Below the Belt Page 4

  “Are you hurt?” With a mother’s intuition, she poked at the raw spot with scary accuracy. “Are you in pain?”

  “Pain is gain,” he joked. She made a sound that said she wasn’t amused. “I’m fine. I’m sticking with it.”

  “Making this team isn’t the end of the world.”

  He sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly. Here we go again.

  “Your father was proud of you, no matter what. Just trying, being invited to the tryouts . . .” His mother’s voice choked, and he mentally cursed being so far away. “Making the team wouldn’t matter. Your father would be pleased with you just giving it a shot.”

  He might be. But Brad knew he wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t make it to the All Military games. Completing that final hurdle was something he’d felt pressed to do the moment he’d joined the Corps. Not by any outside source, but by something inside him.

  “Giving it a shot’s only the first step. I’ve got this, Mom.”

  A knock on the door had him tossing the nearly melted ice bag into the trash can by his bedside and shoving the heating pad—which he’d purchased at the MCX on the way home with all the stealth of a ninja—under his pillow. “Hold on,” he called.

  “Should I let you go?” his mother asked in his ear.

  “Yeah, someone’s at the door. Probably my roommate.”

  “Okay, baby. Go make friends!”

  “Sure thing, Mom. Love ya.” He fought a grin as they finished their good-byes. His mom liked to pretend he was at nothing more than overnight camp, making crafts, learning to paddle a canoe and singing camp songs around the fire at night.

  Another knock reminded him why he’d ended the call. “Come in.”

  Higgs poked his head in. “You heading over soon?”

  “Sure, yeah. Of course.” Why, had he heard something?

  Brad studied his roommate’s face, but the man seemed completely oblivious.

  “All right then. Want to just ride with me?”

  Perfect. The solution to his driving dilemma. He’d been worried enough driving himself home after the morning practice, with the way his knee was aching. Now that it’d had over an hour to stiffen up, driving was a real concern. “Thanks. I’ll just grab my gear and meet you out there.”

  Higgs nodded and shut the door behind him, leaving Brad back in blissful peace.

  His head thunked against the wooden headboard. What kind of shit luck did he have? Maybe he really was too old for this sport.

  Even as he thought it, he cursed under his breath. He wasn’t even thirty yet. Too old, my ass. So everyone was younger. Big deal. He had more years of experience, and he’d had more years to build up a thick skin and a long endurance.

  He’d just have to be careful from here on out. At least until the knee healed. Who knew, maybe by tomorrow he’d be up and running again full speed. The travel must have thrown his body out of whack. Or sleeping in a new bed. He’d catch up, he’d adjust and he’d be back on track by tomorrow.

  Next week at the latest.

  Now all he had to do was avoid the sexy athletic trainer with eyes who saw too much. If he wasn’t careful, she’d sideline him as a preventative measure and his chance at the team would be done for. Nobody was going to wait around for him to heal. He wasn’t the strongest or the fastest.

  Higgs. They’d give Higgs a second chance if he injured something. He was faster than the wind out there, and everyone knew it. He’d run a circle around his opponent and deliver the knockout punch before they even blinked. What he lacked in professional, technical training, Brad could see he had in raw talent. His roommate defined the word natural.

  So avoid Marianne Cook, keep his nose to the grindstone and don’t act as old as Father Time while in practice.

  His knee grinded like a rusty gear as he lowered his leg to the floor and stood.

  Yeah, sure. He could do that.

  * * *

  HIGGS pulled up to the parking lot of the training center, but didn’t turn off the car.

  “Problem?” Brad hefted his gym bag from the floor of the car onto his lap, ready to make a break for it. His knee was already feeling better, and he needed to get it moving so it wouldn’t lock up on him.

  Higgs stared at the door for a few moments, then shook his head. “Nah. I’m good. Let’s go in and kick some ass, old man.”

  Brad rolled his eyes, but bit back a grin. He wasn’t here to make friends, but it was nice to at least like the guy he was sleeping next door to. “You can’t be that much younger than me.”

