Below the Belt

by Jeanette Murray

  “No, that’s not it at all.” Aw, hell. He’d come in here to prevent her from getting fired, and now he was walking the entire conversation in that direction on accident. “She pushed me to talk about it, but I chose not to.”

  “And she didn’t come to me with her concerns. That’s a problem.”

  “I’d rather you take that out on me, Coach. But even if you think there’s a conflict with our relationship, the solution is simple.” With a deep breath, he stood. The ache in his chest bloomed like a wound. He wondered whether, if he looked down, he’d see a puddle where his dreams had bled out of him. “I understand this is the end of the road for me, but I hope you’ll let me talk to my group before I go.”

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Brad’s ass hit the chair before his brain clicked. “Uh, back to my home base, I assume.”

  “I didn’t dismiss you, Marine.” Coach leaned forward, elbows hitting the desk with twin thuds. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. You’re ready to give up?”

  Give up his dream? No. Sacrifice for Marianne’s sake? Brad debated how to phrase it without sounding sanctimonious . . . and found there wasn’t one. So he simply shook his head.

  “But you’d rather walk out the door than have me ask for Cook to go.”

  He nodded, figuring words weren’t required.

  Coach made an inarticulate sound. One of those neutral sounds that could mean things were turning around for the better . . . or that shit was about to get really bad.

  “Why are you so sure you’re done here?”

  “I was dishonest.” The situation was pretty cut and dried to Brad. “I should have spoken to Ma—Cook when it started hurting, and I shouldn’t have hidden the prognosis.”

  “So instead of letting the heat come down fifty-fifty on her head with yours, you’ll just take it all, pack up and go. Marines,” he muttered. “White knights, every one of them. How about,” he continued in his normal tone, “we choose to not look at it as dishonesty, but rather as a mistake.”

  Brad sat at the edge of the chair, feeling suspiciously like a rabbit surrounded by traps. Some were real, some were fake. And he had no clue where to place his next step. So he just sat, blinking, like a genius.

  “Some might call it grace,” Coach went on, as if not noticing Brad’s sudden lack of speech. “It’s not an ideal mistake, I’ll grant you. But I have a feeling this isn’t a mistake you’ll be making again. Ever. Is it?”

  Brad shook his head at that.

  “Besides that, I think you do more good to the team than harm, even if you’ve got a semi-bum leg. Come with me.”

  Brad followed him to the door of the office, looking out over the gym. The team was all in a forward fold, with Marianne’s friend Kara leading them through a transition to a half moon. Kara demonstrated both the beginner positon and what Brad assumed was the actual regular position.

  Instinctively, Brad’s eyes sought out Marianne. But her compact body wasn’t mixed in with those of the rest of the athletes. She wasn’t there.

  “See Tressler?”

  Brad fought the urge to roll his eyes. Pavlovian response to the younger man’s name. He glanced through the rows and found him at the back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Watch.”

  Beside Tressler, Chalfant wobbled, then nearly collapsed on the next transition. Brad winced. The guy had come a long way, but he still carried the heart of a klutz around with him. And falling on his ass in front of Tressler was the worst-case scenario.

  To Brad’s surprise, Tressler waited for Chalfant to stand, then nudged him with an elbow, and pointed to his own feet. He was demonstrating a better way to position his lower foot for the pose to make it easier. Chalfant grinned and followed suit, hitting the next pose with more confidence, if not grace.

  “Two weeks ago,” the coach’s deep voice said over his shoulder, “Tressler would have been mocking Chalfant for a week for landing ass over elbows during yoga. Now he’s helping out, without any of the coaching staff watching to suck up to. That change in his spirit wasn’t from us. It was you.”

  “Me,” Brad said in disbelief. “He doesn’t even like me.”

  “This is exactly why we chose you to be one of the group leaders. They want to please you. Impress you. You’ve done something to earn his respect, enough that he’s starting to emulate you.” Coach laughed a little. “There are worse guys to pattern themselves after.”

