Below the Belt

by Jeanette Murray

  That she wouldn’t let fly. If he intended to stop by later for a booty call, she’d just be unavailable. And she’d taken herself out to her parents’ house to ensure that was actually true.

  So maybe she was using her parents as an excuse to not deal with the issue. But it was only temporary, and only until she figured out how much she wanted to push Brad for answers.

  Why, oh why, had she fallen for one of her athletes?

  Bad Marianne.

  * * *

  SHE was nearly home when her phone rang. She hesitated, then, when she hit a red light, pulled her phone from her cup holder to check the readout. Brad.

  Two choices. She could ignore it and talk to him tomorrow—he’d blown her off, and she could do the same. Or she could be the bigger person and answer.

  Before she’d reached a good stopping place, the phone stopped ringing. She calmly pulled into an Applebee’s parking lot, picked the phone up and made a call.

  “Hello?”

  “How old are we?”

  Kara huffed out a laugh. “Please don’t make me say it. No matter how old we get, you’ll always be younger, anyway. I’ll never win this game.”

  “Why does my brain want to revert to middle school tactics?”

  “Because at the end of the day, we’re all thirteen forever?”

  Marianne groaned.

  “Do you want a pep talk, or a suck-it-up talk?”

  “The second.”

  With the ease of old friendship, Kara said, “Suck it up, buttercup. Whatever it is you’re trying to avoid, get out of doing or give up on, just do it and get it over with.”

  She let her forehead fall to the steering wheel. “Life was so much easier when we were thirteen. Nobody expected us to be mature.”

  “But we couldn’t have a nice glass of wine to get us through life’s curveballs, either,” Kara pointed out.

  “Okay.” With a slow breath, she forced herself back up. “Here we go.”

  “Whatever it is, good luck.”

  She waited for her phone’s screen to clear, then called Brad. “Hey.”

  “Hey. You still awake?”

  “Was on my way home, actually.”

  He didn’t ask where she’d been. Which made her wonder if it was just a guy thing to not wonder, and not explain. Had she overreacted from the start?

  “Want a hot date with a badass Marine?”

  That had her smiling. Slowly. “Oh, don’t you know it.”

  “How about five badass Marines?”

  Her smile turned from sultry to amused. “Sounds like more than I can handle, if you want the truth. But for you and your Bad News Bears, I’ll make an exception. Gym?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “See you there.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  “If you’re going to swing like that,” Brad said, ducking easily as Chalfant threw a pathetic hook, “you’re going to have to stop telegraphing. Otherwise . . .” He threw a one-two punch into Chalfant’s stomach that sent the man stumbling back until he tripped and landed on his ass.

  Brad used his teeth to rip off the Velcro and tossed his right glove away to help Chalfant up. The man stood, face red with embarrassment.

  “Cheer up, Chalfant.” Tressler, ever helpful as he leaned against the railing of the catwalk, grinned. “You could always be the water boy.”

  Chalfant growled and advanced, gloves up by his shoulders. Brad stepped between them and shouldered Chalfant back. Tressler barely moved, just laughed softly.

  Tibbs ran by, huffing a little as he made another lap around the outer circle. He punched Tressler lightly on the shoulder as he passed by. “Don’t be an ass,” he managed to gasp.

  “Don’t bust a lung,” Tressler shot back.

  “Jesus H.,” Brad said to the ceiling, ripping his other glove off and letting it fall.

  No divine assistance was forthcoming.

  Armstrong managed to keep his fat out of the fire by focusing on the bag Brad had set him up with in the corner. It probably helped that he’d taped his left arm up to resemble a block, so he had no choice but to keep it up. Muscle memory would make it difficult for him to lower it next time he had the choice.

  “You,” he said to Chalfant as the younger man started forward again, “go take a drink and cool off. Tibbs!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Walk it out for a bit!”

  The large man held up a hand in acknowledgment from across the gym and slowed his pace.

