The Wife Win

Marek

Sweat drips off my forehead, down my chin, and onto the treadmill as I finish my cooldown in a slow jog.

My legs are rubbery Jell-O and I’m not even sure I can feel the rest of my body after today’s workout with my trainer, Lars. Today was supposed to be the lightest workout day of the week. I’m not sure if Lars even knows what that word means. It’s somehow lost in translation from his native Swedish tongue.

“Nice work today, Mr. T. You pushed yourself past the limit. I knew you could do it.” Lars hands me a mixed smoothie drink with a wide grin on his chiseled face. I’d tell him to fuck off if the guy wasn’t a 280-pound wall of muscle and a man who could squash me like a gnat if he found just cause. Exactly why I grin and bear it.

I nod and try to form a smile. I think my lips are moving. “Thanks. I guess you know my limits better than I do.”

He lets loose a thunderous guffaw, patting me on the back as I gingerly step off the machine, careful that my legs don’t give out, and accept the towel he hands me to dry off. I suppose it’s a good thing he pushed me today because I’ll be back to traveling soon enough and won’t have as much free time to work out at Seattle Circuit.

The gym is an exclusive membership I joined last year after I’d put on a few pounds and needed to get back in shape. The place is owned by Jade Russell, and it caters to people like me.

Businessmen and women, entrepreneurs, wealthy elite, celebrities, and various other professionals that can afford the discreet luxury of a gym that looks more like a nightclub. It’s also tailored for those of us in our thirties, forties, and up.

I’m not quite pushing forty, but closer to that milestone birthday than I am thirty. And the thought of pumping iron around a bunch of twenty-year-old kids and young women in tight spandex doesn’t appeal to me. I get enough of the juvenile boy machoism with many of the young players on my team.

I suppose I could just use the players’ onsite clubhouse gym at the arena, but I like to keep my business and personal lines drawn crisp. While I once was a pro basketball player myself, that was a long time ago before many of my guys were out of diapers. Now that I’m in a leadership position with the team, it requires a hell of a lot more diplomacy and less fraternization with the players I manage.

Finishing the smoothie off, I leave the glass on the counter and check the time on my fitness watch. I’m running late which means I’ll have to bypass the sauna and steam room in favor of a quick, cold shower and shave before I head to my office at the arena for my Monday morning staff strategy meeting.

I have one goal this year. To execute a plan that will rebuild this losing team and bring us a championship trophy. It’s what I aim to do. I’m the guy they brought in to turn the losses into wins.

For me, basketball is a game of chess. Strategy is required, as are the right plays. I’m not calling the plays down on the court, but from the conference room. I’m the organization’s brain.

Too bad it doesn’t extend to my personal life because that sure could use a lobotomy as far as I’m concerned.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Talbert.” Siena, the beautiful young front desk clerk, waves as I pass the front reception area, giving me a toss of her hair and a seductive smile. I pause as I hit the front doors, turning to glance back over my shoulder to see her eyes flicker with appreciation as they move from my ass up to my face.

Not happening, sweetheart.

While I enjoy the compliment she pays with her leering stare, I’m not about to get involved with a woman as young as she is. Or any woman, for that matter. I have far too many other priorities and obligations this year to get tangled up in the dating pool or start a relationship.

My heart and time belong to my team, and that’s where it’s going to stay.

I give her a fling of my wrist and push through the glass doors out into the street to find the rain has just begun to come down again. Seattle, this time of year, is guaranteed a daily drizzle, some days harder than others.

I duck my head down to avoid the rain as my phone pings with a text notification. Barely stopping to extract it from my pocket, I keep walking down the street and take a quick look down to read it when, out of nowhere, I hit something hard. From the corner of my eye, I see a blur of a shape and the person appears just as they slam into my chest.

“Whoa, excuse me,” I offer apologetically, trying to untangle myself from the woman who fumbles with her takeout coffee cup. Her other hand lands on my chest for balance. “I wasn’t looking and didn’t see you there. Are you okay?”

To this point, all I see is the top of her head, now damp from the rain, giving her dark hue of honey strands mixed with chocolate a glossy shine. When she tips her chin up and our eyes meet, I’m caught in an awkward haze that leaves me almost breathless.

Nah, that’s just left over from my workout. I’m lightheaded and in need of sustenance. And coffee.

But her eyes are the kind of green you can only find in the Pacific Northwest, which inspired the name Seattle has been granted—the Emerald City.

The woman’s hand is still on the breast pocket of my Tom Ford charcoal herringbone tweed suit coat. I flick a glance down, noticing the short, manicured nails that pop out of her fingerless gloves.

She immediately drops her hand and steps back. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I was rounding the corner and taking a sip and didn’t see you either. Did I spill any coffee on you?”

We both gaze down over my tailored suit, and I pat down the front in search of any coffee stains. And, to be safe, to verify she didn’t just swipe my wallet. Thankfully, that’s still there.

“No, I’m good. How about you?”

She nods and smiles, her long dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks. “Yes, I’m fine. Just embarrassed.”

Then she pauses for a moment, her expression changing as her brows notch and cinch as if she’s putting two and two together.