  “Probably not. I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-nine.” Brad hefted his bag over one shoulder—his right, so the strap crossed his chest and the bag hung by his left knee—and started for the door with him.

  “And that’s all that counts, Grandpa.” Higgs grinned and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Grandpa,” he uttered in disgust. “If anyone else starts calling me that . . .” he warned. He punched at the door so it flew open and into the humid air of the sealed-up gym. A few guys were already stretching out, early birds who were after more than just the worm.

  “Hey,” Higgs called out as he tossed his bag off to the side by the bleachers, out of the way.

  Be nice; don’t be a dick. “Hey,” Brad said, throwing his bag beside Higgs’ gear.

  A small chuckle sounded behind him, but he ignored it while he changed shoes. When he bounced off the bottom bleacher to stretch on the mat—swallowing a wince on the landing—a few of the Marines smiled up at him.

  Okay, clearly the joke was on him. With an indulgent sigh, he plopped down—careful of his knee without being obvious—and asked, “What?”

  Two of the younger Marines smiled at each other before one said, “Nothing, Grandpa.”

  That little crack had them bursting into laughter like a second-grade class pulling a fast one on the substitute teacher. He glared at Higgs, who smiled angelically and held out his hands in a gesture that said, I’m innocent, bro.

  Innocent, his ass. “Yeah, yeah,” he grunted and stretched out his hamstrings. “You children can laugh all you want. Slow and steady Grandpa’s here to win.”

  They laughed more at that, but he wasn’t offended. Bullshit and jokes were a way of relaxing in the tense atmosphere their jobs created. If they were saddling him with a nickname, they thought he’d be here long enough to care what to call him.

  He’d ignore the sting behind the name and call it a sign others were watching and thought he had what it took to stick for the long haul. He was ready to consider it a good thing. A positive sign.

  Of course, he still punched Higgs in the arm on his way to jog a few laps around the outside of the gym for a warm-up and to test his knee.

  Fair was fair, after all.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Marianne watched with interest as Brad pummeled a bag. Most of the Marines she’d watched go through the circuit with the bag had started off focused, then slacked off as the coaches had moved on to study other students. Just going through the motions so they could move on to another, more exciting exercise.

  But not Brad. He attacked the bag as if he expected it to feint left and throw him a sucker punch at any second. His dark eyes were laser-sharp and intense, taking in every small shift of the heavy bag as it swung on chains from the impact.

  That sort of intensity was intriguing to her, as well as impressive. That he didn’t slack off just because nobody was watching or because he could get bored spoke volumes about his training ethic, and his desire to be there.

  And okay, yes, if she was being completely shallow—she was her mother’s daughter; it was inevitable one shallow moment would slip in—watching him move and shift around the bag, his arms taut and precise, even while delivering powerful blows, was pretty much the sexiest thing she’d seen in too long to remember.

  His biceps flexed with every jab, his calves tensed as he stayed light on the balls of his feet and the cords of his neck stood ou
t in relief. In short . . . he was an amazingly delicious package.

  He paused for a moment to bend down and grab his water bottle, and she admired the way his mesh shorts stretched over his butt. Yup. He had a body meant for ogling.

  And then . . . yup again. He took the lust factor up to a ten by stripping off the soaking wet T-shirt and tossing it to the side with a loud, smacking plop.

  His arms sported faint tan lines from short sleeves, but as far as imperfections go, it was all she could find. His skin was slicked with sweat, beads of it making the sparse hair on his chest glisten a little. Naturally, her eyes followed the line of hair down past his belly button and . . .

  “Should we turn the air up higher?”

  Marianne nearly bit her tongue holding in a yelp of surprise as Levi stepped up beside her.

  “What?”

  He gave her a clinical once-over. “You’re flushed. Is it too hot in the training room?”

  “On the contrary.” She smiled a little and stepped back into her domain. “That gym is a sweatbox. Compared to that, it’s like the inside of an ice bar in here.”

