“Uh, no. Not for me.” She sighed, knowing she really should be better about her own stretching regimen. “Actually, the head coach—remember me telling you about him?”
“Big man, deep voice, good coach, nice guy?” Kara nodded.
“That’s the one. Coach Ace asked if I could bring some yoga into the team’s routine. He’s really committed to keeping them healthy, and he thinks doing some team yoga would be a good way to do that.”
Her friend beamed. “What a fabulous idea! I’d love to come in and do a workshop. I’ll email you my studio schedule and you just tell me what time’s best for the team. If I’m not in the studio, then I’m available to teach a private.”
“When do you work on the blog?”
She waved that off and took another cookie—number five, by Marianne’s calculation, so she hid a grin. “Late at night, early in the morning, between classes at the studio in the office. It’s one of those added bonus things. I don’t schedule specific time for it. It gets done during all those pesky moments of downtime.”
Pesky little moments most people looked forward to. Kara, on the other hand, seemed to find them the bane of her existence. If she wasn’t doing nine things at once, she considered herself bored.
“You might have to start scheduling in time soon,” Marianne pointed out. Kara’s blog chronicling her struggles with her son’s allergies and providing resources and information for those who were battling similar issues had been picking up steam recently, with a few articles featured on major websites. “And it’s great passive income.”
“Nothing passive about it. It’s work.” Kara smiled softly. “But it’s nice work. I like it.”
Just then, a blur ran through the room and landed on the couch. Marianne managed—barely—to catch her wineglass before she bobbled it.
“Hey, Mom. I’m starving.”
“Starving, huh?” Kara stroked one hand over her ten-year-old son’s hair. “But I just fed you last week.”
“I’ve got a hollow leg,” he said with a grin that told Marianne this was an old routine for them. “Can I grab a snack?”
“Take some cookies,” Marianne offered. When Kara looked up, she grimaced. “Sorry, was I supposed to ask you first if it was okay? They don’t have peanuts or peanut butter.” She fumbled for her phone in her purse at her feet. “I can bring up the recipe so you can see the ingredients if you want. I got it from Pinterest.”
Kara looked hesitant, but Zach shook his head, answering first. “Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got snacks in the kitchen. Can I have one, Mom?” he asked again.
Eyes blinking rapidly, Kara nodded and shooed him out of the living room. “He’s always better at it than I am.” Her voice was soft as she watched her son disappear into the kitchen. “I always hesitate, just a blink, before I say yes or no to something. I keep asking myself, Should I take the risk this time? Will he resent me for saying no again? But he never does. He’s just so . . . easy.” She said the last with a sort of humble bafflement.
“Probably because his mom’s a kick-ass mother.”
At that, her friend gave a watery laugh. “I’ve missed you.” She let her head drop to Marianne’s shoulder for just a moment. “I know you’re not here forever, but I’m so glad you’re back.”
“Me, too.” She picked up the plate. “Eat another cookie.”
* * *
BRAD jabbed, jabbed again, threw a left hook that took his opponent by surprise and watched as Armstrong went to his knees on the mat. Even with the protection of the headgear, Brad knew the hit was a hard one.
“You dropped your damn guard again, Armstrong.” He pulled his gloves off and tossed them to the side, then spit his mouth guard out in disgust. Squatting, he waited until Armstrong’s head raised. Pupils were responsive, not fixed or dilated. “You’re fine. On your feet, Marine.”
Coach Willis wandered over and leaned over the single rope used to outline the practice ring. “Trouble?”
“There won’t be,” Brad assured him as Armstrong shuffled to his feet. “We’ve got it covered.”
The short coach nodded, but instead of walking off, planted himself in one of the metal folding chairs nearby and crossed his ankles. He was settling in to watch, clearly.
With a sigh, Brad made sure Armstrong was steady before showing him exactly when he’d dropped his right arm enough to give Brad the opening. Armstrong nodded in agreement, then asked to go again.
