Losing to Win

by Michele Grant

  “Ri-ight. I’ll get right on that. When are you giving Meshach the cookies?”

  “Girl, cookies?”

  “What, we’re too grown to say cookies? Cupcakes? When are you serving Mr. Knight your special cupcakes?”

  She expelled a deep breath. “As soon as I can find a plate to serve them up on.”

  A knock came at the door and we both jumped. Yes, we had forgotten we were hiding out in the janitor’s closet.

  “Um. Yes?” I asked tentatively.

  “Are you two talking about dessert?” Marcy’s voice came through the door.

  Niecy and I exchanged glances and nodded. Dessert items were far more innocent conversation. Sure, let them think we were talking about sugary treats.

  “We miss cupcakes. Well, one of us does,” Niecy answered with a giggle.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in the confessional, Carissa?”

  With a muffled sigh, I reached for the door and yanked it open. I looked back at Niecy. “I’m heading to the confessional, then I’m shooting promos. No time like the present, girlie. You hear what I’m saying?” This was my clever way of telling Niecy that most of the production staff would be with me for a while if she needed to sneak out to see a certain Knight brother.

  “Bless you and good luck in there!” She grinned at me.

  I had become a pro at the confessional. I gave cutesy answers that didn’t reveal too much but made great sound bites. I bitched semi-good-naturedly about the workouts and the strict diet. I made sure to mention local businesses and talk up the town and then I wrapped it up. The show was using me, I was using them. I should have suspected that they would up the stakes of the game the minute I thought I had it conquered. But I didn’t suspect because I’m just not that damn devious. So I was not prepared when I walked into the confessional and found Jordy already seated there. He looked up and a brilliant smile crossed his handsome features. “Hey, girl.”

  I smiled back. “Hey yourself, good looking.” I couldn’t help flirting a little. He was looking good. Though he hadn’t shed a lot of pounds, he had flattened a lot of that belly and replaced fat with muscle. His face had started to chisel out around his jaw. If Mal was starting to look like a combination of a muscular Idris/Denzel, Jordan was starting to look like a Boris Kodjoe/Shemar Moore combination. I slid onto the sofa next to him. I glanced at the cameras before meeting Jordan’s eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “The pleasure’s entirely mine.” Jordan put his arm around me for a quick squeeze before we settled in to await whatever the production team had up their sleeve this time.

  “We thought we’d shake things up a bit, mix up contestants in the confessional,” Marcy announced from behind the lights. “You ready to get started?”

  “Sure.” I shrugged, anticipating some hot mess.

  “Jordan, you and Carissa shared a kind of heated moment a few weeks back. Where does your relationship stand today?”

  You would think I would be used to it by now, but I wasn’t. I just never got comfortable with people being all up in my business and thinking it was okay. These folks were just gangsta. There was nothing sacred here. You couldn’t show them the slightest bit of weakness or scandal because they would exploit the hell out of it for all the world (or the reality TV–watching public) to see. After seeing how they took comments out of context and spliced scenes together to make them look like something they weren’t, we had all learned to be extra cautious.

  Jordan reached over and squeezed my hand. “Carissa and I have been friends for years and we continue to be.”

  “But don’t you want more?”

  “I think the important thing is that Carissa and I know where we stand with each other and we’re okay with it.”

  “Are you okay with it, Jordy?” she pressed.

  “I’m not a child. If I want something, when I want something, I’ll ask for it,” Jordan answered with some steel in his voice.

  “Carissa, how does Mal react to the closeness you have with Jordan?”

  I was tempted to say “none of your damn business” or “how Mal reacts is not my concern,” but I knew that would only add fuel to the fire. So I smirked and said, “You really have to ask Mal how he feels about things. I wouldn’t dare speak for him.”

  Sensing that was as far as they could take it, Marcy switched gears and started asking us about the competition and how we were feeling. We gave our customary wow-this-is-hard-but-sure-gonna-be-worth-it-in-the-end answers and they cut us loose.

