“Oh, that sweet boy.” Mary gulped the last of her first wine and pushed the empty glass to the server before reaching for the fresh one. “He shouldn’t have.”
“No, he shouldn’t have. We don’t need drinks,” Marianne said quickly, stalling her mother’s arm. “Can you tell him we appreciate the gesture but—”
“Nope. He’s already gone. And that was definitely no boy. They’re paid for, so enjoy.” The server winked and headed back to the bar.
So the other one—the one not using horrible pickup lines—had sent them. As an apology for his friend? Or more? She found herself searching the thinning crowd around the bar, just in case. But the server was right, both he and his younger companion—along with most of the crowd they’d come with—were gone.
“Looking for our mystery Marine, are we?”
She threw a crumpled up cocktail napkin at her mother. “Don’t start. And I can’t drink this. I’m driving home. My boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long, and I want to have some pamphlets ready to print for—”
“Oh, relax.” Mary leaned back in the booth. “Sip slowly, drink water, and slow down for five minutes. You’re having a drink with your mother; it can’t be that sinful.”
She debated for a good twenty seconds before grabbing the bottle and having a fresh sip of cool, refreshing beer. Fine. Five minutes, then back to real life.
Mystery Marine, thanks for the drinks, but no thank you.
* * *
TRESSLER eyed Brad with childish mutiny from a corner of the wrestling mat. “You didn’t have to fuck up my night, man.”
Not even minute one of training camp, and already Brad was making lifelong friends. He closed his eyes and stretched his back on the mat. Tuck right knee to chest, rotate back until crossing body, and feel the stretch. Stare up at ceiling and not at idiot.
They were in some semblance of a semicircle, waiting for the coaches to begin day one. There were several sleepy eyes in the crowd, and a few who looked like they’d been pushed out of bed with a bulldozer. And of course Tressler, who would have been worse off if Brad hadn’t stepped in and “encouraged” him to make an early night of it.
But did he get thanks for being the mature, levelheaded one and keeping him from making an ass of himself? No. Of course not. Maybe he should have let the kid keep talking to the mother-daughter combo. He would have gotten a healthy slap eventually.
Brad had almost done just that. Walked on by, hit the head, and gone home alone to get a solid night’s rest. But something in the way Tressler’s younger blonde-haired prey had looked—an interesting mixture of boredom and concern—had stopped him in his tracks. And though she probably hadn’t meant it, the gratitude and relief when he’d taken Tressler in hand had shone in her eyes, making him feel eight feet tall.
“You’re not my commanding officer here.”
“Nope,” he agreed easily. And thank God for that. He stared at the exposed beams that criss-crossed over the high ceiling of the arena. Dropping the leg, he let it fall a bit more, allowing the pull to stretch his muscles.
“I don’t have to do what you say.”
“Okay then.” Switch sides, stretch away, ignore moron.
“I could have had her,” Tressler continued, almost to himself.
Brad snorted. And he wasn’t the only one.
“Knock it off, you two.” Higgs, who looked a little rough himself, slapped a palm on the mat. The smack of flesh echoed off the high rafters of the gym. “I’m not listening to a bunch of whiny pussies for months.”
Brad took the insult the way it was intended, with equal parts camaraderie and respect, and a little warning tossed in for good measure.
Sadly, Tressler didn’t seem to have the maturity to do the same. “Who are you calling a pussy, pussy?”
“Jesus,” Brad muttered, closing his eyes again when Higgs stood. “Knock it off, both of you.”
“I agree.”
The low growl took them all by surprise. Every Marine was on his feet, at attention where he stood, as the coach approached. He was a mountain of a man, solidly built but still huge. His dark skin only made the contrast of his white teeth, bared in a grimace, and his shocking white hair stand out that much more.
“Bunch of ladies, bickering and moaning. ‘She stole my boyfriend. She wore my favorite shirt. I saw her texting Tommy and I like Tommy so she can’t do that,’” he mocked in a high-pitched faux teen girl voice.