Brad threw the same combination, but hooked with the right this time to catch him off guard. But he blocked as he should and kicked out a punch of his own while Brad’s balance was still moving forward, catching him in the shoulder. Brad rubbed at the area and grinned when Armstrong hooted in triumph.
“All right, shithead, you tagged me. Tressler, get in here.”
With a puff of breath and a smirk, Tressler slid his mouth guard in. “I’ll go easy on you, Armstrong.”
Brad rolled his eyes and hopped over the rope to watch. Willis rolled to his feet and stood beside him. After a moment, he grunted.
“You gonna correct that form?”
Brad looked down at him. “You’re here. Are you going to correct that form?”
“They’re yours.”
Brad didn’t quite understand how the whole mini-platoon thing was supposed to work. Was this a test of some kind? To see if he was willing to go the extra mile for the team? Or to see if he would put his own training first and foremost, making himself the best boxer he could be?
Who the hell knew anymore?
Biting back a groan, he called a time and walked back into the ring to correct Armstrong’s form.
Again.
This was the practice that wouldn’t end. Already they’d worked well into what would usually be their lunch break. There wasn’t a Marine left who wasn’t wilting like day-old spinach. Normally Brad thrived on outlasting everyone else, but even he was feeling the strain on his stamina.
All he wanted was a bag of ice for his knee, a half-decent meal from the salad bar at the commissary and his quiet room. But no. He wasn’t getting any of that.
And he definitely wasn’t going to have company in his room, either. With a glance back at the training room, where he knew Marianne was restocking shelves with new supplies, he battled back the urge to ask her over for a one-on-one consultation.
Terrible idea.
He was just full of them.
* * *
MARIANNE finished stacking the last box of cooling pads on the metal shelf and nudged it into place with her knee. Man, it was boiling balls hot. They’d had to turn the AC in her room off to stop the spread of the scent of alcohol. But now that the smell had dissipated a little, the AC was working overtime to catch up. It hadn’t quite gotten there yet.
“That should be good. I can handle the rest from here. Take your break.”
Nikki looked more than ready to haul ass out of the hot room. Marianne had an idea she’d be heading to the main gym where the Marines who lived and worked on base typically worked out. She said the scenery was “inspiring” for her job. Marianne snorted delicately at that.
Levi hesitated, even when the object of his youthful desires had bolted for the door. “Are you sure? There’s more to do.”
“Yeah, but we don’t all have to be here. One of us does, while they’re working out. But since it looks like they’re not stopping anytime soon, no need to punish you guys. Get out, remind yourselves what fresh air smells like.”
He smiled a little at that, then reached for his backpack under the desk. “I’m not sure you should be alone, after what happened in here the other day.”
It was sweet, his worry over her. She gave him an unconcerned smile. “That was at night, and nothing’s happened since. Plus, I’ve got about twenty-five Marines that are three feet away. I’m pretty sure if anything happened, they’d be in here in two seconds flat to protect the womenfolk . . . which would be me.”
At that, he lifted one shoulder. “Okay then.”
With a hand raised in a wave, he headed out. Likely, she thought, to chase after Nikki and ask her to eat with him.
Young lust. Such a sticky, tricky web it wove.
There were more boxes to unpack, more wraps and tape to settle. Files she needed to properly put back where they belonged. But something made her edge out of her office to watch—what she hoped was—the end of practice. It was already two in the afternoon, and they’d barely stopped for more than a few water breaks. With the rate and intensity the guys were practicing at, their bodies were burning fuel at an alarming rate. Blood sugar was going to become an issue very quickly if Coach Ace wasn’t careful.
She’d talk with him afterward about it.
The gym had been divided into multiple crude mini-rings. Rope looped over tall traffic cones outlined the different areas where boxers were sparring. If she had to guess, she’d say they were going at fifty percent power. Enough to work on deflection, evasion and some tactical maneuvers, but not enough to knock one another unconscious.
