Читать книгу Game On - Nancy Warren - Страница 10

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AFTER HE WATCHED the news, Adam was too restless to turn in. He flipped on his computer to check his email. Nothing of much interest. Ever since his old buddy had arranged a performance coach for him, hints of his play-off panic had begun to return. Today, in the presence of the sexy coach, Adam had felt his discomfort like an itch.

On a whim, he did a Google search of Serena Long. Of course she had a website. He should have known she would. All slick and professional, the site looked and felt expensive. The woman staring at him from his screen also seemed slick and professional—and expensive—with that hint of danger he’d detected.

Dylan was right, of course. He did want Serena Long. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had struck him like that, like a walking fantasy.

Some effusive comments about how wonderful she was, written by people he’d actually heard of, peppered the main page of her site. She’d authored a book that you could click to and buy right from the front page, naturally. The click of another button would give you details on inviting her to be a keynote speaker at your next big event.

And then she offered words of wisdom on her blog.

He rolled his eyes. Who didn’t have a blog these days?

He clicked through to it. And found a post dated today. “Negative Thinking.”

It was what she’d been talking to him about earlier. And she’d posted only a couple of hours ago. He settled back and read what she’d written.

Apparently, negative thinking was bad. He shook his head, wondering why he was wasting his time with a woman who was going to spout the obvious, but continued to read. And realized quickly that she was imparting some truly good advice. This wasn’t simply a “Rah, rah, you can do it!” post but an article that contained links to research on brain function and referenced B.F. Skinner and behavior modification. Good old B.F. He’d studied him in college. The man had conducted a lot of experiments involving pigeons, if he recalled correctly.

Behavior modification was all about rewards for the new behavior. Serena argued that weight-loss programs like Weight Watchers were based on building a new routine, like eating better, and receiving rewards in the form of encouragement at group meetings or online, rather than simply feeling bad about being fat. Made sense, he supposed. For him, going to the gym regularly meant he skated a little faster when he needed to or noticed a little more power and agility in his stick handling.

Her article went on to say that negative thinking and the self-destructive behavior that came out of it also had to have some kind of perceived reward or no one would engage in it.

His snort of disgust was loud in the quiet house.

He thought of the times he’d screwed up in the championship games and felt the familiar churn of self-disgust. What the hell had happened to him?

He’d choked. He could argue all he liked that it was just fatigue, a flu bug, preoccupation with work. But he knew, and he was pretty sure the entire team knew, that his problem came from inside.

Did this crackpot performance coach seriously think he got a reward from humiliating himself and letting down his team?

He turned off the computer and went to bed. But sleep didn’t come. What kind of reward could he possibly get for choking under pressure?

With a curse, he flipped on the bedside light, went to his spare-room office and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and crawled back into bed.

She’d asked him to go through everything that had happened that day. He supposed now was as good a time as any.

If Serena Long could figure out how he was rewarded for choking, she was worth all the big bucks they weren’t paying her.

He found himself looking forward to their next session. Not only because he wanted to be fixed but because he wanted to see her again. He’d never been the bondage and S-and-M type, but when he recalled the way that black-clad coolly sexy woman had looked at him, he began to understand the appeal.

* * *

SERENA CONSIDERED THE elliptical trainer at the gym one of her best friends. The machine was a time-efficient workout, improving her cardio and her lower and upper body while at the same time allowing her to catch up on the day’s news via a headset and inset TV monitor.

While she pedaled in endless ovals and pushed and pulled the handles, she absorbed the day’s news. It was the usual mishmash of drama, despair, politics and business with a few cute human-interest stories thrown in.

The upcoming IPO for Marcus Lemming’s company, Big Game, was mentioned. She suspected she was going to have to up her sessions with Marcus given the level of media interest. His was a classic geek-makes-good story of a quiet nerd with few social skills who’d parlayed an adolescence spent in his bedroom gaming into a terrific business. The trouble was that he hadn’t had the time, skills or inclination in high school to do all the things most other boys do, like converse with girls, date, interact socially, play sports. It was easy to find the source of his problem and fairly easy to fix it.

Her tougher client seemed to be Adam, a guy who’d clearly misspent his teenage years to the hilt. He had the unconscious confidence of a man who was a high school jock, popular with both sexes, smart enough to get by but not freakishly intelligent. According to Max he was a terrific hockey player and a dedicated detective. Why would a man like that have performance anxiety?

Max had no idea. She suspected from her brief meeting with Adam that he didn’t know, either. She wondered if he’d spend the time and effort required to work through his feelings about choking under pressure during the play-offs. And if he did the work, would he be self-aware enough to be able to diagnose his own ailment?

Frankly, she doubted it.

As her workout ticked toward the thirty-minute mark, her legs began to feel pleasantly tired. Another fifteen minutes of a strength-and-stretching routine designed for her by a personal trainer to provide the maximum workout in the minimum time, and she was done. Serena worked out every weekday at the gym and had her routine so well honed she could be showered, changed and heading to her office within an hour of entering the gym.

Since she arrived and left at approximately the same time every day, she had a nodding acquaintance with a number of other prework clients. Today Stanley Wozniak, a quiet hospital worker who had a similar workout schedule, took the elliptical next to hers. She smiled at him and he blushed deeply. Which he did every morning. It was obvious that he had a crush on her. She only hoped that he was too shy ever to ask her out and embarrass them both.

