Chapter 10
brooks
He had the audacity to say I couldn’t possibly follow my own advice because he likes my arse. Yep, he has been ogling my bum. As a side point, I’m sure that’s some kind of harassment. Ladies, you should be careful when in Brooks Adams’s gym. Maybe the gents should be wary too, you never know!
Let me tell you something, I could whip that protein-loving ape into shape. Two weeks following my recipes and my classes and he would feel much healthier. He might stop saying vile things to women and, as a consequence, he might find a home for his pent-up rage (read: testosterone).
Harassment? Ape? Pent-up testosterone?
Drew and Kit are standing over my shoulder as we read Izzy’s latest blog from my office desktop.
“You really pissed her off,” Drew says, stating the obvious.
“What the hell am I supposed to do, man? I can’t have this shit out in public. Look at the comments.” I scroll down to the comments beneath the blog post—all two hundred plus of them.
Kit whistles through his teeth. “Ouch! Samantha Garfield from Boston says women are already insecure about going to the gym without their trainers gawking at their bodies.”
I push out from my desk and start pacing as Kit slips into my seat.
“Oh, here’s one from Simon Etching. I think I know who this guy is. He says he’s trained with you for years and your advice has been tailored and exceptional.”
I exhale heavily. “It’s good, in theory. But it means my clients are reading this shit.”
“Good point,” Kit admits. “Yikes, there’s a woman here slamming Izzy for trying to use you to leverage her own interests.”
“Whoever she is, I like her!”
“Whoa, whoa, back up there.” I look over to see Drew taking control of the mouse and scrolling the screen. “Anna Coulthard is saying you guys should train together. You and Izzy, she means. She’s saying she challenges you to follow Izzy’s advice and Izzy to follow yours.”
“Coulthard?” I move over to the screen and start reading. “It’s her sister. She wants to write about it in some British newspaper. No way. Not ever. Izzy Coulthard is not training in my gym.”
I stand upright and find two sets of eyes on me. Drew speaks first. “It might not be a terrible idea, Brooks. It would mean publicity for the gym. A chance to set the record straight.”
“Clearly, you haven’t been in the same room as Izzy and me. We’d kill each other. Throw a diet of greens and pent-up frustration into the mix and I really will be the Hulk.”
“Or Popeye,” Kit says, mimicking Popeye swallowing down cans of spinach.
“No. Not happening.”
“Jokes aside, you could speak to Madge and get her advice. She looks after the kids now but you know she was a publicist, right?”
I rub my chin. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll give her a call.”
* * * *
Whatever you do, take the moral high ground. Be nice. Be the bigger person.
Madge’s words play over and over in my mind as I sit on my sofa with my laptop on my knee, trying to watch baseball on my flat-screen and ignore the ever-growing number of comments on Izzy’s blog post.
It’s like they’re taunting me, forcing me to read them. I set the laptop to one side and grab my guitar. I strum a Tim McGraw track in an attempt to distract myself. This is not what I need on a Saturday night.
It’s no good. I pick the laptop back up and start reading the latest comments.
Green Pixie: You tell him, Izzy. We’re proud of you, girl. We don’t think you’re fame hungry. Love, your London Salsa Ladies.
Alvin Dawson: Brooks is dead on. You can’t build core strength and muscle if you eat like a bird.
Melissa Z: I love the idea of Izzy and Brooks trying out each other’s advice. That would be hilarious.
FitnessFanatic: Melissa Z, it wouldn’t just be entertainment, it would actually be useful. All these trainers say their method is the best. Let’s have a chance to put them to the test.
Diane16x: This post is disgusting. Izzy Coulthard is trying to tarnish Brooks’s good name for her own benefit. I’ve been a client of Brooks for five years and I’ve never looked or felt better. He doesn’t adopt a one-size-fits-all approach like this Izzy woman tries to do. I say you should go back to England, Ms. Coulthard, and spout your poisonous BS there.
“Wow, you go, Diane!” Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. “Don’t respond, Brooks, come on buddy. Don’t respond,” I tell myself.
The devil on my shoulder wins. I click to open a new comment box and begin to type. At first, I follow Madge’s advice. Dear Izzy, I apologize if you feel threatened by my methods and put out because I didn’t allow you to train in my gym. I did, of course, give you access to a studio to film your new DVD. As I have previously explained, I have a wait list of clients. Some names have been on that list for months. I do not operate on a system of preferential treatment; therefore, I could not allow you to take a slot in my gym, thereby favoring you over others. I hope you can understand this. I am sure your classes and fitness advice work for many people. I wish you success with your new book and the upcoming DVD.
As I hit Submit and complete the CAPTCHA—God, those things are annoying—I’m more riled than I started out. Why should I be nice to her when she’s nothing short of awful in return?
Before I can add another comment, she replies: Dear Brooks, I only wanted to try out your gym as a fellow instructor for one hour. You were rude and obnoxious. Good luck to anyone who decides to go to your gym and train with you!
I can’t help myself.
Please. You are so celebrity hungry you think you are better than others. You strutted into my gym, upset my staff and clients, and tried to instruct my kitchen staff as to what they should be doing. Who the hell do you think you are?
I know I shouldn’t have sent it as soon as I hit Submit.
She replies in seconds. Who do I think I am? Mr. My Way or the Highway!
Angry, I thump out my next response. You have no idea how I advise clients. Everything is tailored to their needs. Unlike your methods!
