by Maria Benson
José and I hadn’t made it to the sign-in desk when Bobby burst out from a side door. “Mikey, what up, Homie!” He popped fists with me, then José. “Young ‘un, you ready to hold your own?”
“I got you, man,” José replied, showcasing every tooth in his mouth with an ear-to-ear grin. My nephew the wrestler was in good enough shape to hang with me and Bobby on the weights, and in addition to camaraderie I figured exposing him to a place like this would encourage him to start earning and saving money of his own.
I frowned at the way José lit up in Bobby’s presence, wondering if he was receiving any training from my friend about how to enhance his own love life. Unlike me, José wasn’t old enough to know which of Bobby’s “principles” to disregard.
Even as we checked in at the front desk, I fended off Bobby’s inquiries about my latest sexual partners. “Later, man,” I replied, elbowing him away from me as I held out my membership card for scanning. He knew I didn’t like to discuss my transformation and “lesson plans” within José’s earshot.
As we hunted for open lockers while José headed out onto the floor, Bobby chuckled. The locker room was already steamy, permeated by the competing scents of male stink, cologne sprays, deodorants and pungent shaving creams. “Glad to hear you finally notched another one last night, Mikey. Ever since Aimee batted her eyes your way, I’ve been worried about you.”
Stowing my bag, I frowned. “How so?”
Bobby shook his head. “You still want her, more than any other woman, don’t ya? It’s kind of freakin’ me out, to be honest.”
I shrugged. “You don’t need to read my mind, Bobby. I wouldn’t kick Aimee out of bed, but until I can get her in it I’ll work with other occupants.”
Bobby was undeterred, nearly stepping on the heels of my gym shoes as he trailed me to the main cardio workout room. “Just remember, bro, she already broke your heart once. You know the saying ol’ Bush mangled, ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice–”
“Yes, Dr. Oz,” I said, “Got it.”
Bobby and I went through a full set of free weight bench lifts with José, but by the time we climbed aboard neighboring elliptical machines he still wouldn’t shut up about Aimee. “Look, I get that you want a storybook ending like Scott’s–the hot wife, cute kids and picket fence.” He was shouting over the blare of Pharrell and Miley Cyrus’s “Come Get it Bae.” “You gotta take time to really build your skills first, though, or you’ll wind up right back where you started.”
Grunting, I gripped the control panel of my machine, wondering what I had to do to shut Bobby up. A random glance to my right and I had my answer. This Asian-looking woman on a nearby treadmill was too much. She was a well-toned, leggy but evenly proportioned vision in a pair of “second-skin” black shorts and a form-fitting charcoal-patterned tank top. She was my favorite height, which is to say she was five foot ten. This meant she was tall for a woman but short enough to look up to me. I was falling in lust, moment by moment. She was a wonder.
As I hopped off my elliptical, Bobby sidled up alongside and put a hand on my shoulder. “So Mr. Self-Righteous is scopin’, huh? You sure you wanna do that, Michael? Aimee might get pissed at you!” He was like a playground bully now. “Step aside, young man, I’m going in. Let a real Player show you how it’s done.”
I gave him a stiff-arm. “You want proof I’m still keeping up, right? Besides, you got enough mouths to feed as it is.”
He grinned. “Alright, do your thing.” He nodded toward the nearest free weight bench. “Catch her eye with some moves first.”
We settled in at a bench across the way from Wonder Woman. Throwing on my lifting gloves, I settled back onto the bench and gritted my teeth as Bobby loaded two hundred pounds’ worth of weight onto the bar. This was a little heavier than I usually started with, but I was pressing to impress. In the words of Rule #1, it was time to literally project strength.
As I sweated and grunted through my first set of reps, Bobby stood over me and coached. “Push that bar out, Mikey! Push it! Arch your back, dammit, thrust those hips! Pretend you’re makin’ love to your woman!”