  “Uh, thank you.” I think?

  “Just promise me there will be no more dumbass stunts like this again.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Later today, we’ll bring Cook in and talk about a game plan to deal with the knee. Make sure you give her the paperwork from the physical therapist and we’ll meet here after practice to discuss it.”

  “Actually . . .” Brad cleared his throat. “Coach, I was hoping I could discuss it with her privately first. Given the, um, situation. I’d like to just have some time to talk it out. Could we meet before morning practice instead? Half an hour before warm-ups, maybe?”

  Coach raised a brow at that, but smiled. At least, Brad thought it was a smile. The older man’s lips twitched upward for at least half a second. “Tomorrow morning is good enough.”

  Brad stood and held out a hand. “I apologize for—”

  “Just go play yoga,” Coach grumbled. As Brad hit the door, he swore he heard the Coach mutter, “Good luck with that, kid.”

  He was going to need it.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Marianne looked up at the knock on her door. Reagan entered, holding a manila folder. “Are your interns in here?”

  “They’re out watching the guys.” She should be out there, as well. She told herself it was better to stay in and finish up the paperwork. She was lying.

  “Perfect. I need you to sign this for me, then.” She slid a piece of paper out from her folder and handed it to Marianne. “It’s just a simple form explaining the relationship between yourself and Lieutenant Costa, as explained to your supervisor and the coach. It shows you were up-front about the situation and that you and he both agree it won’t affect your working relationship.”

  Marianne snorted at that. When Reagan tilted her head in question, she shook hers. “Sorry. Allergies.”

  “Hmm.” Reagan handed her a pen. “Just a signature, and then I’ll get Lieutenant Costa’s, and we should be all set. It’s a formality, simply a CYA thing.”

  Too bad Marianne hadn’t thought to cover her own ass. Otherwise she might not have been in this position to begin with. How the hell did she sign this piece of paper now, knowing that very soon, her relationship would likely be done? “Can I just give this a look through later and give it to you tomorrow? I’ve got a lot of paperwork to finish up.”

  “Oh.” Blinking in surprise—because really, who needed an entire day to read through three paragraphs—Reagan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “All right. No problem. No rush, I’d just like to have it on file before we start traveling.” She started out, heels clicking over the linoleum, then turned back. “Have you had any more problems with the training room?”

  “Problems . . . oh.” Marianne sat back in her chair, surprised. “No, not that I can think of. Why? Was there more vandalism upstairs?”

  “No . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Reagan glanced toward the door.

  “They’re not coming back in here. I told them to stand guard,” Marianne assured her.

  “We received some threatening mail at the main office.” Reagan sat down in the chair Levi normally occupied and crossed her legs daintily. “Nothing too serious—nothing to call the bomb squad over. But it was enough to spook me. Nobody else seems to think it’s a big deal.”

  Marianne knew there was something to a woman’s gut feeling. But Reagan was younger, in her first job out of college. It could have been as simple as being unsure of herself and not wanting to disregard any potential problem, even when there wasn’t one. “Did whoever
sent them take responsibility for the vandalism here?”

  “No, not in so many words.” Chewing on her lip a little, Reagan switched her legs and drummed her fingers on top of the desk for a moment. The perfect manicure wouldn’t hold up to that kind of beating for long. “I just don’t want any problems.”

  Sorry, sweetheart. I’m about to dump a breakup in your lap by morning. “Understandable. I’m sure if the higher-ups aren’t worried, it’s probably nothing.”

  “Maybe.” Sounding unconvinced, Reagan stood. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Marianne hummed something noncommittal and looked at the sheet in her hand. With a sigh, she let it fall to the bottom of her stack of paperwork. She’d end up handing it back, blank, in the morning.

