A long finger tapped on top of her screen. “What’s that secret smile about?”
“Oh, nothing. Just remembering something about waking up this morning.” She glanced up, and found heated eyes watching her carefully. “You know, when you played alarm clock and got me up way before I was ready.”
“I was already up.”
She chuckled at the sexual innuendo. “I know. That’s why I didn’t complain.” She poked him playfully in the ribs with a toe. “Watch your fight. I’m working here.”
“What pamphlet is it this time?”
“What makes you think it’s a pamphlet? I could be writing an email, or buying shoes.” She smiled wickedly. “Or sexy lingerie.”
He eyed her with an Is that a joke? face.
She grinned. He knew her too well. “Well, for your information, smarty-pants, it’s not a pamphlet.”
His brows rose in surprise, but his eyes didn’t leave the TV screen.
“It’s a brochure.”
He snorted and settled her feet more comfortably in his lap. One hand ran light fingertips up and down her shins. Just to her knee and back; nothing sexual at all. He probably didn’t even sense he was doing it. But the touch charged her more than it probably should have.
“A brochure for what?”
“It’s for Kara, actually. She’s a blogging queen and can change out the skin of her website in ten minutes flat, but never gets the proportions or margins right on promo items.” She spun the laptop on the board and showed him. He spared it a three-second glance—generous, given his interest in the fight—before turning back to the screen.
“She needs to get some new yoga and Pilates clients. I’m helping her gear this one toward potential military clientele. Adding in some key phrases that might attract a jarhead’s attention.”
“‘Yut’?” he asked in a primal, caveman voice, and she laughed.
“Exactly.” A few more clicks, then she saved the presentation and emailed it to Kara for first-round approval. Closing her computer with a quiet snap, she set it on the coffee table and picked up the pad with her list on it. She realized, with a flash of embarrassment, she’d never torn off the doodle-hearts page. Before he had a chance to glance her way, she ripped it off, crumpled it up and stuffed it down the couch cushion behind her.
He didn’t even blink.
As she made out her to-do list for the next day, she asked, “Are you still mad at me about Tibbs?”
He was quiet for a while, then a commercial came on. He muted the TV and turned to her with her feet still in his lap.
“I’m sad. I’m sad for him, and for our group, because he’s the first to go. But I get it. And I’m not going to stand in the way of your job. Me telling you how to be an athletic trainer would be about as useless as you telling me how to be a Marine.”
She smiled a little at that. When he kept watching her, she raised a brow. “What?”
“Everything good?”
She nodded, then sucked in a breath. Time to try again. Be bold. “Brad?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He blinked, and for a second, she wondered if he actually heard her wrong. But then he set her feet down gently, covered her body on the couch and kissed her. He kissed her with such passion, she knew he’d heard her this time.
It didn’t occur to her until later, when they were tucked in bed and he was breathing deeply beside her, that he hadn’t responded in kind.
CHAPTER
21
“Look over the list of travel dates, make any arrangements you need to, and we’ll be set.” Reagan set the sheet by her paper, started to leave then thought better of it and spun on her heels to come back.
Marianne couldn’t help holding her breath until the woman was firmly standing still again.
“You really have to stop wearing those death traps on your feet. You never know when there might be melted ice that we missed mopping up.”
Reagan looked down, brows raised in question. “These are kitten heels. They’re practically the same thing as flats.”
“Oh, yeah. Twinsies. Except for the heel and flat part.” Marianne sighed and settled back in her chair. She held the paper up. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong?” Propping the hip of one business skirt–clad hip on Marianne’s desk, Reagan studied her closely. “You’re all upset today. What’s going on?”
Gee, I dunno. The guy I’m seeing is in pain and won’t confide in me about it. I’m in love with him and have no clue how he feels. I lost another guy this morning to an injury, which was my call, and now all the Marines are staring at me like I’m Public Enemy Number One?
“Just a lot on my mind.”
