Game On

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.

5

SERENA STOOD THERE FROZEN, stuck in the moment as though she’d been superglued there.

She forced herself to step back from Lisa’s computer. “Well, somebody’s got a strange sense of humor.”

“I don’t think they’re being funny,” Lisa said. She rubbed her arms and Serena saw goose bumps there. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m not thrilled, either, but it’s only somebody at a computer terminal sending an anonymous message.”

“Have you pissed anybody off lately?”

She could think of only one person, but Adam Shawnigan was in law enforcement and definitely not the kind of guy to send creepy messages. He was up-front about his frustration.

“No. I don’t have enemies. I specialize in positive thinking, improved self-image. I pump people up. Who would threaten me?”

“I think you should call the police.”

“Why? Because some lonely weirdo tried to scare me? I won’t give in to fear. I won’t.”

“Okay. But I’m keeping the email. If you get any more, I really think you should report the guy.”

“So long as I ignore him, I’m sure there won’t be any more.”

She tried to put the email out of her mind, but the vague threat had lodged and didn’t want to budge. She ignored her discomfort by getting busy with work. She called the engineering firm and accepted an invitation to speak at their yearly conference, which would be held in Chicago three months from now. Then she worked on a draft of the column she wrote for a business magazine every other month.

Even as she wrote about the importance of holding positive messages in one’s mind, a very negative message whispered over and over: I will teach you what real fear is.

When Marcus Lemming arrived at eleven, she was staring out of the window, something she never did.

Irritated with herself for being unnerved by a childish prank, she forced herself to smile at Marcus and invite him to sit down at the round table she kept in her office for small meetings.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

He didn’t meet her gaze, keeping it on the computer bag he carried around with him the way a child would carry a beloved teddy bear.

“I need to talk to you about fear.”

* * *

ADAM RAN AROUND his neighborhood.

He’d never been one to be cooped up in a gym. To him running on a treadmill was like trying to get somewhere in hell. He liked to feel the air on his skin, see what was going on around him. He often tried out different routes, so he had a pretty good sense of his neighborhood. He knew which roads had wide shoulders and thin traffic. He had learned which dogs always came out barking or sniffing and took a wide berth around the home of Rex, the Pomeranian who’d once taken a chunk out of his ankle.

As he pounded out the miles, he pondered. Cases under investigation, usually, but this morning he was thinking about hockey. About negative thinking. And how the hell the two got mixed up in his mind only during play-offs.

Didn’t make sense.

He was a detective. Nothing drove him crazier than things that didn’t make sense. He ended his run at a public park with an outdoor gym and dropped to the ground for a hundred push-ups and the same of abdominal crunches.

He was an early riser and finished his shower with a good half hour to spare before he was due at the office. So, as he did at least once a week, he dropped by his parents’ place, which was on the way to work.

His dad had retired from the force at fifty-eight and now, in his early sixties, seemed to spend most of his time planning elaborate cross-country trips in an RV and doing community work. He was often at meetings of one community group or another.

When Adam arrived at the back door, his mom hugged him, as she always did. “I had a feeling you’d come,” she said. “I baked muffins.”

“You never bake muffins for me,” Dennis complained.

“They’re for you, too,” she insisted.

Adam sometimes wondered if his mother had taken lessons from the TV since she was more like a screen mom than any of his friends’ mothers. She baked from scratch, she sang to herself when she cleaned the house and she’d volunteered so much at school when he and his sister were growing up that he sometimes felt he’d seen her more than he’d seen some of his teachers.

Almost as amazing, she and Dennis had been happily married for almost forty years.

She put three muffins on his plate, poured him a mug of coffee exactly the way he liked it and placed the works on a floral place mat on the kitchen table, complete with a matching napkin. His father got only one muffin, but Adam didn’t comment. He knew the diet his doctor and wife had forced on him was a sore point with his dad.

When they sat down, Adam’s mom placed glasses of orange juice in front of both men.

“Roy Osgood decided to stay on as president of the local Rotary Club for another year,” his dad said before biting into his muffin.

Adam got the feeling this was part of an ongoing discussion, guessed his dad had been interested in the post himself.

He watched as his mom ruffled her husband’s hair fondly. “Not everyone can be president, honey. Besides, it’s the worker bees who really contribute to an organization, much more than a man with a gavel.”

“I know. I’m staying on the gardening committee. There’s a lot to be done.” He turned to Adam. “We’re trying to get rid of invasive nonnative weeds in the public parks. It’s amazing what damage those things can do.”

“I know. My yard’s full of them. Can’t you make my place a community project?” he joked.

“You know I’ll come anytime.”