A few chuckled before coughing.
“Yeah, it’s humorous.” He let his clipboard fall to the mat with a rattle. “Funny, when men can’t be five seconds in each others’ presence without acting like a bunch of middle school girls who got snubbed for the big dance.”
Brad bit the side of his cheek to keep from smiling.
The man walked between the Marines, through them, weaving in and out on silent feet. Brad kept his eyes forward, the only warning of the coach’s presence the change in atmosphere when he passed by. For a man who must have weighed two-fifty, he moved like a ghost. “I’m sent the few, the proud, the—what? What was that delicate term you used?” He paused by Tressler and Higgs, who both stared straight ahead. “‘Pussies,’ was it?”
Tressler said nothing. Kid had caught on, finally.
“Well, if that’s true, then we’ve got our work ahead of us, don’t we?” He made his way back to the front of the mat, where they could all see him. “At ease, boys. This isn’t formation; this is practice. I don’t expect you to salute and stand at attention around me. I’m your coach, not your commanding officer. And I’ll tell you what—I want you to all check your rank at the door. I make the leaders in this gym, not some brass on your collar when you’re back with your units.”
He rubbed his hands together. They were the size of dinner plates. “I’m Coach Ace, and these are my assistants.” He pointed a thumb over his left shoulder, toward a tall, lanky man with almost no hair and glasses. “Coach Cartwright.” Thumb jerked to the right, to the short man with a shocking orange-red moustache that would make the Lorax proud. “Coach Willis.”
He spread his arms out wide. “Coaches, this is what we have to work with. Let’s see what we’ve been given. Men? Are you pussies, or are you Marines?”
As one, for the first time, the entire squad gave a loud “Oo-rah!”
CHAPTER
2
The smell of a fresh roll of athletic tape. The feel of sanitized plastic seats squeaking beneath her hands. The echo of ice poured by the pound into ten-gallon water coolers to be taken out for the athletes to rehydrate.
Marianne closed her eyes, breathed in deep and sighed with pure joy. This was her world. This was where she reigned with pleasure. Some athletic training rooms resembled nothing more than a dungeon, and even then, she was in her element.
But this one, she had to admit, was pretty decent. Probably because she was comparing it to her last job, where she had worked in a small high school that could barely field enough boys for a football team. But she’d loved it.
And she would love this, too. She just needed to get into the swing of things.
Levi, one of her college interns—she had interns!—walked in bear-hugging a big five-gallon cooler. His steps were more like a waddle thanks to the girth of the round plastic. “God, these guys killed this one fast. They’re camels, I swear.”
“As long as they’re hydrated camels, I don’t mind.” Marianne helped him maneuver the cooler over to the massive industrial sink that stood in the corner of her training room. Before, at the high school, she’d have had to wash the cooler herself. But thanks to having not one, but two, interns earning credit for the semester shadowing her, the grunt work was out of her hands for the low, low price of writing weekly updates and a more lengthy end-of-semester evaluation.
It was a beautiful thing to move up in the world.
Levi popped the top of the cooler and dumped out the last dribbles of ice before running the hot water. He s
hook his head a little to get his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I’ll wash this one up and get the second cooler out there in a few minutes. Honestly, I don’t know how . . .” His voice trailed off, and Marianne glanced over to see what had happened.
Nikki had happened. Otherwise known as assistant number two. It had taken Marianne about point-five seconds to realize Levi was in some serious puppy love with the cute golden-haired coed. His voice rose an octave every time she was in the room, and his eyes tracked hers like the family pet hoping for a stray word of praise.
Nikki set a towel in the laundry hamper—which the janitors would handle later, another perk of the new job—and grinned. “One of them already threw up. Less than three hours. That’s gotta be a record somewhere.”
Marianne started for the door. “Is he okay?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. He just puked in a trash can while running laps. Barely slowed down at all to do it. He’s already back in formation and running with the rest of the crew.”