I knew there was a good chance that Wonder Woman might be watching, using my physical fitness as an indicator of my abilities in the sack. I had to perform, and perform well. So I brought plenty of drama as I completed rep after rep, hoping that Wonder Woman was paying attention. I was on my tenth rep of two hundred and fifty pounds when Bobby suddenly yanked the bar off of me.
“What are you doing? I’ve got this.”
Clanging the bar back into place, Bobby leaned over, flooding me with his stale breath. “Yo man, your target is about to get away. You better catch her before she hits the women’s room!”
I stood and inhaled suddenly when I saw Wonder Woman heading for the women’s dressing room. She was getting away. I felt like I was back in college again, watching yet another beautiful woman walk by, before I could fix my mouth to make a play. I wanted to stop her right there and sing Maroon 5’s “Lucky Strike.”
Inhaling, then exhaling deliberately, I swooped in.
“Excuse me,” I said, cycling mentally through one of my more recent scripts. “Can you answer a couple of simple questions for me?”
She paused, hitting me with a pleasantly wary stare. “That depends on the questions.”
“Well, first one is simple. My name’s Michael, what’s yours?”
She accepted my handshake gamely, her smile easing. “Olive. Question number two?”
I pointed toward Bobby, who was busting out a set of squats while keeping both eyes on us. “Olive, my friend over there says you’re too hot for me, way out of my league.” I snapped my fingers. “Quickly–is he right?”
Her smile widened, perfectly white teeth now flashing. “Now Michael, I’d have to be pretty shallow to answer such a loaded question quickly.”
Oh, I was in there now. Time for Rule #4, Treat Conversation like a Competition. “I hear you. Bobby’s statement was ridiculous, wasn’t it? I’m obviously in your league. The tables should really be turned here.”
Despite herself, Olive’s nose wrinkled. “Oh really? You saying I’m not that cute?”
I grinned. “Oh, that’s not it at all. You caught my eye, after I gave up on hitting on half a dozen more attractive women in here.”
She leveled a weighty glare at me. “Point out one of them.”
I waved my hands innocently. “I’ll have to let you make that call. Look, I know I’m no Tom Brady, so sometimes I try and bring a beautiful woman down a peg or two, know what I mean?”
She blushed again, and I smiled inside. “You really know how to lift a girl’s self-esteem, Michael. Don’t be too hard on yourself, by the way. You’re cute.”
I winked. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
She responded with a playful jab to my ribs. “Look, Charmer, I kind of need to get out of here.”
I played as if I was blocking her way to the women’s room. “We should do this again.”
She sighed, then stuck out her lower lip as if unhappy. “How many girlfriends do you have?”
I kept my stare focused and steady. “I am single and free to mingle.” Completely true while being sufficiently murky.
Olive crossed her arms and smiled, cheeks folding up with two adorable dimples. “A long story, huh?”
“Let me share it over dinner some time.”
She looked at me with narrowed eyes, but she was still smiling. “Do you always work out here?”
“Yeah, I’m somewhat of a regular. You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been coming here for a week or so. I have to admit, you’re the most original of the guys who’ve hit on me. Would you be a gentleman if I agreed to go out with you?”
I tried to make my smile as sinister as possible. “I don’t know how to act any other way.”
Olive apparently didn’t mind being late for whatever had been on her calendar; she and I bantered on for the next twenty
minutes. I used my training to seize on her every word, asking questions that kept her talking and made me look like a good listener. I even scored inadvertent points when José came over with a couple of his teen friends, making for a natural opportunity to reveal myself as a loving uncle.
Olive was a Chicago area native but had just recently relocated to Printers Row, after spending her high school and college years in Arizona. Her unique look was explained by an Australian-American mother and a Korean father; I pictured her parents as Daniel Dae-Kim from “Hawaii Five-O” and Nicole Kidman. She was interested in getting back into some local social circles, which I of course offered to help with.
Olive was a professionally trained violinist looking to complete some graduate training and get on with the local symphony. I took her loose connection to the music industry to play up my relevant connections as a Star Studio executive, and secured the Digits in minutes.
