Below the Belt Page 5

  One blonde eyebrow arched in a silent bullshit call, but he ignored that and held out a hand for the bag. “Thanks.”

  She kept it just out of reach. “Can we talk?”

  “About what?”

  She shrugged again, stepping around the nearest table to hop up and let her feet dangle. “Anything. You’re one of the only guys out there that doesn’t make me feel like a big sister.”

  He grinned at that, then made a face. “Was that a dig at me being old?”

  Her eyes widened in innocence. “Of course not.” She blinked coyly. “Grandpa.”

  “Dammit,” he muttered, but without heat. He’d accepted it was just his lot on the team to be the oldest. Provided he made the team.

  “Where are you from?” Her heels thudded gently against the wooden leg of the table.

  “Illinois.”

  She waited a moment. “Me? I grew up in Jackonville. Moved away for college and my first training gig, then came back for this job specifically. Thanks for asking, chatterbox.”

  His lips twitched before he could catch them.

  “Jeez, you really ask a lot of questions. I’m an only child, and that was my mom sitting with me the other night at the bar, though you likely already figured that out. Got any siblings over there in Illinois?”

  He raised a brow.

  “If you don’t shut up, I’ll never get a word in edgewise,” she said with mock seriousness.

  He turned to look at the wall for a moment before she caught the smile.

  She grinned, totally onto him. “You can’t resist forever. Eventually you’ll crack under the pressure. I have ways of making you talk. Do you need a ride back to the BOQ?”

  He nodded before he caught himself, then shook his head. It was like being slowly but methodically beaten by a teddy bear. Not painful, but difficult to keep track of all the whacks. “I have a ride back.”

  “Ah. Okay, well that’s good.”

  Higgs took that moment to stick his head in. “Hey, Grandpa, ready to roll?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I—”

  “Oh. Did I interrupt?” Higgs walked fully into the room and looked back and forth between them. He didn’t even bother hiding his curiosity—or the fact that he wanted to watch whatever he’d interrupted.

  “No, I think we were done. I was just offering Costa here a ride back if he needed one, but looks like he’s all squared away.” Marianne hopped off the table, and Brad resisted the strong urge to wrap his hands around her waist and catch her fall. She was short enough to make the jump dangerous.

  She landed softly with no effort.

  Or not so dangerous, and he was just overreacting.

  Higgs backed out slowly. “You know, I actually need to run a few errands, so if you could still give him a ride . . .”

  “Higgs,” Brad warned in a low voice.

  Marianne shot him a smile as sunny as the hair tucked behind her ears. “Absolutely. No problem.”

  And just like that Higgs was running for his car. Damn traitor. This. This was why it never paid to make friends out of the competition. Guy probably thought he was doing him a favor or some crap, having incorrectly read the tension in the room.

  Marianne motioned to a chair. “Have a seat. It’ll just be a minute before I can lock up and go.”

  He settled on the squeaky vinyl chair and stretched out his right leg, resting the ice bag over the top of his kneecap. No point in pretending it was his hand and waste the ice. Her eyes missed nothing, although she was busy shuffling papers around on her desk.

  So, he gave it back to her and watched her in return. She wore less makeup than she had at the bar, though that wasn’t a shocker. The polo was too big by at least a size, and she tucked it in and did that poof-out thing from the waistband of her cuffed khaki walking shorts. He’d bet money she intentionally made herself less sexually appealing at work. Habit? Or something she did only because of the current clientele? If she’d worked for a women’s team, would she have stayed so toned down?

  “Okay, ready to roll.” She beamed over her shoulder, then nodded to his leg. “We can stay until your twenty is up.”