  Kara popped her head in to wave good-bye, but otherwise Marianne’s afternoon sailed on relatively uninterrupted. She managed to get nearly caught up on paperwork to the point where she wouldn’t feel guilty about leaving it to a new trainer. When the Marines started filing in for ice bags, heating pads and help cutting tape off wrists, she put her problems aside and dealt with them, as well as her interns.

  She’d end up dealing with Brad soon enough.

  * * *

  BRAD hung around the gym as long as he could stand, hoping to be the last guy in the training room. He needed to talk to her in her own space. For some reason, the conversation didn’t feel right for her apartment. As if the temporary domestic bliss they’d experienced in her home wouldn’t be able to stand the news he was about to drop on her.

  Keeping it confined to her professional domain might be enough to get through this unscathed.

  Yeah, right.

  He walked in as Chalfant walked out. The guy looked raw, as if he’d taken too many beatings. “You okay, man?”

  Chalfant tried a smile, but then just raised his hands and let them fall. “Last cuts are coming soon.”

  And Brad got it. The nerves were chewing on him from the inside out. He clapped his hand over the younger man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning. You can’t let it get to you, or you’re just creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Easier said than done,” Chalfant said with a grimace.

  “Try some yoga before bed,” he suggested. When Chalfant huffed out a laugh, Brad sent him on his way and stepped into the training room.

  There were a few Marines finishing up their icing session. The guy intern was dumping out a bucket into the huge sink, while the girl sat chatting one of the guys up. And Marianne—his calm in the storm—moved from one table to the next, assessing and encouraging, educating and . . .

  He grinned.

  Handing out another pamphlet.

  He walked in, and she turned immediately. The smile on her face faded, and he wondered what that was all about. He waved, then went to get a bag of ice and ask Levi to start his time on the sheet. The younger man glanced up with what looked like annoyance, but wrote his name and time down with a nod.

  With no free table, he settled his back against a wall on the floor, stretched his knee out and closed his eyes. The best part about icing was the fact that it gave him an excuse to sit still for twenty full minutes.

  As his body relaxed and his heart rate slowed, he heard Marines leave one by one. But it was as if he were hearing them from underwater, or from a great distance. For the first time in a long time, his mind felt uncluttered from the knowledge that he was keeping a secret from his coach. The simple act of unburdening himself to Coach had lifted a metric ton of weight off his shoulders.

  He prayed the same thing would happen when he talked to Marianne.

  He heard Nikki say her good-byes to Marianne and Levi. Then Levi came over and nudged his left foot. “You’re done. Dump the ice and you’re free to go.”

  “Thanks.” He stood stiffly—even when he was relaxed, sitting on the floor wasn’t ideal—and tore the bag open, letting the last of the ice and water run into the sink. He watched over his shoulder as Levi grabbed his bag, took one last look at Brad, asked Marianne if she was sure she was okay, then took off. Maybe the crush wasn’t on Nikki, but on his boss. Brad smiled at that. He couldn’t blame the kid.

  When he tossed the wet bag in the trash, he found Marianne sitting at her desk, back to him, making notes. He walked over and ran a hand over the nape of her neck. She jerked, then hunched away from his touch.

  What the hell?

  “Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She shuffled papers, stuck them in a folder, then turned. Her face was grim, and a sudden chill slid through his gut.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She lifted her hands; let them fall back into her lap. “You tell me.”

  He raised a brow at her tone. She wasn’t typically so snippy. He propped one hip against a file cabinet and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d rather not play the guess-why-I’m-mad game. My sister plays that shit all the time and I suck at it.”

  Marianne’s brows furrowed together. “This is a game? I asked you to tell me what was wrong. As your athletic trainer, that’s not a game. It’s a serious question.”

  Okay, so they weren’t in lover-mode. Fine. “I wanted to talk to you about my knee.”

  Her face lightened slightly, and she leaned forward. “Sit.”

  He grabbed the other rolling chair and dragged it over. “I have some paperwork I need to hand you. It’s in my duffel out in the gym. Basically, it’s a torn meniscus. Not the worst injury, but something to deal with. And so we’re going in tomorrow morning with Coach thirty minutes before warm up to talk to him about it.”

