Playing to Win

by Laura Carter

  I try calling Cady one more time before I leave the gym for the day. This time, I know she sends me to voice mail.

  After making myself a quinoa salad—don’t eat that stuff unless someone pays you to do so—I slump down on the sofa. I reach for my guitar. When my hand grips nothing but air, I remember Izzy has it.

  No guitar. No Izzy. No Cady. No Alice. No plans with friends. Have I mentioned it’s fucking Friday night?

  Opening my fridge, I see at least I have beer to keep me company. I reach for a bottle of Bud but stop and take the can of club soda next to it. Not because Izzy would tell me not to have beer. Not because I would break another rule by having a beer. But because I don’t want to turn to beer when I’m alone. I choose the can of club soda for me, no one else.

  I pop the ring and take it to the window, where I stare out at the red bricks of the building opposite. I’ve saved Cady’s college fund. I have lived with this view for six years, knowing I could afford something better but not wanting to waste money. Not wanting to spend money I could put into Cady’s fund. Not wanting to admit that I came from nothing but now I do have money. That I have made my own wealth. What am I trying to prove by staying here? That I’m not like Alice?

  Through the window of an apartment in the building opposite mine, I see a woman answer a door and welcome friends into her place. I think of my friends. I think of Drew and Sarah. How they try to push me to be better. How Drew wants me to franchise the gym. He’s offering to help me and I haven’t even looked into it seriously.

  Is it because I’m done trying to make something better of myself to prove that I deserve Alice? What about what I want?

  I’m thirty-five years old. I can’t work myself to the bone training forever. At some point, I need to let younger guys come in. At some point, I should take my own advice and decide what the hell I want to do, for me.

  My cell chimes and I rush to it. I wonder whether it will be Izzy, alone and wanting to call a truce. Do I want to call a truce?

  The reason I don’t want to is the very face that is flashing on the screen of my cell phone.

  “Cady.”

  “I’m still pissed at you. But I’ve been talking with Mom and, since I’m on house arrest otherwise, do you want to have breakfast tomorrow?”

  I chuckle. “Yes, baby. I would love to take you to breakfast tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  Day 11.

  Cady chose the quirky café we’re sitting in. It’s Japan meets New York. The wall of windows looks out toward the Hudson River. One wall is brick—city-style. Another is painted with two geishas holding fans and standing outside a Japanese teahouse. The third wall is lined with shelves that are decorated in an array of teapots—fine, floral-patterned china; Asian-style pots with iron handles and matching miniature cups; English teapots with images of the royals and Big Ben.

  Apparently, this week’s thing is tea. Cady has become a tea connoisseur, as well as a brunette. I decide not to comment on her change of hair color, knowing exactly why she has lost the pink look. The tea focus could be the result of an article in a magazine, or the fact Alice has placed her under “house arrest” for throwing her guts up earlier in the week.

  Cady orders blueberry pancakes with syrup and a tasting tray of different teas. I contemplate bacon and eggs but opt for a mango smoothie made with coconut milk, boosted with a shot of protein, and finished with blackberries. It was the berries that clinched the deal.

  “Okay, who are you and where did my dad go?” Cady asks when our server leaves us.

  “Some of these shakes aren’t so bad. They make you feel sort of…clean. Just don’t ever tell Izzy I said that.” I wince once the words are out of my mouth, knowing I went straight to the most taboo topic I could have chosen.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I’m cool about it now. I mean, I’m still pissed at you both, but Mom and I had a chat about it.…” She shrugs.

  “You and your mom talked about Izzy and me?” Something inside me flutters. But what’s new is, the reason isn’t the mention of Alice, or that Alice has been talking about me. It’s that simple phrase: Izzy and me.

  “Do you think I don’t know why you never drop me at home?” she goes on.

  I shuffle in my chair, out of my comfort zone.

  “Don’t worry, Mom says she thinks it’s because you don’t like knowing I live with someone in a father-figure role who isn’t you. But I know you don’t really have girlfriends. I know if it weren’t for Uncle Drew and Aunty Sarah, you would spend all your time between the four walls of your apartment and the gym.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Stop being childish, Dad.”