  “I’m good. It’s not a big deal.” He clenched his jaw to keep a grimace from his face while he stood. He couldn’t limp this time. No wiggle room for the pain. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

  “I like getting to know the athletes. Makes it easier when you guys are in here and I’m keeping tabs on everyone.” She waited for him to walk out the door, then shut off the lights and locked up. “I’m parked near the front, so it’s not too far.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” Her tone was cheerful, not a single hint of sarcasm. But maybe that was the beauty of it. It was so non-sarcastic, it made a full reversal and became the ultimate in comebacks.

  Or the pain was eating holes in his brain like Swiss cheese and he was reading too much into it. She was a trainer. Not the KGB. She was there to tape ankles and hand out ibuprofen. Not to investigate his entire life.

  She walked to a clean little Honda and opened her own door before he could do it for her. Fine. Fewer steps for him. He eased into the seat, and this time the grimace was as much from how scrunched he felt in the tiny car as from the pain of folding his right leg in.

  “I know, I know,” she said easily as he fought to slide the seat back a few inches. “It’s small. But I’m small, so it’s not wasteful.”

  “You’ve got a point.” As he settled the ice back on his knee, he watched as she navigated the base roads easily and headed in the right direction without waiting for his guidance. “You know your way around.”

  “I’m not a military brat or anything. But you know, you live in Jacksonville long enough, you’ll make friends with kids who live on base. Plus, I worked at the Dunkin’ Donuts by the commissary for two very long months the summer after I graduated high school.”

  He smiled at that. “Nothing makes you work harder in school than a taste of minimum wage.”

  “Exactly why my dad pushed me into the job.” She followed the speed limits exactly, made all turns at a snail’s pace, and stopped for at least five full seconds at a four-way stop with nobody there. When he raised a brow, she wrinkled her nose. “The MPs scare me.”

  He couldn’t hold back the laugh then. She amused the hell out of him, being intimidated by the military police.

  “No, seriously, they do. Once, when my friend and I were driving home from work, they pulled us over. She just had a broken taillight, so they were reading her the riot act over that. But it made a big impression on my very sheltered seventeen-year-old self.” She shuddered at the memory.

  Damn, she was funny. “They can be pretty intense.”

  As she rolled to a stop in front of the BOQ, she waited while he grabbed his bag and the ice-bag-turned-water-balloon.

  “Muscle or tendon?”

  He stared at her for a minute in the dim light from the dashboard and street lamp. “It’s nothing.”

  She bit her lip, and he could almost see her mind turning over another angle to approach it with. She wasn’t going to let up. She was the teddy bear, and she could go on whacking him forever until he broke. There was no way he’d hold up under her scrutiny. So, he just said the first thing he could think of to hold the questions back.

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Hair behind the ears or in front? Front. No, up. Clipped back. That’s more casual. Makeup? No . . . okay, yes, because otherwise it would just look like she didn’t care about her appearance at all. She wasn’t vain, but a girl had her pride.

  And this. This was exactly what Marianne had been attempting to avoid when she decided her career was more important than dating for the moment. This utter waste of time she was going through for this dinner. A dinner that was not even an actual date, but just a meeting between two people to hash out stuff and pass the time. Not a date.

  Nope. Not at all.

 
Heels. Yes, definitely heels.

  Pride, after all.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and debated between two pair of heels, choosing the taller ones. Mostly because she was just short and taller heels made her more confident on a daily basis. And also, a small sliver of her admitted they made her ass look particularly fantastic with the dark jeans she was sporting. The tank top she’d picked out was an old favorite, with enough skin to look fashionable but not so much that if she bent over, she flashed her ta-tas for the entire restaurant. And the ombre pale-blush-to-hot-pink coloring was subdued and playful at the same time.

  Holy shit, she was putting way more thought into this than she had dressing for any date in the last two years. And it was Not. A. Date.

  A date might actually have a better shot at sneaking in behind that tough shell Brad Costa threw up at every turn. The man was a turtle. No matter which way you approached him, he would just duck into his hidey-hole and stay put. He was determined to keep himself aloof, for some bizarre reason. And not just from her. She’d seen it in action with the other guys, as well.