Save that for the Air Force, boys.
She watched as Brad walked into his ring to grip the upper arms of one boxer. He maneuvered him around, all but throwing him like a rag doll. Bending, sliding, swooping him around as if in some bizarre dance move. She knew he was demonstrating the different angles to use when blocking, but it looked hilarious from where she was standing. He was hands-on with the younger guys. More hands-on than he probably wanted to be, or would admit to. But she saw it in the way the younger guys treated him, watched him, spoke to him.
They had mentally placed him at the top of the pile, as someone to aim for. Not based on his skill or speed, but based on his endurance, his knowledge and his work ethic.
He wouldn’t see it like that, though. He’d see it as them just watching the competition for weaknesses. So analytical, so pessimistic.
She grinned. He was so damn hot.
Even Tressler, cocky little shit that he was, quietly emulated Brad. As Brad showed Chalfant a combination, Tressler stood behind, mimicking the moves without being obvious. Committing the combination to muscle memory.
Coach Ace walked to the middle of the floor and cupped his hands. “Marines! Assemble!”
There was an initial scramble to head to the center mat. She saw Brad hop the rope, then immediately hitch a step in reaction.
He needed to be checked out. It could be something so minor it would need nothing but some stretching and extra heat and ice. Or it could be much worse. He could be putting his career as a Marine on the line, and for what? The chance to fight in a ring?
Pro athletes were being paid for their performances. In a way, though she disagreed with it, she understood the desire to push through the pain. But to risk his career—his real career—for the happiness of being on the boxing team? It didn’t compute.
Soon enough, she would have to make him trust her and fess up.
* * *
COACH Ace waited until they were quietly lined up in formation before he began. “I know I pushed you well through lunch. Nobody complained, nobody fought back and nobody asked for a break. Thank you for pushing through.”
Brad mentally breathed a sigh of relief.
“The reason I asked you to push through is because there is no practice tonight.”
That brought out a murmur among the guys. Probably already making plans to hit up a bar or find a willing woman, Brad thought with an inner eye roll.
His eye caught on Marianne standing just outside her door, wearing her polo shirt and capri-length khakis, with her arms crossed over her breasts.
Suddenly, the idea of a willing woman wasn’t far from his own mind.
“Instead of meeting at the gym, I want you to spend some time with your assigned platoons. Leaders, you’re in charge of making that happen. Your choice how, your choice where.” At the surprised silence, the coach’s dark face creased into a smile. “Gentlemen, boxing is a sport of one against one inside the ropes. But never let yourself forget that this is a team. First, foremost, always.”
Brad heard Higgs mutter a low “Oo-rah” from behind.
The second they were dismissed, Chalfant raced over to him.
Jesus H.
“What are we going to do tonight?” The younger man caught up with Brad as he turned to grab his bag. “We could see a movie. Or maybe watch one at the apartment. Oh! Dinner.” His eyes grew wide with anticipation. “We could go to this place my roommate told me about. It’s in Wilmington, but we’ve got the time, so—”
Brad tossed his cell phone at him to make him stop talking. “Put your number in there, then give it to the others. I’ll let you know when I figure shit out.”
“Oh.” Looking a little like a kicked puppy, Chalfant looked down at the phone in his hand. “So . . . okay. I’ll just . . .” He rotated the phone a bit, then wandered off, thumbs moving over the screen to put his number in.
“That went well.”
Brad turned to see another Marine standing there. Sweeney, he remembered. The one who owned a house out the back gate.
“What went well?” He leaned against the pushed-in bleachers, waiting for Sweeney to continue.
“I do believe that’s the kid’s hopes and dreams you’re crushing under the heel of your shoe.” With a small shake of his head, the other man leaned companionably next to him. “They’re babies.”
“They’re not even ten years younger than us.”
“In some ways. Half these guys haven’t even seen a deployment yet. You know how that shit ages you.” He let his head fall back against the hard plastic. “Grandpa.”
