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Before my retort comes, my cell phone rings and the image of teenage Drew, wearing a school tie around his head, lights up my screen. Never fails to entertain me.
‘Drew, what’s up, buddy?’
‘Did you get that hockey game fixed up for tonight?’
‘Yeah, I was going to send everyone a message. I’ve booked Sky Rink for an hour at eight. Can you bring a puck? I couldn’t find mine this morning.’
‘No worries. Catch you later.’
When I hang up, Izzy is standing by my desk with her pouty lip thing going on and her hands on her hips.
‘Are you arranging to play hockey? You can’t do that. You have to follow my plan.’
I push out from my desk and lean back in my chair. ‘It’s a game of ice hockey with my friends. You can’t tell me not to go out with friends.’
‘I’m not telling you not toseefriends. I’m telling you to eat and drink what I say and exercise as I tell you.’
‘Oh really, and what are you going to do: photograph me and cry about it on your little blog?’
She takes a breath that lifts her chest and flares her nostrils. ‘You’re a twonk.’
‘A twonk?’
‘Yes. A twat-wanker.’
‘What the fu—’
‘And I’ve changed my mind; you can’t have carrots.’
As she slams my office door behind her, I ball up the first piece of paper I put my hand on and launch it at the door.
I put in a call to my friend who manages the ice rink at Chelsea Piers and call Drew back.
‘Hey, it’s me. Change of plan. The rink is booked for nine o’ clock now. The fun police have intervened.’
‘Should I ask?’
‘No, man, just remember me how I was before my ruin.’
15
IZZY
Little blog. I’ll show him.
I pull up the hood of my black zip-up, which I’ve teamed with black skinny jeans for the task at hand. I’m definitely more unobtrusive in the low light of dusk than if I were wearing my luminous yoga pants.
I had a cab drop me a couple of blocks from Sky Rink and I’m walking, with my head down, along the sidewalk to the building. It’s seven forty-five. I figure if I can get into an inconspicuous position before Brooks and his friends arrive, I’ll be able to take pictures of him entering the building. Hopefully, I’ll follow them inside and catch him in action, playing hockey after I’ve expressly told him not to.
Then we’ll see how he likes my blog.
I can visualize the post title now.Brooks Adams, Cheat.It’s going to be fabulous.
In the parking lot, I start to use the stationary vehicles to shield my approach to the main entrance. I tiptoe, checking my blind spots as I move, until I come to the wall east of the entrance. I tuck in behind it and take a moment to channel my inner ninja, checking to make sure my camera, well, iPhone, is still in the back pocket of my jeans.
There’s no sign of Brooks and his friends just yet.
At the sound of an incoming car, I pop my head around the wall and look. I wait for the driver to turn off the engine and step out, holding my breath.