“Yeah. Truth is, I want to get the inside fixed up before I put much energy into the landscaping.”

He ripped a muffin in half. It was steaming and full of good-for-you-looking grains and blueberries. Stuffed it in his mouth.

“I thought when you bought that house you might settle down,” his mother said. “I could not believe it when I heard you and Max and Dylan make that stupid bet about the last man standing. Why don’t you want to get married?”

“Because you’ve spoiled me. Where would I get a woman like you?” he said before stuffing the second half of the muffin into his mouth. He was only half joking.

* * *

“WHAT ABOUT FEAR?” Serena’s voice was sharper than she’d intended and Marcus blinked at her.

“Remember? You said for some people fear of public speaking is worse than their fear of death. I think you even blogged about it.”

Her hand drifted to her throat. “You read my blog?”

He stared at her the way she imagined he’d stare at his computer screen when a piece of programming didn’t behave logically. “You suggested I read your blog.”

She had to shake this foolishness. “Of course I did. I’m just surprised you found the time.” She sat down, pulled out a pad of paper. “Okay,” she said. “You want to talk about fear.”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “I develop games because that’s what geeky kids with no friends do. Except I turned out to be really, really good at it. Now I’m worth millions and own a big company and most of the time I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

She nodded. This was familiar territory. She’d worked with athletes and musicians, people who suddenly found themselves famous, rich and with responsibilities they hadn’t anticipated. They hadn’t had the time or training to prepare themselves mentally or physically.

“Your whole life has changed,” she told him. “Sometimes people feel as though they don’t deserve their good fortune, so maybe they sabotage themselves.”

“You mean like Trog in ‘Third Circle’?”

He’d referenced his own game, which was good. Except that it was one of those violent point-and-shoot games, so clearly for the teenage-male market that she hadn’t been able to play it after the second blasted and bleeding alien hit the ground groaning.

She took a wild guess. “In ‘Third Circle’ doesn’t your hero have to perform certain tasks to get to the next level?”

“You mean like vanquishing death meteors?”

“Exactly like vanquishing death meteors. Why don’t you work on that? Imagine that your fear of public speaking is your death meteor. How are you going to extinguish it and move to the next stage? Remember, you’re the hero of your own game.”

He was nodding, looking not enthusiastic exactly but more engaged than he had been last time she’d seen him.

“I could do that. I think.”

“Okay.” She saw that noon was fast approaching and she had a meeting with Adam at twelve-thirty. It didn’t matter to her that he was a pro bono client and Marcus was paying big bucks. She didn’t make schedule changes if she could help it. She rose. “All right. I think we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough. Why don’t we schedule you another session right here in my office? Maybe it’s good for you to get away from your own building for a while.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She walked him out to the front. Lisa glanced up from her computer, quickly removing her glasses.

“Marcus needs another appointment. Can you schedule it?”

“Yes, of course.”

Lisa glanced up at Marcus. “I have to tell you, I really love ‘Third Circle.’”

Marcus dropped his gaze immediately to his computer case and mumbled, “Cool.”

“When’s ‘Third Circle: Zombie Apocalypse’ coming out?”

Marcus looked up from his computer case the most animated Serena had ever seen him. “It’s going to be so rad. We’re working out a couple of kinks. Can’t get the zombie blood right. I mean, what color is zombie blood?”

“Do zombies have blood?”

“Excellent question.”

Serena could not believe two intelligent, educated adults were having a conversation about the color of zombie blood. But it gave her an idea.

When the two paused in the midst of their geekfest, she said, “Marcus, why don’t you try reading your speech to Lisa?”

“What, now?”

She’d meant at a later appointment and was about to say so when Lisa said, “Sure. That’d be sweet. Unless you have somewhere you have to be.”

“No,” Marcus replied. “I do most of my work at night.” He shrugged. “Habit of a lifetime. I’d like to read it to you.”

“Awesome.”

“Okay,” Serena said. “I’ll be back in the office at two.”

“Sure,” said Lisa, not even glancing her way. “See you then.”

As she was leaving the office, she heard Lisa say, “If there really was a zombie apocalypse, where would you hide?”

“No, see, that’s a mistake a lot of people make. You can’t hide. You have to run.”

* * *

ADAM WAS WAITING at the restaurant when she got there. She’d let him choose the venue and he opted for a Mexican restaurant. “Sorry,” she said when she arrived a couple of minutes late. “I got caught up in the zombie apocalypse.”

Her client looked more relaxed than he had the last time she’d seen him, in well-worn jeans that showed the powerful muscles in his thighs and a navy sweater.

“Huh?” he said.

“Do you have opinions on whether it’s better to run or hide during the zombie apocalypse?”