Even as I exited the gym a half hour later, with both Bobby’s and Jose’s congratulations ringing in my ears, I wasn’t exactly in fist-pumping mode. Olive was the most beautiful woman I had ever successfully hit on, but my joy at the experience was leavened with a sense that the day’s victory had come a little too easily. I couldn’t explain it–and certainly didn’t try, considering the maturity level of my company at the moment–but this pick-up artist felt just a touch unsettled.
CHAPTER 26
Aimee
“What a mess,” Sarah Lott said. From her seat across the table, she pointed toward the overhead flat screen. Fox Sports had footage of Ian fleeing his Long Island mansion, hustling in vain toward his company Mercedes as a sea of journalists engulfed him. Four in-studio talking heads sat there feasting on his misery, recounting Ray Watkins’ explosive accusations and the drip-drops of rumor and innuendo. Their speculations included Watkins’ newly announced plan to reveal the identity of the supposedly abused mistress.
“They’ve got the noose around his neck, huh?” Sarah shrugged before signaling primly for our waitress. It turned out that Dr. Lott, who had invited me out after I called her about my interest in exploring the gift for public speaking she had observed in me, was a pretty avid sports fan. Throughout our dinner, she had peppered me with knowledgeable questions about my experiences working at ESPN and then for Todd Terry.
I tried to redirect her crude observation about Ian, whom I had decidedly not identified to her as the boyfriend over whom I was grieving. “Those are some pretty ugly accusations being tossed around,” I said. Curiosity getting the best of me, I glanced shyly toward the Doctor, who had insisted I speak to her on a first-name basis. “Sarah, even when someone has hurt you, and you realize you have to move on with your life, does that absolve you of any responsibility concerning their fate?”
Sarah frowned after taking a sip from her coffee. “How so?”
“I mean, let’s just say that you have a bad break-up with a guy and then he’s unfairly attacked for some reason. If you can help him overcome the unfair attack, should you do that?”
Sarah glanced toward the ceiling, sighing. “Well, I would say the answer is yes, within reason of course. It’s not your job to go around watching an ex-boyfriend’s back, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I held up a hand. “Of course not. If there’s one thing reading your latest book has already awakened in me, it’s that I’ve got to start putting myself first. I’ve wasted too many years putting up with nonsense from unfaithful or abusive guys. What I’m talking about, though, is a case where an ex is being unfairly accused regarding his conduct toward me, not just in general.”
Sarah nodded slowly. “I’ve got you, I think. You’re saying if he were accused of having, for instance, abused you physically?”
She was a little too close to the truth, so I redirected. “Or, eh, stealing something from me?”
“Well then, of course it makes sense in those cases to set the record straight if you have the chance. Doing anything less would be spiteful.”
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my arms, seesawing between relief and anxiety. I had come to this dinner, which I had initiated by seeking Sarah out again in the waning moments of last week’s seminar program, looking for both career and life advice. Sarah didn’t know it, but her words felt like a final validation of my decision to take an uncharted path that felt both just and terrifying. Given that it was just a matter of time until Ray Watkins threw my name to the press in order to give the media someone to chase and further extend the allegations against Ian, I wasn’t really sure I had any other choice.
The Ian stories faded from the television screens over the remainder of my dinner with Sarah, allowing me to focus wholly on her advice. “I really think you should consider using your communication skills in the self-help arena,” she said as we wrapped up. “Who knows, you might eventually make a full-time income if you really get into it. You understand your past, you speak clearly about what moves and motivates you, and frankly, you’re gorgeous. When you’re selling advice, it never hurts to look like the girl all women want to be.”
I was embarrassed by Sarah’s kind words, but after weeks enduring the silent treatment from corporate recruiters, her words were a balm to my soul. A new ambition stirred within, but just as quickly I realized that the decision I had made might render me too infamous to achieve the potential Sarah saw in me.