Reagan huffed and shook her head. “That was pathetic. If you’re going to lie, at least do the job some justice, please?”
“Hey, pretty lady.” Kara halted at the entrance to the training room, hand clutched around her yoga tote. “Oh, sorry . . . pretty ladies.”
Saved by the friend. “Kara, you remember Reagan, right?” She stood as the other women acknowledged each other. “Reagan has a date with an orthopedist in about ten years to have her knees replaced from wearing all those heels, and we have a lunch date.” She nodded to Reagan, who was smiling smugly.
“But they’re so cute,” Kara said. She looked down at her own flip-flops, which Marianne knew for a fact she’d gotten for one dollar at the Old Navy flip-flop sale.
She knew, because she’d been standing with her, buying a few pairs of her own.
“Thank you,” Reagan said, and held out a foot delicately. “I’m really getting into this whole ‘working woman’ thing. It’s fun.”
Kara snorted at that. “Right. I think I’d drown myself if I had to wear a suit every day.”
Marianne started packing up her own bag. “And that’s why you’re good at what you do, Kara. You’re working in your own talents, at things you’re passionate about.”
“Yeah.” Reagan watched Kara for a moment as Marianne searched her desk for her cell phone. “You run your own blog. I found it. It’s cute. The layout, I mean, not the subject.” Her eyes widened and her jaw slacked a little. “Oh my God, that’s not what I meant. I’m so sorry. I know you talk about your son and—”
“It’s fine.” In that soothing, maternal way she had, Kara laid a hand on Reagan’s forearm and rubbed gently. “I know what you meant.”
“Okay.” She breathed out and brushed hair back behind her ears. “I’m good at writing official copy for media, but I wanted to actually keep a blog, connected to the team’s website. Just good little bits for the media to snatch up, photos, that sort of thing. But the whole idea of knowing how to format it gives me the willies. Think we could get together and you could give me some pointers from that aspect?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.” Kara glanced over her shoulder as Marianne grabbed her wrist and tugged. “I’ll talk to you about it later. After yoga?”
Reagan called out a good-bye as Marianne steered Kara out the door and into the parking lot.
“Geez, Cook, where’s the fire?”
“I get two hours, and you were fifteen minutes late. I want to eat without wolfing the food down. You know that’s bad for your digestive system.” She hopped into Kara’s car—the Mom-Mobile, as she thought of the compact SUV, with its kid-friendly radio stations programmed and the juice boxes at the ready. “I’m not going to join the yoga session today. Too much paperwork.”
“Hmm.” Kara pulled out of the parking lot and into base traffic, doing her best to drive as slowly as humanly possible. “Too much paperwork, or too many repressed feelings?”
“You’ve been watching Dr. Phil again, haven’t you?” She sighed as Kara took a turn at the speed of a sea slug. “Okay, I’m cautious about the MPs, too, but this is insane. Why are you driving like this?”
“Oh. Right.” She picked up the pace marginally. “Mom habit. He’s noticing my driving more now, making comments
on stuff. Won’t be much longer before he’s in the front seat, learning from my moves. I’ve been hyperaware of my own driving for a while now. Practice what you preach, and all that jazz. I’ve had to hide my cell phone in my purse on the floor of the passenger seat so I’m not even tempted to check messages at red lights.”
“Sounds like hell. Grinders or salad bar?”
Kara snorted. “You know I’m going to pick the salad bar, and I know you want me to say grinders. So why don’t we grab you a grinder, then swing by and pick out my salad from the grocery store, and we can park and eat in peace?”
“This is why we are friends. Sold.”
Ten minutes later, Marianne sat in Kara’s car as her friend ran into the grocery store to grab her salad. Kara had left the car running so Marianne would have AC and the radio, but there was nothing remotely appealing about the kids’ music playing. After studying the radio controls for a few seconds, she gave up. Just her luck, she’d hit the wrong button and screw up the car, leaving the radio stuck on death metal or something.