He blinked at her. “Have you been drinking?”

She smiled. “Thank you, Adam. I feel so much better.” She settled at the table. He’d taken a seat with his back to the wall and she saw him scan the crowd, no doubt looking for lawbreakers or potential trouble. She doubted he even noticed he was doing it. The decor was typical. Tiled floor, rustic wooden tables, sombreros and Mexican kitsch on the walls. Mariachi music played, but softly, so you could hear yourself think. “What’s good here?”

“Everything. I like the enchiladas myself.”

She nodded, scanned the menu rapidly. Chose a taco salad. As soon as she closed her menu, a waitress appeared and they gave their orders. A basket of tortilla chips and salsa arrived almost immediately, with the iced teas they had both ordered.

“So? Did you do your homework?”

“Yes, teacher. I did my homework.”

She felt a smile pull at her lips. She was relieved he’d dropped the attitude. He’d clearly made his peace with working with her, which gave them much better odds of figuring out the root of his problem.

“Good. Did you discover anything interesting?”

“You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Not if I can help it. The sooner you have your issues under control, the sooner you can live up to your full potential.”

“Do you really believe that?” he asked as though he really wanted to know.

“Yes. Of course I do. It’s what my entire career is based on.”

Those blue, blue eyes of his made her forget this was a lunch meeting and imagine, almost wish, it were a romantic get-together. A date. The kind where you bolt your food because you’re so anxious to get home and get naked. “Maybe some people aren’t meant to do great things.”

She bet he could do great things in bed, then was shocked to realize that her thoughts were taking a whole different path than their conversation.

“Of course they aren’t. So long as you feel you are living the life you want, that you aren’t getting in your own way, I have no quarrel. I know people doing menial work at minimum wage who are happier than you or I will ever be. They find real satisfaction in what they do. They are living up to their potential. In your case, with the Hunter Hurricanes, you play at peak performance all year until the play-offs and then your game suddenly deteriorates. Why? That’s what we want to work on.”

“It was weird. I started writing out the games like you told me to and I got this feeling, like guilt, that came over me. It got hard to breathe and I had trouble staying in my chair to write it all out.”

He reached for a wad of folded paper in his pocket but she stopped him. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, I remember last year’s championship pretty clearly. Game was tied 2–2. And frankly, they never should have got two goals. Our defense was sloppy—mostly, though, our offense was weak. So I’m open. I yell. Dylan shoots me the puck. I’ve got a clear shot at goal. I mean, you could have nailed the shot. No offense.”

“None taken. What happened?”

“The game was won. It was over. A little tap of my stick on the puck and the cup was ours.”

“And?”

She heard a sound that might have been his teeth grinding together. “I missed the puck.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I shot and missed the damn puck. A three-year-old with a plastic stick could have got that puck in the net.”

“Interesting.” She sat back and thought about what he’d told her. “What do you think you felt guilty about?”

“I don’t know. It’s like I wasn’t supposed to win the game.”

“You weren’t supposed to win the game,” she parroted. “According to whom?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Who has the power to make you play at less than your best?”

“I do!” The words exploded from him. She felt his frustration and imagined writing out the games had been a difficult exercise.

“Of course you do. But someone or something else is sending you messages. I want you to think about that. Go through your day and really listen. Whose standards are you trying to live up to? A coach’s? A teacher’s? A parent’s? A boss’s? Some kind of authority figure, probably from your childhood, has buried these land mines in your subconscious. It’s up to you to find them and disarm them before they do any more damage.”

“What am I listening for?”

“When have you heard these messages before? You can go back to childhood and listen to the past. Replay conversations you can remember, particularly if they were around winning and success. See what comes up for you.”

“How will I know when I find it?”

She loved how focused he was, how he gave her every scintilla of his attention. She had another momentary flash of being naked with him and shivered. Found her own focus—on the damned topic at hand.

“I remember working with a woman once who could not communicate anger. She was the worst doormat you’ve ever seen. Everyone in her life took advantage of her and she let them. It was making her ill. Actually ill. She got migraines and more colds and flu bugs than anyone I’d ever met. When she did this exercise, she started hearing her mother’s voice saying, ‘Good girls never show their temper.’ When she was young, if she yelled, she was punished. So she learned never to show her anger. Always to show a smiling face to the world and do whatever anyone asked of her. Once she recognized that she’d taken those messages inside and gone completely overboard, she was able to work on expressing her feelings.”

“Wow.” He looked genuinely impressed.

“There’s a kind of resonance when you see the pattern. An ‘aha’ moment. Chills down the back of your neck. You’ll know it when you experience it.”