Izzy: Ha. As I said in my post, Mr. Adams, put your money where your big, rude, ogling mouth is. You didn’t want me in your gym because you were worried your clients would see a better alternative to your methods.
My knuckles are showing white as I type. I did not ogle you. Nor do I scrutinize my clients in any way other than professionally, when they invite my assessment. You are so up your own “arse” that you think every woman wants to be you and every man wants to nail you.
I’ve completely lost my dignity. Madge will be sitting at home screaming at me.
Izzy: You are so far off the mark, you can’t even see the mark. If you think your training is more effective than mine, Brooks, prove it. Follow my plan and see how much better you feel. It might even curb some of those tantrums you keep having.
I start writing a reply and stop. I have no intention of following her plan. How would that even work? But she has boxed me into a corner. Acknowledging that I have already stooped to her level and made myself look like a petulant child rather than a thirty-five-year-old businessman with an adult daughter, I slam the lid shut on my laptop.
* * * *
Sitting in my truck with the windows down and the wind in my face as I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, I feel better about this whole Izzy situation. I heard nothing more about it on Sunday and refused to look at any more comments. It was a blog post. One silly little blog. It’s done. She’ll go back to England and I’ll forget she ever existed.
Out of nowhere, a yellow cab slams on its brakes in front of me. I hit my hazard lights as I come to an abrupt halt behind it. Next thing I know, a police vehicle comes tearing across the bridge with its lights flashing.
Looks like I’ll be late for my meeting with my main merchandise printer.
Not sure what lies ahead or how long I’ll be stuck here, I turn on the radio and shuffle in my seat to take my iPhone from the ass pocket of my jeans.
“Folks, that was Dobie Gray with ‘Drift Away.’ Now we’re back with Izzy Coulthard.”
I’m about to connect my iTunes to the car when her familiar voice comes through the speakers.
“Hi.”
“Izzy, we’ve talked about your new book, Be Green. Be Clean, which releases tomorrow. We’ve discussed your presence online with your Salsa Yourself Slim classes.”
“Yes.”
“But there’s another element of your online marketing that viewers have been texting in about. You have a blog.”
She clears her throat. I set my iPhone down on the passenger seat before turning up the radio. “I do, Steve. I use the blog to give my followers new recipe ideas and fitness tips.”
“Except, in the last few days, you seem to have used the blog to…how should we put it? Criticize a fellow fitness instructor. For our listeners, we’re talking about Brooks Adams, owner of the Brooks Adams gym. What’s the story there, Izzy?”
“Well, Mr. Adams and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. Our fitness advice differs and our manners certainly do.”
“Meaning?”
She scoffs. “Meaning I have them and he doesn’t.”
Ha! Pot calling the kettle black there, Coulthard.
“Although some might say the tone of your blog lacked manners yesterday.”
Yes! You tell her, Steve Sitwell.
“Arguably, it was not my most professional moment. That said, I stand by my comments. Mr. Adams has been very rude to me. He has also made derogatory statements about my methods.”
“Oh, interesting. I just received a tweet from a listener who wonders whether this is a love-hate relationship?”
What?
“Ha! Between Brooks and me? No way in hell. Sorry, am I allowed to say hell on air?”
“Sounds like you just did. So, you wouldn’t want to see Brooks again?”
“I. Ah. No. I wouldn’t. Where are you going with this, Steve?”
Something I’d like to know.
“It has been pointed out to me that in your last comment on your blog on Saturday night you invited Brooks to try out your fitness regime. Now, I have a number of listeners saying they would love to see that.”
No. Screw them. Let her get on a plane and fly out of my life.
“I did write that but I did so knowing that Brooks is too chicken to take me up on the challenge.”
Chicken? I reach over to the passenger side for my iPhone and search for the station’s number. Before I put thought behind my actions, I’m calling Steve Sitwell.
Someone from the studio answers. “This is Brooks Adams,” I tell him. “Steve Sitwell is currently talking about—”
“Hold on, I’m going to put you through.”
“Through where?”
“Brooks Adams. The man himself. You’re live on air, buddy.” Fuuuuuuuuck! “Do me a favor and turn your radio down in the background.”
For some reason, I turn down the radio in my car, just as Steve Sitwell instructs.
“Do you have something you would like to say to Izzy Coulthard, Brooks?”
I really have no idea. “Ah, I, ah…” She laughs in the background. Hearing her is like a red rag to a bull. “Yeah, I do. If you want to trade fitness plans, Izzy, let’s do it. Come into my gym for two weeks and I’ll show you a thing or two.”
“I don’t need your advice, Brooks.”
“Ah, that’s right, now who’s chicken?”
“I’m no chicken. I’ll come to your gym and I’ll do your stupid routines and eat your protein. And you can follow my plan. You can eat greens and see how good it feels to detox. And…you can salsa!”
“Hold up! There’ll be no—”
“We follow each other’s plans to the letter or we don’t do it at all. Are you afraid you’ll harm your precious reputation with a few hip sways, Brooksie?”
“Don’t call me fu—”
The line goes dead. He cut me off to stop me swearing. I quickly turn up the radio. “You heard it here first, folks, Izzy Coulthard and Brooks Adams are going head-to-head. Boy, I think this is going to be good. Will you let us stay up to date with your progress, Izzy?”
“I. I don’t know. But. Ah. I guess.”
What in God’s name have I done?