So instead she people-watched. The strip mall where the grocery store was located was full of thriving businesses. A shoe store, a party supply store and a physical therapist’s office lined the left side.
Physical therapy. She’d considered being a PT for a bit in college. Smiling at the memory, she watched as a mom held open the wide glass door for her limping teenage son to walk through. Probably a football injury, given the kid’s size.
She’d have never been happy in an office all day. Serving athletes, definitely. But not nearly as close to the action as she wanted to be. No, she’d made the right choice, even if it wasn’t as profitable as . . .
She sat forward, squinting. Was that . . . No. No way.
Apparently, yes way.
Brad—her Brad—paused at the door, opening it wider for the teen who was still hobbling his way up to the front door from the parking lot. Probably because the kid needed crutches to match the ACL brace he was sporting, and was too stubborn to use them.
Speaking of stubborn.
Brad gave the mom a little salute—probably in acknowledgement of a thank-you, though Marianne couldn’t hear anything from this distance—and headed out to the parking lot, favoring his leg. He was nearly to the first row of cars when he turned back. Marianne’s eyes darted to the door and saw someone wearing the typical PT uniform of khakis and a polo shirt running out to catch Brad, holding a knee brace in his hand. Brad accepted the brace and headed back to his car.
He was getting physical therapy on the side. And had a knee brace he wasn’t using.
The sound of crinkling paper assaulted her ears, and she glanced down to see what was left of her grinder balled up in her fists. Her stomach roiled at the thought of eating, and she tossed the sandwich in the backseat.
He’d been going behind her back from the start, seeking outside medical attention, and deliberately not telling her. Why? Because he didn’t trust her judgment, or her abilities? Or was there something else to it?
The driver side door opened and Kara slid in, her plastic bag squeaking as she set it on the center console. “Sorry, I had to wait for them to refill the green peppers, then there was a line at checkout. Where do you want to park and eat?” She glanced over, noticed Marianne’s attention was focused elsewhere and followed her line of sight. “Oh, is that Brad?”
Marianne nodded numbly.
“Well, that’s a fun coincidence.” In her cheerful way, she grinned. “Let’s nab him and make him our lunch prisoner. I can quiz him on which yoga positions he thinks have been the most beneficial for the team.”
“Don’t,” she said weakly as Kara started to roll the window down.
Her friend froze, finger still on the button. “What’s wrong?”
Marianne waited until Brad got in his car and drove away. “He was here for an appointment,” she murmured. “He’s in pain, hurting, potentially injured, and won’t tell me about it. Won’t let me do my job.”
“Oh. Ohhh.” She settled back in the seat, the red bun of her hair bobbing gently against the headrest. “So . . . what do we do now?”
She took a deep breath, then bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep the tears from coming. This hurt way more than she’d imagined. Like she’d been slapped, then punched in the gut then kicked off the side of a building. He’d had hundreds of chances to be honest with her. And instead, he’d sat there and listened to her say she loved him . . . and hidden the truth.
A truth that could wreck her career, and his leg.
“Maybe . . .” Kara’s voice trailed off, then she just reached over and squeezed Marianne’s knee. “Maybe he’s going to talk to you today. It could be a brand-new development?”
Marianne pasted on a smile for her friend and nodded. And kept nodding, because her throat had closed up due to emotions she wasn’t ready to unpack in public.
As if understanding she couldn’t talk, Kara started the car and headed for the back of the grocery store’s parking lot, where the employees parked. They ate in silence, the only sound the low volume of Kara’s radio and her occasional texting to her son, who was at the babysitter’s. Then she drove them both back to the gym.
They sat in the car for a few minutes in understanding silence. Brad’s car was there, empty, so he was already inside. Marianne stared at the doors with dread.
“You could call in sick,” Kara murmured quietly. “I have to go set up now. I could tell them you felt sick during lunch and went home.”
“No.” Feeling a little stronger, she shook her head and grabbed her bag. “I have to go in there. I’m going to give him the chance to come to me. If he’s not willing to talk about it . . .” She slapped the dashboard, watching dust motes sprinkle the air, twirling around in the sunlight.