She might spend only thirty minutes on the elliptical but she liked to give it her all. At the end of half an hour she was breathing hard and sweating so profusely her shirt clung to her. When she moved on to the free weights, her trainer, Tim Patterson, strolled by. He wore the standard uniform of black sweatpants and a black T-shirt advertising the gym, and he filled both out to mouthwatering perfection. Of course, he knew it. An Australian who’d originally come to the United States to work in a ski resort, he’d stayed and was one of the most popular trainers. “How ya goin’, Serena?” he asked her.

“Hi, Tim. I’m fine.”

He stopped, adjusted the line of her shoulders, and ran a hand down her spine in a professional, friendly manner. “Keep your back straight.”

He watched her do a couple of reps and nodded. “Nice.”

“Thanks.” She took a private session with Tim every month so he could change up her routine. In the year they’d worked together, they’d formed an easy, friendly relationship. Often, as now, he’d keep an eye on her in between sessions.

He didn’t move on immediately. After glancing right and left, he said, “I heard Stanley changed his shifts at the hospital so he could work out every day at the same time as you.”

Stanley’s little crush had never bothered her, but the idea that he’d change shifts to spend more time sweating beside her was a little alarming.

She narrowed her eyes, letting the weights down easily at her sides. “Reliable source?”

Tim’s blue eyes crinkled in his tanned face. It was as though he’d been in the sun for so much of his life that his face was permanently bronzed. “Pretty reliable. He told me himself.”

She began her second set of lifts. “Why would he tell you that?”

“Because I asked him. That bloke’s got a serious jones for you.” They both glanced over at where Stan was wiping down his machine, which meant he’d soon follow her to the weight area. “He’s a nice guy. You could do worse.”

“I don’t think his little crush is too serious,” she grunted. “And why is the second set always so much harder than the first?”

“Because you’re working a tired muscle. Keep it up. You’re doing great.” He adjusted her shoulders once more and then patted her back before moving on.

But he left her with a crease between her brows. Was Tim telling the truth? She suspected it might be time to casually mention to Stanley that she had a boyfriend. It was time to resurrect Fictitious Fanshaw.

Even if she had been attracted to Stanley, which she wasn’t, her schedule was too full to take on a man. To conduct any kind of a full relationship, she’d have to give up something else. And it had been a long time since she’d met a man interesting enough to make her consider restructuring her routine. An image of Adam rose in her mind, all tough and rugged and gorgeous. She did not, she reminded herself sternly, have time for a man!

Nip the Stanley situation in the bud, she decided as she showered.

Consequently, when Stan emerged from the men’s change room, she was in the foyer conducting a one-sided cell phone conversation. “Okay, darling,” she said, nice and loud so Stanley wouldn’t miss a word. “I’ll pick up the wine. You pick up the steaks.” She laughed softly. “Love you, too, Adam.” She ended the call.

Adam? The name had popped out while having a pretend conversation with no one. Why, oh why, would she picture Adam when she imagined a lover?

Stan looked so sad as she waved to him on the way out that she felt rotten.

Well, she’d taken care of the Stan situation. Now she had to nip her own little crush in the bud. She worked with men all the time. CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, athletes who were household names, celebrities who suffered inexplicable stage fright. Sure, she’d experienced the odd thrill of being one-on-one with the rich, powerful and famous, but she never found herself fantasizing about them. Why should one rugged, uncooperative cop throw her off her stride?

She shook her head. It was going to have to stop.

When she arrived at her office, her assistant, Lisa, was already there. “What’s the matter?” Lisa asked. “You look so serious.”

“I was nipping buds.”

The younger woman nodded. “Oh.”

A psych major, Lisa had taken the job of Serena’s personal assistant in order to gain job experience in the field of psychology. At twenty-three, Lisa was full of energy, keen to learn and packed with book knowledge that sometimes came in handy. Serena suspected she’d lose her PA in a couple of years, either so Lisa could pursue an advanced degree or so she could move to a more senior job, but for now the arrangement worked for both of them.

Her big blue eyes and Cupid’s-bow mouth made her look as innocent as a milkmaid, but Lisa combined street smarts with school smarts. A scholarship student, she’d worked her butt off to get into college and to keep up her GPA while attending school and juggling part-time jobs. Nobody had more respect for the process than Serena, who’d done the same thing a decade earlier.

“Anything interesting happen yet?”

“Marcus Lemming asked to come in and see you. You had a slot at eleven, so I put him in for an hour.”

She nodded. “Okay. I usually go to his office. I wonder why he’s coming here.”

“He didn’t say. Also, I forwarded an email to you about speaking to an engineering company. I’m going through the rest of the mail now. I’ll forward anything good.”

“Great. I’ll go check.”

She took a couple of steps toward her office when Lisa’s voice stopped her. “Oh—” Her voice sounded as if it had been cut off.

Serena turned. “What?”

“A creepy email.”

“Oh, yeah. I thought I deleted that. It came last night.” She shook her head. “You’d think perverts would have more imagination. Performance coaching. Ha, ha. I get it.”

Lisa didn’t smile. “This isn’t one of those messages. It seems kind of threatening.”

“What?” Serena didn’t waste time going to her own computer and firing it up. Instead she stepped behind the reception desk and peered over Lisa’s shoulder.

Interesting post tonight, Serena. Negative thinking. Think about this. You think you’re better than fear? No one is. I can make you scared. I know you. I’m scaring you right now.

Watch your back, bitch. I will teach you what real fear is.

The message ended with a smiley-face emoticon, which, strangely, added to the nastiness.