  “And you,” he said, pointing to Tressler. The man’s shit-eating grin slowly faded as Brad walked up. He leaned in, lowering his voice until it was just above a whisper. “Go downstairs, into the hallway by the main doors, and study the team photos.”

  Tressler pulled back and blinked in surprise. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Arms crossed, Brad stepped back. “You’re hot shit, right? Don’t need the extra practice?”

  Tressler made a huffing sound and looked to the left, over Brad’s shoulder. As if he couldn’t quite make eye contact.

  “There are guys up here who want it. Not need—want. You don’t want it. So, get out of the way. Go study the photos. Read the names. You can tell me what you’ve learned when we get done up here.”

  Tressler scoffed, pushed off the railing and walked to the stairs. Either he’d take Brad seriously and give the photos of boxing teams of old a real study, or he’d take a nap.

  Either way, he was out of their way upstairs, where Brad could focus on the Marines who actually wanted the help.

  Tibbs ended up back on their side of the catwalk, and Brad clapped once to get his and Armstrong’s attention. “Take a break, guys. Grab some water, rest your eyes a minute, take a leak, whatever you need to do. Come back ready to go in ten.”

  Tibbs looked like he wanted to fall over, but he walked toward the stairway that led to the head, and Chalfant followed. His head was dropped low, shoulders up high.

  The posture of a resigned man.

  Before they left, Brad was going to fix it. Either he’d walk out ready to win, or he’d walk out ready to fake a winner’s posture. Sometimes, there wasn’t a difference.

  He walked to Marianne and slid down the wall beside her. His knee locked for a moment when he went to straighten his legs out, then popped out.

  After a few moments of silence, she glanced up from her phone. “Do you think anyone would be interested in a pamphlet on the effects of alcohol on an athlete’s body?”

  He snorted and leaned over, resting his temple on her shoulder as she made notes in her cell phone’s notepad app. “I’m guessing that’s a no. No offense.”

  “I’m sensing a pattern with my pamphlets.” She said it good-naturedly, then set the phone down in her lap. Her arm came around his back and she rubbed her palm in slow, soothing circles. He arched away.

  “Don’t, I’m sweaty.”

  “So? You’re sweaty in bed, but I like it.”

  He nuzzled into her neck for a moment before pulling back. Sitting with her was one thing. But he’d be damned if the guys caught him necking with the trainer. They weren’t playing secret agent spy anymore, but there were still standards.

  “How’s your tooth?” she asked, picking her phone back up.

  His tooth . . . aw, shit. “Okay. Preventative. I’m good.”

  “Mmm.” Her thumbs flew over the screen, typing away.

  It occurred to him belatedly . . . “Should I have mentioned I’d be MIA for yoga? I told the coach, but—”

  “It’s okay. I worked it out myself.”

  She still wasn’t looking at him. “I left pretty fast after practice, too. Look, I’m sorry. It was a bad day for me and I just . . . didn’t handle it well.”

  She glanced up then, no recrimination in her eyes. Somehow, that made it worse. “Okay.”

  “So . . . we’re okay?”

  “Mmm.” She picked her phone back up and kept typing. “Maybe something on steroids?”

&nb
sp; “Probably not an issue. We get piss tested more than any other kind of athlete.”

  “Good point. But it never hurts to have more information, just in case anyone gets any ideas.” She looked up and smiled. “Right?”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Right.”

  A noisy bang preceded Chalfant into the gym. He walked over to his bag and started rifling through it, pulling out another shirt.

  “Why are you working with them so much?” she asked quietly. “You were so against it to start with.”

  He took a deep breath, then let it back out. Felt good to cleanse the lungs. “Your little quote about doing something good for what I volunteered for? That was the start. But the more I work with these guys, the more I hate the thought of them failing. It’d be like me failing . . . only worse.”

  “Worse, huh?” She grinned. “Sounds like you’ve grown just a little attached to your Bad News Bears. For a guy who wanted to go it alone, that’s a big step.”