  That was a true statement. True enough, anyway. They kept it a cool sixty-eight in her room to help athletes coming in who might have overheated themselves. But the hot air from the gym wasn’t the real reason she was flushed.

  Just go stick your head in the ice machine, Cook. God.

  She waited until Levi grabbed the towels he had come in for and darted back out before slowly edging her way to the doorway again—and immediately felt like a creepy stalker. She had every right to watch the guys train. That’s why she was here; to watch, to educate, to help. She couldn’t help if she was stuck in her room twiddling her thumbs and quizzing coeds on the skeletal system.

  With a quick glance around, she stepped fully out of the door and into the gym. The air was thick with sweat; the salty scent nearly knocked her back a step. Thank God she’d chosen to wear shorts today instead of long khakis, like she’d considered. Her legs would be sweating in under a minute in these conditions.

  A group of Marines sprinted past, one of them sending an abbreviated wave as they zoomed on by. She recognized him as Tressler, the one from the bar, and smiled a little. Even now, he couldn’t keep himself from paying attention to a woman. At this rate, he was going to run into a wall if Nikki said three sentences to him.

  A few Marines were with speed bags, but nodded respectfully as she walked by. A few more were running footwork drills, using short orange cones and a ladder formation marked out on the wooden floor with painter’s tape. Coach Ace nodded as well while she walked past, then motioned for her to stop a moment.

  “How are things, Coach?”

  “Just what I was about to ask you.” He leaned forward a bit, and she had the momentary mental image of a dark tree bending slightly in the wind. “See any problems yet?”

  “Too early to tell. Everyone’s a tough guy at this stage in the game.”

  He grunted, then walked up behind a lanky Marine at a speed bag and gave him a quick love tap to the back of the dome. “Keep your eyes on the bag, Marine.”

  “Yes, Coach,” he answered quickly in clipped syllables, just as if he’d said, “Yes, sir,” instead.

  “I want tough guys, Ms. Cook.”

  “Marianne.”

  “Cook,” he compromised. “What I don’t want is idiots. I can’t field a team from a bunch of half-busted men. And the Corps is going to get mighty pissed if I return their warriors broken and have the balls to ask for a dozen more.”

  She bit back a laugh. “Probably.”

  “Know anything about yoga?”

  She blinked in surprise. “As a theory, or in actual practice?”

  “Both, though the latter is what I’m interested in. I figure yoga might help these chuckleheads stretch out. They’re all muscle, but most of them can’t touch their own damn toes. I need all-around athletes, not meatheads built like freezers that can’t move or evade a blow.”

  More and more she liked this man. “I’m not really a yoga girl. Pilates, though, that’s what I’m into. But I don’t believe I should be trusted to teach a class. I do know a friend who’s certified in both. She also does some health coaching.” She gave him a smile. “Want me to set up a yoga session? She could come here to the gym to do it. I think her schedule is flexible.”

  “I’d like that, yes. If you could be there, watching, that’d be great.”

  The thought of two dozen Marines twisted up like pretzels while chanting had her gasping for breath to keep the laughter down. “Yeah,” she squeaked out. “I can do that.”

  “A trainer with a sense of humor.” Coach Ace’s lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile in some circles. “Wonders never cease.”

  “A coach with a brain,” she said in the same pondering tone. “Wonders, indeed.”

  At that, he shocked her by barking out a laugh and slapping her on the back hard enough to send her forward a step before she could catch herself. “You’re a good one, Cook. Keep my boys healthy and we’re gonna get along just fine.”

  “Likewise, Coach.” She grinned and took two steps back, only to jump forward out of the way of a pack of runners. She caught sight of Brad at the head of the herd and smiled to herself.

  Stop that. He’s not on the menu. Nobody is. Work, work, work.