  Jordan and I escaped into the hallway and walked silently to the elevator. “Can we talk a minute?” he asked as the doors slid open. He gestured for me to enter ahead of him. Stepping inside, he leaned next to me against the side wall and pushed the button for the first floor.

  “Not here.” I shook my head and gestured toward the camera.

  He tilted his head down near my ear and spoke quietly. “Should I not stand so close?”

  I didn’t want to play games with him, but I didn’t want to discourage him either. I liked Jordan and was genuinely interested in him. But the timing was terrible. I’d just started something back up with Mal. Yes, it was super-incredible sex, but I’d be lying to myself if I said that’s all it was. Not with our history. When it ended this time, and I was sure it would end, I wasn’t going to be broken with nowhere to land. If that made me selfish, so be it, but I was going to play it straight all the way around and let the chips fall where they may. I looked up at him through my lashes. “Who’s pushing you away?”

  “Rissa, am I in danger of getting my ass kicked here?”

  “For talking to me?”

  His voice went low and sultry. “You know I want to do more than talk to you, Carissa.”

  I flicked a glance at the cameras and inched a little closer. “I know. The interest is mutual. I’m not averse to the idea of exploring our affiliation further. But the timing . . .”

  “I’m always one step behind that damn Malachi, aren’t I?”

  I reached out to stroke his arm. “It’s not about him.”

  “C’mon, now,” he chided.

  “Okay, not all about him. Will you do something for me if I ask?”

  “Just about anything.”

  “Give me a little time.”

  The elevator reached the lobby and the doors opened, but neither of us stepped off. He turned toward me, bracketing his arms on either side of me. “I’m sorry, are you asking me to wait on the sidelines while you sweat Malachi out of your system, and be okay with that?”

  I winced. “It sounds bad when you put it like that.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Your boy’s tryout is in August, right?”

  Apparently everyone knew of Malachi’s aspirations. I nodded. “Yes.”

  “You’ve got until the day after his tryout and then I’m coming for you. I’ll only ask once. If you say no, I finish the show, head back to Georgia, and I’ll send you a holiday card on Facebook once a year. But if you say yes, you have to be all in. No more me or him, no more waiting, all in. Agreed?”

  I nodded. “Agreed.” We stepped out of the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the courtyard. People were milling around waiting to film some promos, so we paused far enough away that no one could hear the conversation.

  “This would be easier if you just tell me now that you’re not interested.”

  When had my life become this complicated? Here I was twenty feet away from the guy I was sleeping with and flirting with a different guy. No wonder the audience was feeling me. My life was turning into a soap opera. “I could tell you that, but it would be a lie. I am interested and you know what else?”

  He let out a breath. “What else?”

  “I’m so totally worth it.” I grinned at him.

  “Good thing because we’re starting to attract attention and the Bayou Blue Streak is about two seconds from sacking me in the end zone.”

  I snickered. “He plays offense, Jordy. He doesn’t tackle peo
ple.”

  “Does he know that?”

  Over his shoulder, I saw Mal stalking toward us with quite the look on his face. I sighed. “I’ll save you.”

  I stepped away from Jordan and headed straight to Mal. “Don’t start something and I’ll make it worth your while later.”

  He glowered at Jordan over my shoulder. Jordan strolled down the sidewalk with a grin on his face. “He’s pushing his luck,” Mal said.

  “He’s pushing your buttons.”

  “As long as he’s not pushing your buttons.”

  Not yet, I thought. “Mal, stop grimacing. I’m sure they are filming the hell out of this.”

  His chocolate eyes cut to mine and he raised a brow. “You’re going to make it worth my while? How?”

  These men were wearing me out. Was it only two months ago that I was man free, drama free, and camera-in-my-face free? Then again, in the past sixty days I’d become thinner, less in debt, better “maintained,” and more my true self than I had been in years. I stood up on my tiptoes to whisper into his ear. “Let’s play let’s remember.”