  “I’m attached all over the place.” He watched as her eyes softened and her grin changed into a sweet curve. He knew she’d taken his meaning the right way.

  * * *

  MARIANNE rolled onto her back after a heavy workout. “That,” she said, breathing intensely, “was insane.”

  Brad leaned over her, his face split wide in a Cheshire cat smile. “That was nothing.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “It wasn’t insane.”

  She tried to raise her head, then realized her neck wasn’t going to cooperate. “Nope. I’m done.”

  He slid his hands up under her workout tank. She slapped his arm away before he reached the sweaty band of her sports bra. Now that would be horrifying. Hey, not only am I not nearly as in shape as I thought I was, but here, have some boob sweat.

  “You asked me to show you a workout, and I did.”

  “I didn’t think you actually would.” She raised her head an inch—all she could manage—to find Higgs and Sweeney walking into the gym. She kicked at Brad ineffectively with a noodle-limp leg. “I thought you said nobody was coming back here for lunch.”

  “They weren’t.” He sat on his haunches as the two other Marines approached.

  Higgs nudged her foot with his toe. “Problem, Cook?”

  She pushed at the bangs that had flopped over her eyes in a sad imitation of hair. They were soaking wet, like she’d just showered. “No. No problem at all. I’ve just lost function in most of my extremities. I’m sure that’s normal.”

  “I gave her a workout,” Brad explained.

  “Dude, over-share,” Sweeney said with a wrinkled nose.

  Brad lunged and tackled him around the knees. They both wrestled to the ground over the mats that covered their area of the catwalk.

  Higgs sat down beside her, wrapping his arms around his knees to watch. “Children.”

  “I’m sure you’re so much more mature,” she said dryly.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course I am. Ouch,” he said with a wince as Sweeney landed a decent elbow to Brad’s kidney. “That’s gonna hurt.”

  “Stop it, both of you!” she yelled to the ceiling.

  They ignored her.

  “Don’t make me come over there!”

  They called the bluff, and she wasn’t prepared to stand yet.

  “Either cut it out or I’ll have Higgs sit on you while I wrap you together with tape.”

  That seemed to get their attention. They pulled apart, with Sweeney sitting back on his hands and Brad crawling over to flop on his stomach beside her.

  “Don’t you get enough of a workout during, you know, your workouts?” she asked him.

  “Ah, but haven’t you heard?” Sweeney grinned at her, his teeth a white flash against the swarthy skin of his face. She just bet he was the kind who could go outside for ten minutes and come back in with a gorgeous golden tan. Jerk. “Costa is our endurance man. In fact, we’ve been meaning to ask you—”

  “No!” Brad yelled, facedown on the mat.

  “How’s the training business treating ya?” Higgs added to change the subject.

  Brad held up a hand tiredly. Higgs slapped it in a pathetic high five.

  “You’re all children.” She struggled to roll over, accidentally kicking Brad in the shin in the process. She’d apologize later, when she could feel her lips again. With Herculean effort, she managed to get to her hands and knees, then stretched her back like a cat. “There’s a reason I’m a trainer and not an athlete. That . . . was a killer.”

  “Now, give yourself a rest and do it again in an hour,” Higgs advised.

  She flipped him off, then stood on wobbly legs. “I immediately regret this decision,” she said, mimicking Ron Burgundy.

  “C’mon, Training Princess.” Higgs took her arm and walked her to the stairs. Brad followed behind, clearly not concerned that another man was taking care of his girlfriend. She liked that. No need to thump his chest and freak out about it. He was secure in their relationship. Nice.

  They made it down the stairs and she grabbed her bag from the training room. “Go get some rest,” she said, pointing to all three of them. “And food. And water.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sweeney and Higgs said in unison, the cheeky nerds. She shooed them away. Brad waited until they were gone, then leaned in for a kiss. “After practice tonight, you okay with meeting upstairs for my group’s training?”