  But since it was her job . . . She watched as he easily led the Marines with a fluid runner’s stride. He wasn’t burning a pace, but he also wasn’t even breaking a sweat as they grazed around the outer corners of the workout facility. And then, when Coach Cartwright pointed toward a set of stairs, they disappeared from view. She waited a moment, knowing the drill.

  And was surprised to see a different guy leading the pack when they burst through the doors on the catwalk above to sprint around the perimeter. Brad brought up the rear, and for the first time, he looked . . . not winded. But the effortlessness of his movement was gone. It was clear now every step was purposeful, as every stilted stride set him back from the pack.

  He’d been running or moving for hours and made it all look like he’d just started, fresh as a daisy, and one set of stairs sent his body into recovery mode? She doubted that. His knee was in pain. Whether he’d come to the team with the injury or it had happened earlier the other day, she couldn’t know. But the man was definitely in pain, and the stairs were the big killer.

  She debated saying something to the coach, then held back. Not yet. He was going to be a tough nut to crack. If she was wrong—if something else was going on and she said something that got him kicked off the team—she’d be pissed at herself. And not only that, but nobody else would trust her going forward.

  Fantastic. So her options were . . .

  Yeah. Not fun.

  * * *

  BRAD stood warily, watching his balance as he walked without limping. It took something out of him to do it—mostly the breath he was holding in his burning lungs—but he managed. Already the pain was shifting down to more of a dull throb. The lower extremity version of a toothache.

  Higgs was still shooting the shit with a few other guys, so he had some time to duck into the trainer’s office and grab a bag of ice. Marianne had been wandering around, and he noticed her leaving the training room. If he was quick, he could duck in and back out again with a bag and no questions. Higgs would wonder what it was for, but he could shake it off as just swollen knuckles or some other shit. They were all going to be battling that one soon enough.

  Higgs waved as he started toward the training room and called out, “I’ll be a minute.”

  “It’s fine,” Brad said and ducked in. How the hell did his roommate make friends that easily? It was like the guy was a walking friend magnet. People just wanted to be around him.

  He did a quick sweep, making sure neither of the two young interns was lurking in corners. But they hadn’t been present all evening, so he figured he was safe. He let his bag drop to the floor with a thud and hurried to scoop s
ome ice out.

  “Can I help with that?”

  His hand jerked, the handle flipping and tossing ice cubes over his shoulder to clatter on the floor. “Jesus H.”

  The female chuckle was low and throaty, and his mind went immediately to hearing that same sound in a dark room with a soft mattress under his back.

  And now he needed to stick his nuts in the ice bag to cool them off. Great. He turned—with reluctance—and faced the trainer. She stood with her hands on her hips, smiling at him from a few feet away. She’d pulled back the top half of her hair tonight, letting the bottom part swing to just past her ears. It only emphasized her large blue eyes, which watched him with way too much intuition.

  “Are you in a hurry?” Marianne stepped around the ice cubes and grabbed a rag. She knelt down and started mopping up the already melting mess.

  Jesus H. “Sorry, here, let me do that.” He bent down to take the rag from her, but she didn’t let go. The odd little silent tug of war ended when he wrapped one hand around her thin wrist and made her look at him. “I spilled it—let me clean it.”

  She watched him for a moment, and damn if her eyes didn’t seem to darken while she stared. Then she shrugged and let go, and he told himself he was just making shit up in his mind. He was tired. That’s all. Just exhausted after a long day.

  “I’ll get a new baggie. Just one?” She stood, and God help him, it was all he could do to keep his eyes down on the wet floor and not focus on her ass, which was conveniently at eye level now.

  “One’s fine.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it’s for?”

  He let the silence drag out while he scooped the last of the ice into a bucket, then took it over to a sink and rinsed it and the rag out.

  “Costa, if you’re hurting, I can help. Or at least I can do my best.”

  “Not hurting. Just keeping ahead of it. Nobody likes swollen joints.” He shook his hands out as he spoke, like he was flicking off water, and hoped she took that to mean he was referring to his hands . . . without lying directly.