in the corner of the spare bedroom. Dylan and Adam humped the couch in after him and pushed it against the back wall. “I don’t think I want to tell you.”
Dylan swore. “There’s a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it. I don’t care who slept with who—I just want to get this stuff moved so I can relax.”
They continued moving tables, the TV and a couple of lamps. When they were done, they had nowhere to sit but the old oak kitchen table Adam had refinished himself. He pulled out three cold ones, thumped them down on the table. Regarded Max, who wiped off the top of his bottle before he drank.
“What do you think?” he asked Dylan. “Did he?”
“Sleep with Serena Long? Hard to tell. He’s doing his inscrutable thing. You’re the detective. What do you think?”
“I think he’s playing with me.” He slumped into a chair and grabbed his own beer.
“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Why would sexy Serena sleep with him, anyway? What’s he got to offer a woman like that? A genius brain? Billions in the bank? Those big brown eyes?” Dylan shook his head. “She wouldn’t touch him.” He touched his bottle to Adam’s in a toast. “Not that you care.”
“I don’t.” He tipped the bottle against his lips and hoped the cool liquid would dampen his irritation.
“What are you using on the floors?” Dylan motioned to the now-cleared fir floor. It was original to the old cottage Adam had bought the year before and was slowly fixing up. It was a simple place, rustic and solidly built on a couple of acres of land. He’d known the minute he’d seen the run-down home that this was the renovation project he’d been looking for.
Since it had been rented for years and then left empty for a half a year after that, the place was a little dilapidated. And full of mice. But the old fir floors he’d revealed when he ripped up the filthy threadbare brown shag rug would come back with some work. The walls needed only patching and paint. The kitchen he could live with for a while since he rarely cooked. His first project had been the bathroom, most of which he’d done himself, with the help of a professional plumber. He’d patched and painted all the walls before he moved in, and he lived with the scuffed, scarred flooring.
But now he had a mad-on, and Max had done nothing to dissipate it. The floors were going to be sanded. And hard.
“I’ll rent a commercial sander. See how they come up, then decide. Might do a stain, might just slap on some Varathane to protect them.”
Dylan nodded. He was also a handy type. Unlike Max, who hired everything out and was currently checking email on his smartphone while they talked flooring.
As they finished their beer, the talk veered to people they knew, hockey, the upcoming play-offs.
“That performance coach sure is hot,” Dylan said, seemingly out of the blue. “She single?”
“As far as I know,” Max said. “Why? Are you interested?”
“Hell, no. I’m interested in winning the bet. I figure you’re both so competitive that if you two are going to fight over a woman, one of you will end up with her. Leaving me closer to winning the bet.” He grinned. “All those seasons of watching Survivor are paying off.” He raised his beer bottle in the air. “To the last bachelor standing. Me!”
Max still hadn’t volunteered the information Adam wanted by the time the guys were leaving. As they headed out the door, Adam turned to Dylan. “Why are we still friends with this guy?” he asked.
Dylan regarded Max. “He’s short and a weenie. Makes us look good.”
4
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.