“If I’m the Grandpa of this outfit, you must be my two-minutes-younger twin brother. Plus,” he added darkly, “you outrank me. So we should probably be calling you Great-Grandpa.”
At that, Sweeney chuckled. “Not too far off, probably. But like the coach said, we leave our rank at the door. Take care of your mini-platoon, Costa. You’ve got some good ones.” He left, making Brad wonder what the hell that had been all about.
He waited for another few moments at the bleachers, eyes closed, ready to fall asleep on his feet like an elephant. Something freezing cold pressed against his belly, and his eyes widened. “Jesus H.!”
Marianne stood beside him, blinking innocently. “Oh, sorry, should have warned you.” She pulled the bag off his stomach and murmured, “Cold ice, coming in.”
The innocent mischief that sparkled in her eyes made him want to throw her over his shoulder, drag her back to the training room and spank her—then give the tables a good spin with a workout they were most certainly not designed for. “Yeah. Thanks for the warning.”
She tilted her head over to where Chalfant was getting Armstrong’s number in his phone. “Looks like you’ll be spending some quality bonding time with the boys, huh?”
“Like a father on his visitation weekend,” he muttered, making her laugh. “I like quiet. I like solitude. Is that so wrong?”
“No, but you’re also not an island. You joined the Marines. They were here long before you, and they’ll be here long after you. And you want to be a part of this team. So spend some time making a difference in something you volunteered for, huh?” She patted his chest. “It won’t kill you.”
He gripped her wrist for a split second, halting her retreat. But she gave an infinitesimal shake of her head, and he let her go.
CHAPTER
9
Brad let Tressler scoot into the booth before he slid in himself. The younger Marine scowled, but pushed to the end of the bench. The other three Marines slid in across from them, nice and cozy. It was like a group date from hell.
Their server handed out menus, took their drink orders—waters all around—and went off to give them time with the menus.
Chalfant spent approximately seven seconds reading his before he let it fall to the table. “Can you show me how you worked that second combo you used with Armstrong today? The one where you . . .” He threw out his arms and nailed Tibbs in the side
of the head.
“Damn, man.” Tibbs, a guy who gave Coach Ace a run for his money on size, gave Chalfant a death stare. “Check yourself.”
Chalfant blushed, fire flaming under his freckles. “Sorry,” he mumbled. His head drooped and he stared at the napkin roll in front of him.
Brad sighed inwardly. “I’ll show you tomorrow. It’s not hard, you just have to use it sparingly or else it becomes expected.”
He glanced up, and Brad could swear he saw the terrifying hints of hero worship in the young man’s eyes.
Their server showed back up with a tray full of waters, then took their orders. She spent more time than necessary coaching Tressler through the finer points of which cut of steak he should get, but seemed amused at his attentions, not offended. Brad didn’t bother to stop him from making an idiot out of himself.
When Brad ordered last, and realized he was the only one to order anything remotely healthy, he glared at each of them. “Are you kidding me? Steak? A freaking cheeseburger, Tibbs? And you,” he added with disgust to Tressler. “You loaded your freaking french fries.”
“They’re better that way. Everyone loves bacon and cheese.” He shrugged. “I dip ’em in ranch and—”
“Nope. No, stop there.” Brad covered his ears with his hands. “I can’t listen to the mess you’re making of your arteries.”
Tressler just smiled dreamily, like he already had a stomach full of fatty goodness.
“So, Coach—”
“Whoa.” Brad was nipping that shit in the bud right now. “Armstrong, I’m not your coach. I’m not anyone’s coach. I’m a teammate.”
“Maybe,” Tressler added, and Tibbs made the dun dun dun sound of doom. The table cracked up . . . except for Brad.
“I’m just babysitting you until Coach Ace has everyone whittled down to a smaller number. I’m not coaching anyone.”
Armstrong hesitated only a second, then asked, “But you’ll still help me with my block tomorrow, right?”
Below the Belt Page 9