  Just fine. Marianne was determined to crack the shell and find his soft center. Every man had one; some were just harder to find than others.

  Brad’s soft center was better at hiding than Carmen Sandiego.

  Marianne was debating between two shades of—admittedly nearly identical—lip glosses when her cell rang. She groped for it, relishing the distraction from her wandering mind. “Hello?” she answered as she forced herself to just grab one and slather some on.

  “Your father is holed up in his study for the evening. Come out and meet me for dinner.”

  “Hi, Mom.” She blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. Why was it the instant anything glossy went on her lips, they became magnets for stray hair? Was this some sort of universal female rule, like you’ll always have cramps during important life events, be on your period when you travel and be wearing granny panties when you get the chance for some impromptu sex? “I can’t tonight. I have plans.”

  The instant the words left her lips, she forehead-slapped herself. If she’d had plans with friends, she would have said with whom. Which meant her mother would automatically assume it was a date.

  “Ooooh, you do?” Mary purred. “Who is he?”

  Yup. Marianne knew her mother all too well.

  “Crap, Mom, I’m running late. I’ll call you later, okay? Have a good night!” She hung up and threw the phone on the bed like it was a cobra waiting to strike. As if that would somehow prevent her mother from calling her back immediately.

  As her mother’s ringtone played, muffled by the bedspread, Marianne sighed. Not how she wanted to start the evening. But time to be a grown-up. She picked up the phone, careful not to accidentally hit a button and answer the call, turned the phone on silent, and sent her mother to voice mail purgatory.

  She was a good daughter. She’d call her mother back.

  Eventually. Like tomorrow. Night. Or the day after, at the latest.

  Every good daughter has her limits.

  On the drive to the restaurant, she reminded herself it wasn’t a date. There was no reason to be nervous. And she’d only embarrass herself if she walked in there with anxiety. Go in like a professional. It’s almost like a business meeting.

  Yes. A business meeting. She was pitching her product—her services as a damn good trainer—to the client and hoping he would agree. An unusual venue for her profession, but anything to keep her mouth from tripping over words or—God forbid—blurting out something like, “You don’t think this is a date, do you?”

  The hostess at the restaurant pointed her in the right direction, and she made her way there with confidence. Brad stood as she approached the booth, and she inwardly sighed with relief at seeing he’d dressed casually, like she had. His dark jeans and light green button-down shirt looked fantastic, but was definitely more comforting than if he’d dressed up.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late. Last-minute call tied me up.” She slid in across from him and waited while he settled down. “Have you ordered yet?”

  He raised a brow. “No, I was waiting for you.”

  “Oh. Right.” Dumbass. The server passed by and took her drink order of a glass of water and a bottle of Yuengling. At her order, he looked surprised.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just impressed.”

  “Because I’m a lady who knows her beer?”

  “I’m always impressed with anyone who knows decent beer. Most of the guys I know don’t even go for the good stuff.”

  “Well, I could order a girly cocktail and pay nineteen dollars for a quarter of a shot of vodka and three ounces of cranberry juice, but I’m just not in the mood.”

  He grinned, then turned his bottle so she could see the label on his own drink.

  Yuengling.

  The smile crept across her lips before she could stop it. “Nice taste.”

  “I think so.” He watched her while he took a sip. The server brought by her drink and water then took their orders. He surprised her by ordering the salmon, grilled, fresh vegetables and a salad with oil and vinegar. Meanwhile, her steak, chicken tortilla soup and baked potato suddenly sounded like a gluttonous splurge.

  “Training diet?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I try not to go too crazy. I want a beer with dinner? Dinner’s gotta be decent. I’m not in the mood for alcohol or carbs? Maybe I go crazy and order dessert.” He shrugged. “Moderation.”

  “Healthy,” she added. “Realistic. I see athletes sometimes who go insane with their diet, thinking they’re doing the right thing. And I can’t fault them for wanting to be healthy.” She debated a second, then grabbed one of the rolls from the untouched basket on the table. “But after a certain time, your body just needs a little something extra, you know?”