  He looked around as if considering the quickest how and where to get us naked. “Here? Now?”

  “We’ll keep our clothes on. You remember that trip to the Pro Bowl when we got lost driving back from the shrimp shack on the North Shore?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “That thing we did on the abandoned beach as the sun went down?”

  His nostrils flared and he shifted toward me. “I remember.”

  “If we get through these promos without any drama, I’ll do that thing again. Tonight.”

  He sucked in a breath. “What?! For real, though?”

  “For real, though.”

  He stepped away and clapped his hands together. “People, can we do this? I’m ready for my closeup.”

  Jerry raised the camera onto his shoulder. “Someone’s in a hurry all of a sudden. You got a date tonight, Bayou?”

  “You wish you knew.” Malachi grinned and stepped to his mark to start filming.

  I saw Jordan smiling and chatting with XJ by the production staff. He slid me a private look before turning away. But not so private that Malachi missed it. He frowned slightly and then gave a small shrug as if deciding it wasn’t worth his time to make an issue of it right now.

  I exhaled a ragged breath. One way or another, things were heating up around here. I just had to survive the summer and then everything could go back to normal. Whatever that was going to look like. For the first time in forever, I had no idea what the next few months of my life were going to look like. Even weirder: I was almost okay with it.

  “Carissa, you ready? You’re going to be on camera one.” Ren pointed and held up some cue cards.

  “Ready!” I called out and turned toward the camera with a smile.

  21

  Care to tell us what better thing you have to do?

  Malachi—Friday, July 30—6:18 p.m.

  The days fell into a blurry routine. We were up between 5:30 and 6:30 every weekday morning. I usually got up forty-five minutes earlier to lift. Then we met to eat as a group in the common area. Sometimes we cooked; often it was easier to just create smoothies. Most of the time, they provided pre-prepped meal options for us.

  From there we spent a half hour acting like we were a group of people who hung out regularly discussing weight loss. These on-camera conversations frequently devolved into revelations about who was getting on whose nerves and what if anything could be done about it. We talked about the things we missed from our “real lives” and how much longer until we could get back to them. Then we trained for at least two hours. We had a short break for personal time (which was not at all personal and always filmed). We ate lunch or what they were serving that passed for lunch. Then we had meetings either with the production staff, the trainers, the nutritionists, the special guests that were brought in, or I met with Pierre and other members of my business team.

  To date, Carissa had lost over forty-five pounds. I was close to that same total. Niecy and Jordy were down about thirty pounds each. As expected, XJ and Suzette lagged behind, but even they had lost a little over twenty pounds each.

  Then came the competitive workout activity. It was almost always some crazy obstacle course or rock wall or three-mile hike through the swamp. Yesterday was at least a swimming challenge that got us out of the heat of the damn day. Grudgingly, I had to hand it to them: they kept coming up with new and camera-friendly ways to make us sweat . . . literally and figuratively.

  The competitive workout challenge was followed by the on-camera wrap–up. Then came the showers in the tiny bathrooms, where the hot water always ran out no matter how quick you tried to be. There was an option for whoever came in last to opt in for the blind challenge. The blind challenges always involved some tomfoolery where they tried to pit us against each other on some sort of personal level. If we were blessed, no one felt like taking the challenge and we were free to go to dinner. Not that dinner was anything to write in to the Food Channel about. After dinner came the day-in-review confessionals. On a good day, we were free to retire for the day at around ten p.m. On a bad day: midnight or later.

  It made for short tempers and long-suffering tests of patience. We needed a break, badly.