“Probably just drank too much water too fast before running.” She debated a moment, then decided to hold off on going out. No guy wanted the trainer running out there to baby him for something as simple as throwing up water. She wasn’t their mommy and they weren’t toddlers with scraped knees. Finding the balance of knowing when to step in and when to let them push on was part of her job. Baby the athletes and they didn’t want to come to her at all. Ignore the potential problems and they could injure themselves permanently.
Nikki walked around to the sink where Levi was washing out the jug and reached around him for a sleeve of plastic cups. “I’m going to run these upstairs. Looks like they’ll be using both the catwalk for cardio and the downstairs area for training, so I think we should have a second water station up there.”
Marianne bit back a smile as Levi’s eyes nearly rolled back in pleasure from Nikki’s nearness. “Good idea.”
Levi propped the clean jug on the drying rack and grabbed the cups before she could. Given Nikki’s short stature, she would have had to ask for help anyway. “I’ll go take them out. You can get the next water cooler ready.” He darted out of the room before she could protest.
Watching these two dance around each other could be amusing for the next few weeks. As long as it didn’t interfere with their work, she could appreciate others finding a little fun where they could get it.
Nikki fisted her hands at her hips. “I wanted to take it out.” Her pout turned to a Cheshire cat–like smile. “Any excuse to check out the hot Marines, right?” She moved to the clean cooler and started scooping ice, raising her voice above the crashing sound of the metal breaking through the chunks. “How can you be stuck in here all morning and not have any urge to peek? Half of them aren’t even wearing shirts anymore!”
“Old news.” Marianne shrugged, but grinned back. “I was raised here, remember? I think I got that out of my system in my teens.”
“There is no way you can get ‘hot guys’ out of your system. I’d have to be half-dead before I couldn’t recognize quality beef like that.”
Marianne’s mother would have agreed readily. Marianne just chuckled and went back to inventorying the bandages.
“Hey, Marianne?”
She turned to look at Levi, whose head was poking through the door. “Yeah?”
“The coach wants you to come out and meet the team. They’re about to break for lunch, so he says now’s a good chance to introduce you.”
“Sure thing. Just a second.” She finished up counting rolls so she didn’t lose place, documented the number and set the clipboard aside and headed out of the room.
The air was the first thing to change. Moving from the cool, AC-infused air of her training room into the muggy, heavy, humid air of the gymnasium, she almost struggled to breathe for a moment. The lights were dim, coming from far overhead, and her eyes adjusted before she walked toward the group of Marines and the three coaches. The men were in formation, feet shoulder-width apart and hands at the smalls of their backs, eyes straight forward. Though she knew they could hear her tennis shoes squeaking across the floor, not one of them moved a muscle to see who was coming.
Too well-trained.
Putting on her professional, distant smile, she shook hands with the head coach, whom she’d met the day before. “Hey, Coach Ace. How’s the first practice going?”
He smiled and shook. “Not too bad, Ms. Cook.”
“Marianne.”
He nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to the group assembled in front of him. She knew the drill, and faced the Marines. They’d all donned their shirts now—poor Nikki—but most were plastered to their fronts, leaving no imagination where their body shapes were concerned. These were fighting machines, well-honed. Body fat begone.
“Men, this is Marianne Cook, the athletic trainer assigned to our team. Her training room is behind you, to the left there through the double doors. I’ll let her say a few words, then we’ll break for a few hours to fuel up.”
“Thanks, Coach.” She waited a beat, then asked, “Can they relax?”
“Sure thing. Ease down, boys.”
She watched their muscles relax, their bodies loosen up, their gazes swing around the gym and their shoulders roll to ease the aches. And as she took inventory of the Marines, she spotted the idiot from the night before. The one who had done a pathetic job hitting on her and her mother. The infant. What had his friend called him? Tress . . . something? His eyes caught hers, and he flushed and his mouth gaped a little.