  “What the—”

  “Shh, just listen. I know by the way you talk about Mom that you never got over her. Thing is, you always talk about the two of you when you were teenagers. Younger than I am now, even. So, I don’t agree with Mom. I think you don’t pick me up because you’re stuck with an idea of what could have been.”

  I lean back into my seat and roll my jaw. I’m about to argue, tell her she’s wrong, but she has nailed me right on. It’s just as impressive as it is annoying. “When did you get so grown up?”

  “I have my moments.” A server sets down Cady’s selection of teas. “Thanks. Anyway, Mom and I both agree on one thing.”

  “Enlighten me, Dalai Lama.”

  She sips from her first miniature cup of tea and rolls her eyes at me as she does. “Izzy pulls you out of your comfort zone. She makes you do things you would never do. Like dancing, and having public arguments. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. My point is, Izzy seems to have an effect on you that no one else has ever had.”

  “You and your mom spoke about this?”

  “Yes. And we’re both happy for you. Even if Izzy isn’t ‘the one.’” She uses her index fingers for air quotes. “Maybe she’s waking you up. I love you, Dad, but you should have more in your life than that gym.”

  I stare at my daughter, wondering when she got so smart. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I like to think of the old Alice, but she isn’t the same person anymore. Maybe I’m not the same boy I was back then, either.

  “She told me to apologize to you, by the way. Izzy, I mean. She obviously never meant to hurt your feelings.”

  “I know. I read her latest blog post.”

  My stomach sinks. “Christ, what has she posted now?”

  “You haven’t seen it?”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t be asking.”

  She grunts, like she’s the adult fed up with my attitude. “You should read it. You should also go see her after breakfast.”

  “That’s difficult, since she won’t speak to me.”

  “Because you never told her about me. It’s okay. I get why you might not have wanted to. Sometimes we want to pretend we’re something else, right?”

  “I would never want to pretend I don’t have the most amazing daughter in the world, Cady. I adore you, you know that. I guess it just didn’t come up, and it was easier to show Izzy a simplified version of myself—a single guy who would argue with her for two weeks, then wave her off to London.”

  “Well, the London part I can’t really solve for you. But if you read her blog post, I don’t think you will be so afraid to see her.”

  I feel my eyes narrow. “What does this post say?”

  “You’ll see.”

  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 t
he 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?”

  His lips rise at one side in the kind of half smile that liquefies women, this woman. “Fuck it, I miss that too.”

  “What about kale smoothies?” I giggle, less at what I’m saying and more at the giddy relief I’m feeling, which is making my body tingle.

  “Too far, Coulthard. I draw the line at kale smoothies.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’ve missed your steak and eggs.”

  He winks at me and the power of that move, together with his half smile, has me practically wetting my knickers.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Cady. I should have.”

  “I guess I understand why you might not have told me. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. Even if you had been having a sexual encounter with an eighteen-year-old with pink hair, I shouldn’t have gone public with it.”

  “We both seem to have a few things to work on, huh?”

  I nod. “It would seem that way.”

  “How about we get through the next few hours here and you let me take you home?”

  “I’d like that a lot.”

  “You know it sucks that I can’t take you to dinner.”

  “Maybe when our fourteen days are up.” As I say those words, I feel the mood shift between us. It’s day eleven. On day fourteen we end this charade. On day fifteen, I fly back to London. We both know that a dinner date can’t happen any time soon.

  As if he hears my thoughts, Brooks leans across the table and presses his palm to my cheek. “We don’t have to think about that now.”

  I lean into his palm and close my eyes, wanting to see and feel nothing but his touch.

  * * * *

  I’m standing by a table in the bistro, my sports bag on a chair, waiting for Brooks to finish up.

  My iPhone tells me I have six missed calls and two voice messages from my mother. I hit Play. “Isabella, we need to talk. This has got out of ha—”

  I happily cut her off when Brooks appears through the double doors into reception. Charlie walks by his side. Otherwise, the gym is empty.