  “Sure.”

  “And after that, your place?”

  “You got it. And this time,” she said, digging through her bag and finding her flip-flops for the locker room showers, “I’ll be the one giving you the workout.”

  He winked, then kissed her again, his fingers tunneling through her short ponytail and dislodging the band. She went up on her tiptoes to meet him and make the kiss last longer.

  “Oooooooo.”

  She heard the mocking, high-pitched male sound and broke away just before Brad cursed under his breath. He turned and she saw over his shoulder Higgs and Sweeney waiting for him by the door, making kissing faces at them.

  “I’ve gotta go kill someone. I’ll see you later.”

  “Don’t leave any evidence!” she yelled at him as he sprinted for the two other Marines. Her trainer’s eye couldn’t help but notice the hitch in his step as he took the five stairs to the door to catch up with them. He still heavily favored his right knee.

  Tonight, she’d work on him. Subtly, nothing obvious. But she had to get the full story sometime soon. If he messed up his knee permanently, she’d never forgive herself.

  * * *

  MARIANNE waited for Brad to finish giving last-minute advice to Chalfant, Tibbs and Armstrong before walking with them back downstairs. She hung back, following at a distance. He sent them off to their own cars—though it appeared they had all carpooled in one car, with Tressler’s SUV being the other. Then Brad turned to her. “Wait for me?”

  “Sure.” She waited to see where he was going, then left her bag by the doors and snuck on quiet feet behind him. He turned into a hallway where she knew several trophy cases were held. He walked up to Tressler, who was sitting on the ground, arms draped over his knees, head bent as if in a nap.

  For the second night in a row, Brad had sent Tressler downstairs to the hallway containing photos of Marine Corps boxing teams of old. Marianne had no clue why, and clearly, neither did Tressler.

  Brad kicked one of his feet, and the younger man struggled to right himself before face-planting.

  “Nice nap?”

  “You said it was my choice. I could come down here and study or nap. I napped.” Tressler stood, leaning back against the wall. His attitude screamed defiant teenager, though he was at least twenty-one. Everything in him was rebelling against Brad’s authority—whether the authority was perceived or real didn’t seem to matter.

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Brad wandered around, and Marianne shrank back into the shadows when he pivoted and turned her direction. But his eyes were on the walls, holding
year after year of team photos, with plaques to indicate the year the team competed.

  “The Marine Corps has put out some damn fine boxers over the years, haven’t they?” Brad’s tone was casual, his posture relaxed. But Marianne had a feeling nothing about their conversation would be restful for Tressler.

  The younger man shrugged one shoulder and stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt pocket.

  “Couple of these guys have gone on to the Olympic teams, even. You know?”

  At that, Tressler straightened. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Something weird, though.” Brad made a slow three-sixty turn. “None of those guys are up here.”

  “Yeah, they are.” Tressler pointed to one team photo, though Marianne couldn’t see the year. The colors were faded, though, indicating it wasn’t a recent one.

  “That’s a team photo.”

  “But there.” Tressler pointed out an individual. “He went.”

  “Where’s his own photo?”

  Tressler stopped searching for the other Olympians and looked around frantically. “I dunno, another hall?”

  “This is it. So, where’s his photo proclaiming him an Olympian? One of the chosen few? A special snowflake individual.”

  “It’s . . .” He did another quick spin, like a drunk ballerina. “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t have one,” Brad supplied. “Why?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “He already had a photo. He was with his team.” Brad palmed the brass plate holding the team’s year on it at the bottom. “This was his photo. He didn’t need the individual recognition. He made the Olympic team, sure. But he got there with his guys. His one achievement was no more or less important than what they all accomplished together.”

  Tressler sulked. “That’s bullshit. He was the best. He wouldn’t have made it to the Olympics if he wasn’t.”

  “Maybe. But how many tournaments would the team have won with just him fighting?”