  She nodded slowly, watching as his hand unconsciously went to rub at the area just above his kneecap. “How long have you known that?”

  He tensed. “It’s been painful for a while, but not unbearable.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  “About ten days.”

  Her eyes slowly slid closed, and her lips moved as if she were saying a prayer to herself. Brad waited patiently. Whatever condemnation she threw at him, he’d earned.

  “But it’s hurt all along, hasn’t it?”

  “Since the second day, I guess.” He shrugged. “I’ve worked through it. It’s not paralyzing pain or anything like that.”

  “I know what it is.” She took a deep breath, then let it out and ran a hand through her hair. Some of the blonde hairs pulled loose from her short ponytail and drifted down to rest against her cheek. Her now-flushed cheek. Flushed from relief? Heat? Or anger?

  “You’ve known for almost two weeks what was wrong, and you didn’t tell me.”

  Okay, anger. “I wasn’t ready to—”

  “And because I didn’t know, I wasn’t able to do my job.” The flush crept down her neck now, and her ice-blue eyes were like white-hot flames, searing straight through him. “And now, I get to go to the coach tomorrow and discuss this with him, and he’s going to ask me why I didn’t know this sort of important information two weeks ago, when you did.”

  “He already knows.”

  She blinked at that. “He . . . Since when?”

  “Since the beginning of practice. I skipped yoga and talked to him about it.”

  She sat back in her seat with a chair-squeaking thump. “You went and talked to him without me?”

  “Uh . . .” Brad knew a trap when he was walking right into one.

  “You obviously did,” she went on, without giving him time to pick an answer. She closed her eyes, then ran a hand down her face. “Great. Not only could you not talk to me about it, you went to the coach first.” She laughed, but the sound was scratchy. “When you throw someone under the bus, you do it right.”

  “That’s not what I did. That’s not what I meant,” he corrected when she shot him a glare so cold he wondered if he’d ever need to ice his knee again. He was losing his grip on the situation. Losing her.

  “Look, I wanted him to understand first that—”


  “That I can’t do my job. That’s what you basically said, by going there first. And you’re right.” She glanced down at the desktop, with its neatly stacked papers and files. “You’re probably right,” she said again in a low voice. “I should have pushed harder from the start. Played hardball. I would have, if you’d been anyone else. I take responsibility for that much. I just . . . from that first night we had dinner . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes shifted from contemplative to accusatory. “Is that why you asked me out that first time? The night we went to dinner?”

  “That was just dinner,” he said weakly.

  “I was bugging you about your knee.” She held up a finger, then another. “You shot me down. I started again, and you asked me to dinner. To distract me? Was that . . .” Her eyes grew round, and his stomach roiled. If he’d have eaten lunch, he’d have lost it. “Is that what this whole thing was? Oh my God.”

  “No. Jesus H., no, Marianne. You’re spinning.” He stood, went to pull her into his arms. If he could hold her for a minute, just a minute, they’d both calm the hell down and they could talk it out more rationally. “I—”

  “Tell me the truth.” Her voice cut through him like tiny blades, but it was nothing compared to the hurt he felt when she scooted her chair out of his reach. “Right now, because I’m watching your eyes and I’ll know this time. Did you ask me to dinner . . . did you start this with me to keep me from hassling you about your knee?”

  He hesitated, and that cost him. He could see it in the way she shut down. “I asked you to dinner to stop the inquisition, but—”

  The blood drained from her face, and if she hadn’t been sitting down he would have had to lunge to keep her from falling to the floor face-first. As it was, he wondered if she’d just slide straight out of the chair into a puddle on the ground.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she whispered.

  “No.” He kept his voice firm, praying it would cut through whatever emotional bullshit she was letting block him out. “No, you’re not. This is my shit. I should have—”