  Brooks’s lips break into a beam when he sees me. The kind that feels like he has folded me into his big warm arms. “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “Yep.” Picking up my bag, I almost skip toward him.

  “I’ll lock up, Charlie,” he says. “You have a good night.”

  “’Night, boss. ’Night, Izzy.”

  “Good night, Charlie.” I like her so much more now she’s stopped scowling at me all the time.

  On the sidewalk, Brooks locks the doors and tucks me under his arm. We walk like this all the way back to our block. When we reach the twelfth floor, he stops outside his apartment and takes my hand. “Let’s stay here tonight.”

  I feel one eyebrow rise. “The secret fortress?”

  “Otherwise known as home.”

  I run my hands down his back and bite his shoulder through his T-shirt as he opens the door, all the while I’m feeling like we’ve crossed an invisible barrier.

  He flicks on the lights and takes the bag from my shoulder as we both slip out of our training shoes. I pad, barefoot, into the whitewashed space. It’s similar to the apartment I’m staying in but this one feels bigger and cleaner. Homier too, although it does have a single-man feel about it.

  I clock three guitar stands in the lounge. One holds an electric guitar, another a bass guitar, and one is empty. Brooks draws sheer curtains closed across the floor-to-ceiling windows, hiding us from the apartments in the building opposite. He has a large flat-screen TV opposite an L-shaped sofa. The bright abstract artwork on the walls steals my attention. He has three canvases. One is splatters of bright paint on a white background. Another looks like a pathway to heaven—a long gray path leading to the sky. Around the path are what look like random items—a guitar, an American football, a hockey stick, boxing gloves—but the more I look, the more I see Brooks.

  “Did you commission this?” I
ask, turning to where Brooks is standing watching me with his arms folded across his chest.

  He shakes his head. “Actually, Cady painted it.”

  Right, his daughter. “It’s very impressive.”

  I move to the opposite wall, lured by a giant canvas of an eye that looks like a photograph blown up to size. The eye is beautiful. A bright blue iris with flecks of gray and silver. The pupil is big, making me wonder whether the camera didn’t flash when the photograph was taken. There are no lines around the eye, only soft, pale skin. “This is stunning.”

  I feel Brooks as he comes to my side, his arm gently grazing mine. “That’s Cady’s eye.”

  “She’s a really big part of your life, isn’t she?” I keep my focus on the image, knowing my words seem peculiar and not understanding why I’m asking the question, except that I’m both jealous and awed. Such a strange mix of emotions.

  “She’s my daughter, Iz.”

  Just like that. It’s so simple to him. It should be to me too. If she’s such a huge part of Brooks, I should want to know her. “Do you think maybe I could meet her?” I ask, a small part of me hoping he says no.

  “I’ll see if she’s free tomorrow.” He turns me to face him and takes the tie from my hair, letting the loose tendrils fall onto my shoulders. As he strokes his fingers through my locks and presses his lips to my neck, I roll my head to the side and close my eyes, indulging in his touch.

  “I missed you,” he whispers against my ear, taking the lobe between his teeth.

  I slide my hands beneath his shirt, craving the feel of his firm torso and the press of his warm skin against my fingertips. “I missed you too.”

  “I’d like to take you to my bed.”

  I answer him by pressing my lips to his. There’s something about this kiss that’s different from before. Less frantic, sweeter, deeper somehow. Or perhaps it’s the way it is making me feel, as if there’s no room for anything more in my chest before it has got to explode.

  He breaks our contact, taking my hand in his and leading me down the corridor to his bedroom. It’s much bigger than mine and has a large en suite. He lights up the room, then dims the lights. He moves to the bed and sits, tugging me so I’m standing in front of him, between his open legs. His eyes are fixed on mine as he hooks his fingers inside my yoga pants and knickers—fresh on after showering in the gym, just in case. He draws them down an inch and makes me hiss my next breath as his teeth and lips connect with the sensitive flesh over my hipbone. He tugs them another inch, then another, each time sucking and nibbling the skin he uncovers.