  For today, we had one more competitive activity to complete before we wrapped for a long weekend. I needed that long weekend like a starving man needed steak. I was tired. No, scratch that: I was exhausted. Mentally and physically spent. I needed at least a twenty-four-hour stretch without a camera following me, without a workout to finish, without a playbook to study. In the past few weeks, some sports reporters had started showing up in Belle Haven and on set. While on the one hand it was gratifying to know they were still interested, on the other hand I felt like the pressure was coming at me from all sides. All eyes were on me. Normally, I enjoyed the spotlight. I worked best under pressure when everyone was counting on me. But right now I wanted to grab my girl, turn off the phones, and forget about the world for a minute.

  There were only so many ways we could get freaky in the tiny bathroom in the dormitory. Neither of us were eighteen anymore. Quickies while trying not to slip and fall on that cold white tile? I was way the hell over it. I wanted a bed. A king-size bed with a pillow-top mattress with bedsprings that didn’t creak with the slightest movement. I wanted a room larger than a cubicle, with climate control that worked not just when it felt like it. Call me spoiled, but damn, I missed sheets that actually had a thread count. I missed my steam shower big enough for two with the never-ending hot water supply.

  “Malachi, are you listening?” Jim Swindle asked in a condescending tone.

  I was too tired to lie. “No, Jim. I am not. I was daydreaming about a steam shower. What’d I miss?” I grinned with a shrug.

  “I said that you and Carissa are exempt from this activity because you have won three in a row. So unless you want to participate, you both are free to go.”

  I turned toward Carissa and raised a brow. She put a hand on her hip and squinted at Jim. She wondered aloud, “What’s the catch?”

  Jim shrugged with one of those used-car salesman grins we’d come to mistrust. “No catch, though if you decide to stay and you win the competitive activity, you’re exempt from the next three competitive activities.”

  I’d learned to ask for the fine print. “And if we should happen to lose?”

  “You’d have to take the blind challenge to maintain your current standing.”

  “What’s today’s super-fun activity?” Carissa asked.

  Jim pointed at the track. “Five-mile run. First team with the best combined time to finish—whether it’s run, walk, or crawl—wins.”

  One look at Carissa’s face and I already knew. She was not a runner. She would dance, do stairs, bicycle, swim, walk, lift, and stretch, but she was not about running. I was a good runner, but I liked sprints, not long distance. Jordan had become a pretty good runner and Niecy would pr
obably speed walk to a decent finish. XJ and Suzette would give their normal half-assed effort. Yes, I liked to win, but enough was enough for now. It was not worth it to chance having to face some crazy-assed “what can we dream up to get in your business” challenge when we could just walk away now. Plus, I had plans for the weekend, none of which involved shin splints. Not too much more discussion was needed. “We’re out. Y’all have fun.”

  “You act like you have something better to do?” Jim called out in a teasing voice.

  “I most definitely do.” I grabbed Carissa’s hand without thinking and started to walk toward the parking lot. I’d completely forgotten that we weren’t showing any overt affection on camera. She paused a second, looked down at our clasped hands, and met my eyes. It was too late now. The cameras were rolling. With a roll of her eyes and a shrug, Carissa laughed and we kept right on walking, picking up the pace to a light jog.

  “Care to tell us what better thing you have to do?” Ren asked as he, Jerry, and the microphone guy who were my constant shadows ran along beside us.

  The hell with it. As my grandfather used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound. With the grin that won me the cover of ESPN magazine twice, I looked straight at Carissa. “What better thing do I have to do?” Carissa shrieked as I scooped her up and threw her over my shoulder. “Her. She’s the better thing I have to do!” I ran the last few feet and unlocked the car door.

  “Mal, where are y’all headed?” Ignoring the reporters hustling our direction, I dropped her in the passenger seat and sprinted around to the other side.

  “Does this mean you’re back together?” another reporter called out as I hopped in the driver’s seat and shut the door.

  I flashed the grin, hit the horn twice, and backed out of the space. “Wait! Do you have time for a quick interview?” Someone called out another request. I held up the peace sign and pushed harder on the accelerator.

  “You are CRAZY!” Carissa announced as we barreled out of the parking lot.