“If he’s not . . . then you’ll come out here and dust my car?” Kara asked hopefully.
Marianne laughed, though it wasn’t quite to her normal level of happiness. “Thanks.” She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “Here we go.”
She walked into the gym with Kara, parting ways at the door of the training room. She set her bag down, said hello to Levi and Nikki, then settled in for some paperwork. When Nikki asked if she was going to join them for yoga, Marianne waved her off and kept working.
If she was going to be fired soon for failing to aid a Marine with an injury, she needed to have her paperwork up to date for the next trainer to come in.
But curiosity got the better of her, and she peeked in to watch the Marines turn and twist themselves into pretzels. Kara was truly wonderful. Going at a three-quarter speed to give the novices a chance to keep up, she picked positions that worked best for loosening the muscles they needed. Not exactly a cardio workout, but important all the same.
But Brad, she noted with some concern, was not among them. His roommate was, as were the rest of Brad’s group. But Brad was absent. She checked the water stations, but no dice.
Probably in the locker room, she told herself. He’d driven here after his appointment, so clearly he was around somewhere. And he had to come see her afterward for ice, anyway. She’d give him his final opportunity to fess up at that time, and then . . .
Well, she had no clue what then. But a very big part of her was already tightening up against the knowledge that she’d have to let him go. Even though she didn’t want to.
Bad Marianne.
* * *
“COACH, can we talk?” Brad knocked on the open door with his knuckle and waited for Coach Ace to look up. He didn’t, but waved Brad in without glancing away from his computer.
“Fucking machines,” he muttered while Brad took a seat and set his bag by his feet. His thick finger stabbed at the mouse with vicious intensity, repeatedly, until Brad wondered if the thing would just collapse under the pressure. Another minute of moving the mouse around and intense clicking grated against Brad’s nerves before Coach gave up and pushed away with a disgusted snort.
“Used to
be, we could just scribble down our thoughts on a sheet of paper. Or, hell, tell someone. Now I’ve got forms spilling out from every which way, and half of them have to be done online, and the system hates me, and my computer hates me . . .” He sighed and glared once more at the mutinous computer before giving Brad his attention. “Losing Tibbs was a blow, but the paperwork is the real bitch. What do you need, Marine?”
“It’s about my knee, Coach.” Brad dug through his duffel and pulled out the brace his PT had insisted on. “I just saw a physical therapist and they want me to wear this.”
Coach held out a hand and Brad willingly passed the brace. He studied it for a moment. “Torn meniscus, right?”
Brad nodded, a little surprised he’d guessed.
“I had one myself, maybe a decade ago.” When Brad raised his brows, the coach scowled. “Fine. Two decades. The surgery was no biggie. The exercises during recovery were from hell, though.” He winced, as if imagining having to do them today. “Is there a reason Cook didn’t come talk to me about this? She’s usually more on top of things than that.”
“Ah, yeah.” Here came the tricky part. “She didn’t know. I hid what I could from her so she wouldn’t have the chance to kick me out before the team was final.”
“And yet you came to me with this anyway,” he said quietly, handing the brace back. “Team isn’t final, you know. Why tell me now?”
“Because I didn’t want you to think she was covering for me. You know we’re . . . well.” He felt heat creep up the back of his neck and he rubbed at it. “Together. So I didn’t want you thinking she was giving me preferential treatment. I’m sure if she knew, she would have walked the steps with me to get me healed up.”
The coach nodded, then sat back and laced his fingers over his stomach. “Sounds like we have a problem. Several problems, really. If you can’t be honest with your trainer, then how do we know you’re not going to keep hiding injuries until you get yourself killed or permanently injured?”
He started to speak, but Coach Ace cut him off.
“And if she couldn’t see you were hurting, despite you insisting you were fine, then maybe she doesn’t have quite the backbone for this job I thought she did.”
Below the Belt Page 22