Oh, yeah. She bit back a grin, doing her best to keep the professional mask on. Sometimes, pretending to be a ladies’ man bit ya big time. Nice lesson, huh, kid?
“Hi guys. I’m Marianne; or you can just call me Cook. Either one. I respond to both.” It’d be easier on everyone if they called her Cook. Seeing her as one of the guys would make the entire thing smoother. “I’m either going to be around here, observing and keeping an eye on you while you work, or in the training room. I’ve got two assistants as well, Levi and Nikki.” She pointed toward the door, where her interns waved. Nikki’s wave might have been a tad more enthusiastic than Levi’s, but at least she wasn’t drooling.
“I’ve also got some pamphlets here.” She fanned the stack she’d brought out with her. She’d made them herself, and was pretty darn proud of them. “They talk about proper nutrition both before and after a training session to give your body proper fuel. I’ll leave them outside my door so you can grab one on the way out.”
She took a deep breath, about to give a quick, well-practiced speech on the importance of stretching and hydration—both of which could prevent a multitude of injuries themselves—when she saw another surprising face in the crowd.
The second man from last evening. The one who had stepped in when the infant had started bothering her and her mother. The reluctant savior. She knew he saw her; she was impossible to miss. His face was an impassive mask, eyes staring straight ahead, just a little to the left of her, like something on the blank wall behind her shoulder was more interesting. But his jaw clenched in a way that said he wasn’t entirely unaware of her presence.
Well. Curious.
* * *
WELL. Shit.
Brad focused on the speed bag in front of him . . . mostly focused. The work was repetitive; he could work the bag by rote. But cruising on autopilot wouldn’t get him his spot on the team. Already, he knew his skills weren’t to the same par as others’. He wasn’t as fast as Higgs, and—it galled him to admit—he wasn’t as powerful as Tressler and his big mouth. A man named Sweeney took the prize for the most creative moves, with the sort of skill to see three moves ahead of his opponent and make the right choice. The man was like Bobby Fisher on a chess board, always calculating and ready.
But he had determination, guts and sheer refusal to quit. And his conditioning was above the curve. While some dropped like flies in the heat, he’d stand out as going the distance. He couldn’t
beat them, but he could outlast them.
Please, God, let that count for something.
But right now he couldn’t think about outdistancing his fellow teammates. No, of course not. His mind kept drifting back to the icy blonde with hot legs and a banging body. Oh, sure, she hid it under the obligatory baggy staff polo that might as well have been a potato sack and a pair of loose khaki shorts. But he’d seen her the night before in a formfitting tank top and hip-skimming jeans. The woman was stacked.
And all but walked around with a sandwich board proclaiming, “Hands Off, Marines.” Shame, really.
He missed another combo, and Coach Willis’ barking, rasping shout had him blinking and dodging the bag before it hit him square in the face.
“Costa! Christ on a cracker, what are you doing with that bag?”
Brad turned, then jolted back a step when he found the shorter man standing right behind him. He had to be barely over five feet tall. “Coach—”
“Swear to God, boys, swear to God.” Willis shook his head, upper lip twitching. The motion sent his moustache into an awkward dance. Brad bit back a laugh. “If you can’t keep your head in the game, maybe you shouldn’t be playing it.”
Shit, shit, shit. Daydreaming about the Nordic princess had scraped his concentration raw. “Sorry, Coach. Just lost it for a second. I’m good.”
“You can go be ‘good,’” he said with a sneer and some air quotes for extra insult, “by running a few stairs and laps. Up, across, down, across. Ten rounds.” When he waited, Willis rubbed a finger across his moustache. “Go. Now.”
“Yes, Coach.” He took off immediately, sprinting to the first set of stairs. The gymnasium was set up with a set of stairs in each of the four corners, leading up to a catwalk above where spectators could watch games or events. The drill was simple enough. Run up a set of stairs, sprint across the length of the catwalk to the next stairs, run down, sprint across the gymnasium floor by the wall, back up again. Around and around he would go.
Below the Belt Page 2
