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Chapter 11
When I got to the gym at 5.45am the next morning—nothing was going to keep me from that gym—Ken, one of my fans or some might say resident stalker, was there. Ken was harmless I think, and I had had a few over-zealous fans over the years who had found out where I was working out or came to where I was reporting sporting events and just hung around waiting to see me and be acknowledged.
Luckily, I’d never had a bad experience, but one of my teammates, Latoya, had. She had started talking to a guy online and they had begun exchanging photos. After a few too many drinks one night, they were exchanging raunchier photos and he put them online – my worst nightmare. The police and club lawyers had stepped in and it had been shut down pretty quickly and he was charged. It came out that he had done that to half a dozen other women as well, but Latoya was mortified; it had really taken away her confidence. My stalker, Ken—or I should say fan—was carrying a bit of weight, a smoker, in his mid-forties at a guess, and just a bit odd. He was coming to most of our games and I had once seen him at the Saints’ when I was reporting there, but he usually just said a few words and departed. I gave him a hesitant wave and headed in.
My eyes swept the gym and, of course, landed straight on The Russian. He was spotting for some other guy; I loved that he never seemed to flirt even though there were girls lifting weights nearby him; he was so solid in every sense of the word – well, from what I’d seen to date that was. He looked up and saw me and smiled; be still my beating heart. I indicated the lockers and went in to put away my car keys, phone and wallet. When I came back he was waiting for me by a set of weights, just doing hand lifts.
“Brooker, looking good,” he said, with the hint of a smile.
“Russian, looking pretty good yourself,” I said, and swept my eyes over him.
“I saw that,” he teased.
“Feel cheap?” I ribbed him.
“I would prefer you liked me for my mind,” he teased, and then we got down to business, because I knew somewhere in my psyche that The Russian didn’t need another pretty girl who looked and talked the part. The Russian—if he liked me at all—might have been liking me because I was real, I was an athlete, I was a driven person. Well, that was what I was counting on and if I was wrong, then so be it. I did a work out with intensity; I didn’t care if I sweated or groaned or didn’t look pretty – okay, I did care a little that I might not have looked pretty, but I was turned on by The Russian straining, not posing, so I gave him the same ... and I wanted to beat him, not that I did, not once ... I came close with the number of sit-ups, I did. I think it paid off because at the end of the workout when we both stopped and breathed in, he looked at me with what I think was respect.
“Well done, Brooker, you’re not a pussy,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, shocked.
I think my reaction unnerved him.
“Sorry, I meant, you worked hard, poor choice of words,” he stumbled. It was good to unhinge The Russian every now and then, he was so confident.
I grinned at him and gave him a wink and he shook his head at me. He grabbed a plastic cup of water from the dispenser and gave it to me while he poured his own.
“Thanks,” I said, drinking it like a woman who had been working out for an hour with a super fit, gorgeous Saint.
He swallowed his cupful and refilled us both. “Got time to grab a coffee?”
“I’d love one. Can you give me the number?”
He looked confused.
“For the coffee lady? I need her number,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Brooker, Brooker, Brooker, that the best you got?” he asked, and then he laughed. “Keep trying.”
I sighed. “Fine then.”
“So, coffee now?” he asked again. “Ten minutes enough to shower and change?”
“Sure, I’m a natural beauty,” I said.
“Five minutes then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not that natural, see you in ten.”
I heard him chuckle as I headed off before he could renegotiate. This was going so well; I think The Russian liked me. God knows I tried to show him the few good angles I had that day while working out. A girl’s got to use what she’s got, when she can, and I don’t have long blonde wavy hair, I’m not Boho and my daddy is rich in faith only.
*****
He was waiting for me when I returned, but I hadn’t taken much longer than ten minutes. We headed to the cafe that we had frequented last time.
The Russian went to order and when he came back and slid into the booth opposite, I forgot for a moment to raise my eyes from his torso and he caught me checking him out.
“Okay?” he asked.