  He was smiling at her a little, like he enjoyed her snatching a roll as if it were the last one instead of one of four. “Burnout’s a real thing. I’ve known guys who wanted to make it into training camp as badly as I did and pushed it too hard.”

  “Is this the first year for you?”

  “Yup. Life—and the Marine Corps—has a way of stepping in front of the best laid plans. Deployments, training missions or commanders who didn’t want to sign off on the waiver to let me come. This is my first real chance.”

  He sounded so passionate, so determined. But not in a scary, slow-down-big-boy sort of way. “Why boxing?”

  He smiled at the server who delivered his salad and her cup of soup, then glanced back to Marianne after picking up his fork. Their server hovered, as if waiting for Brad to notice her and suddenly swoop down and carry her to the back for a quickie. Brad didn’t cooperate, and, with a sigh, the server disappeared.

  “Why not boxing?”

  She waited a moment, then set her spoon down in mock-disgust. “You’ve really got to stop monopolizing the conversation. I mean, really, Brad. It’s just rude.”

  His lips curved, but he ducked his head toward his salad to hide it.

  “Boxing is just my sport. I’ve been boxing since I was a kid. I would have joined the Marine boxing team years ago, if I could. And it seemed like every year that was denied to me, the desire grew. But, in retrospect, I probably would have taken it for granted if I’d made it in at nineteen like some of these kids have. So it’s almost like the goal took on a life of its own in my head.”

  “I can relate to that one.” She blew steam from her soup and tasted. “I’ve got my eye on a bigger goal, too. It’s been hovering over me for a while. I think the longer a dream stays in your head, the bigger it grows, until sometimes it takes on mythological proportions.”

  He pulled an offended face. “Working with the few, the proud wasn’t your ultimate dream in life?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. The so-serious Brad, joking around. It was relieving to see his more human side. “Sorry to burst the ego bubble. It’s great and all, don’t get me wrong. And a step up from hav
ing to baby the high school basketball stars who were in my training room begging for Midol.”

  He froze with the fork halfway to his mouth. A piece of tomato plopped back onto his plate. “Why in the world . . . Were they on a dare?”

  “No. It’s mostly pain reliever, but it’s got caffeine, which can cut headaches faster than straight ibuprofen.” She shrugged. “Mostly I think they thought it was hilarious to ask. Some rite of passage. Look at me, I’m so tough I can ask for Midol and not care. I guess the trainer before me gave them out like candy. That had to stop fast.”

  “No kidding.” He grimaced. “Do you like your job?”

  “Not like; love.” She ignored her soup completely and leaned forward, careful not to plop a boob in the bowl. “It’s amazing what the right trainer can do for the right athlete. When they click, and they can work together on rehabilitation, or even prevention, or maintenance, it’s fantastic. Seeing the athlete’s performance skyrocket, and knowing you had a hand in that, is special. The human skeletal system is an amazing and complex thing.” She cut herself off. “Sorry. I was about to dive off the edge of total nerdiness.”

  “No, I like it. I like seeing people enjoy what they do.”

  “Yeah. It feels good to have found that niche that was meant for me.” She waited while the server collected their salad plate and soup bowl and replaced them with dinner plates.

  It was good, she mused, to have this easy flow with him. Without mentioning his injury, she’d gotten why the team was so important out of him, and he’d learned why she honestly loved her job. Perhaps later on, if it was still applicable, he’d come to her for help.

  But more than that, she just enjoyed talking with him. He was listening. And not the fake listening she knew some men did where they nodded and made soft noises all while mentally calculating how fast they could unbutton the fly to her jeans or whether she would want them to come inside after their date.

  Frankly, the entire evening had been better than a lot of dates she’d been on in the recent years.

  But it is not a date, she reminded herself sternly.