Once Sarah had left, I stayed where I was, checking my phone to confirm that I had a few minutes before my next guest was due to arrive. Though my unread texts included an intriguing note from Michael Blake, whom I still hadn’t followed up with about his proposed make-up drink, I temporarily ignored all of them in order to shoot a cryptic note to Ian.'I’m going through with it, it’s the only choice', I typed. Wiping sudden beads of sweat from my brow, I hit Send.
“Hey, stranger.” I smelled the woman’s rose petal perfume before I saw her. I glanced over my shoulder and found myself looking into the eyes of the always well-appointed Melanie Miller. Tall and athletically built, she wore an expensive-looking pants suit and heels. Her black hair, usually styled in bouncy curls that blanketed her shoulders, was pulled back into a rare ponytail.
I extended a hand toward Sarah’s still-warm seat. “Make yourself at home, Mel.”
She eyed the seat like she thought it had been sprayed with some sort of virus. “Can we, uh, get a booth?” She looked left, then right. “I find fewer fans bug me when I’m at my own table. Sitting at the bar pretty much announces, come on over and bug the shit out of me.”
“Whatever works for you,” I said, grabbing my purse and signaling the bartender. “I don’t have such concerns.”
By the time we were seated, of course, Melanie had better things to do than catch up with me. As she fielded a call from someone whom I guessed was her agent, I resisted the urge to compare our present stations in life. Mel and I had joined ESPN the same year, both of us fresh college grads working in the marketing department. Our four-year run as colleagues had been plagued by a love-hate dynamic. We had gone from thick-as-thieves best friends in year one, to highly competitive colleagues when my early promotion alienated her, to straight-up rivals by the time she quit to take an internship at a sports radio station in her Denver hometown.
Three years later, Mel’s seemingly impulsive move had paid some nice dividends. A quickly-won sidekick gig on the Denver station had led to a co-host job on Chicago’s top sports station. Now I, her former wunderkind boss, sat at her feet, knowing good and well she wanted to hear the words “I’m not worthy.” I wasn’t going there, though. As much as my heartbeat galloped at the thought of what was coming, I was now the one in control. I didn’t need Mel’s help; despite my unemployed, relationship-free state, I was the one with something to offer, something that quite a few journalists would kill for.
“I am so sorry,” Mel said unconvincingly as she set her phone down. “That was my agent. Now what can I do for you?”
“You have it all wrong, Mel,” I said, drawing up ta
ll in my seat and folding my clammy hands. “Turn on your recorder, and listen carefully.” I took a deep breath, praying I sounded confident. “I’m about to make you famous.”
CHAPTER 27
Michael
As I most always did in the spring and summer, I was walking to work along Wacker Drive when my phone buzzed in my pocket. One glance, and I knew the reason for the call. Maxwell never rang before 9:00 a.m.
I reminded myself to be mature, then sucked the snark out of my voice as I answered. “Good morning, sir.”
“Hmm,” he said. “I wish. You happen to check your email before heading out this morning?”
“No, haven’t had a chance.” I returned an elbow to a male passerby who had nearly knocked me into the street. “What’s up?”
Maxwell sighed. “You won’t believe this.”
A smirk nearly rippled my lips as I said, “Try me.” Maxwell went on to tell me what I already knew, that our present CFO Mace Gorman had just resigned and that Beverly had been hired as his replacement. Testing my acting skills, I dropped an expletive or two as evidence of my shock.
Maxwell encouraged me to hustle, saying he wanted to huddle with his staff at nine sharp to discuss the implications. “See you when you’re here. I’ll be the one reclining on my sofa with a morning Scotch.” He chuckled. “And knock before you enter my office. I may have someone like Jessica keeping me company, if you know what I mean.”
Jessica Lew was a luscious customer service manager whom Maxwell had spent quality time with over the past year. Given that I had noted weeks before my transformation that they were on some sort of “break,” I had recently turned the new Michael in her direction. It was another way to make Maxwell pay for underestimating me, in more ways than one.