seeing something enchanting, magical, for the first time.
“’Cause all I can think is, are you in-freaking-sane for not wanting to tear this woman’s clothes off?”
I wrench my eyes away from Izzy just long enough to glower at Kit, then turn back to the scene in front of me. She stops twirling and bends over her knees, giggling. She looks happy. Truly happy. Exquisite.
Her laughter stops in an instant when all eleven of the guys I’m with start to clap and whistle. I can only concentrate on stopping my heart from pounding right out of my chest.
Izzy starts to skate toward the exit of the rink, and the guys sit on benches to suit up. Drew is last to move. He drops a hand on my shoulder. “You like her.”
“Nah, she’s just another Alice. A rich girl messing with a poor kid’s head.”
“Except you’re not that kid anymore. From where I’m standing, you’re in big trouble, Adams. Big trouble.”
“I’m starting to worry about that.”
I hardly feel my legs as they move me, mindlessly, toward her.
She steps off the ice, the change in momentum bringing her closer to me than she probably intended. “So, you changed the rink time to fool me.”
Up until this moment, I had completely forgotten about that. “So, you tried to catch me cheating. I may not have a degree in English literature from Cambridge, and I may not have come from much, but I’m not stupid. Look how your master plan backfired, Coulthard. Now I’m the one with you on camera not sticking to my rules.”
She swallows so hard I see it in her throat. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And how do you even know I have a degree in English literature?”
“I read the bio on your blog.”
“Whatever. What are you going to do with the pictures?”
Since I have no actual pictures because I was too busy gawking, I’m not doing much. But she doesn’t need to know that. “I want to run.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to run, in place of two dance sessions a week, or in addition to them. And I want to do light weights.”
She plants her hands on her hips and stares at me. I can almost see her cogs whirring. “Two runs, no longer than an hour, and toning, with your own body weight.”
“Fine.”
“And you’ll call a truce on the skating?”
“You also have to let me play hockey.”
“Fine.”
“And I want protein. Something lean. Chicken will do.”
“No. I draw the line at running, toning, and hockey.”
It was worth a try. “Fine. Agreed.”
“You’d better be true to your word, Brooks Adams.”
“If I’m anything, I’m a man of my word.”
She nods. “Shake on it?”
I take her offered hand. Despite her pink cheeks, her fingertips are cold. “Off the record, you looked unbelievable out there.”
I see the flicker of a smile before she puts her pout back in place. “There’s no room for compliments in business, Adams.”
She struts, as well as she can in figure skates, and my lips curl as I watch her walk away.
“Brooks! Let’s play! Get your skates on,” Kit shouts.
“Coming.”
* * * *
Day 3.
My member is as hard as steel when I wake. I don’t remember the specifics but Izzy showed me a damn good time during the night. There was definitely reverse cowgirl in there, and I’m pretty certain she let me venture to the never-never region.
I hit my 6:00 a.m. alarm to shut the thing up and cave in to the inevitable. Bringing my tissues within easy reach, I take my hand to my cock and let my mind
go to Izzy. Her ass in Lycra. Her tits in those little white T-shirts she wears in the mornings. The roll of her hips in my hands as she dances.
Ah, yeah, like that…
* * * *
“You’re late,” Izzy says, moving the breakfast shake she has already made along her kitchen counter toward me. The easygoing, happy Izzy from the skating rink is gone.
She’s wearing one of those T-shirts and tiny shorts again. The skin of my neck heats. “Sorry, I had a few e-mails to deal with.” And I needed to fuck you in my head. You were good, by the way. That rich-girl attitude didn’t make an appearance.
I rustle up an omelet for Izzy and we sit next to each other on stools to eat. Or, in my case, drink breakfast. I seriously can’t wait until I’m allowed to eat real food again. I can feel my body shedding muscle and pounds on a daily basis. It’s killing me.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, wondering if she’s struggling as much as I am.
“Fat. Incredibly fat. It’s starting to make me feel… Never mind.”
“Go on.”
She stares down at the omelet she’s pushing around her plate. “Ugly.”
“Ugly? Are you joking right now? Izzy, you couldn’t look ugly.” The words seem to leave my mouth without my synapses firing messages. Yet, I don’t try to qualify the statement. It’s true. With the exception of the first day we met, she hardly ever wears makeup. She’s in sports gear most of the time. And I’ve never met a more naturally stunning woman in my life.
She exhales heavily. “I understand what you say, you know, about me putting on some muscle. I just find it hard.” She looks at me, as if she’s wondering whether to continue. We don’t exactly do heart-to-hearts. For some reason, she decides to talk. “I went to an all-girls private school. You’re probably thinking lesbian activity, right?”
“I swear I wasn’t until you put that into my mind. Now, yes, I confess I have a few questions about the shower cubicles.”
She pushes my shoulder roughly, but her forlorn look changes to a smile. “It wasn’t like that. It was bitchy and pretentious. It was a constant competition to be the best at everything. Academics. Sports, of the right variety, like polo and dressage. The way you dressed and did your hair. Your weight.