There was the opening shot. “I’d hate to lose the team.”
He nodded slowly, glancing around the room. She stopped typing to watch him. His dark face was devoid of any hint to his emotions. Pissed? Upset? Couldn’t care less? She wouldn’t have made a bet on any of them. “You see, that right there is why I’m about to say what I’m about to say. You’d hate to lose what?”
“Lose . . . the team?” Was that what he meant?
“There.” He pointed one thick finger at her. “Right there. You could have said job, or this opportunity, or even your paycheck. But the first thing out of your mouth was ‘team.’” He settled back again, a pleased smile on his face. “I think that says something, don’t you?”
“I . . .” She looked down at the paper again, but her eyes were blurring. “I don’t want to lose my job either, if that matters. Or the opportunity. And since I like being able to pay my rent . . . I don’t want to lose my paycheck.”
“Who does? But it wasn’t first on the list. That’s what matters to me. When it came down to it, you put the team above your own wants. There’s the kicker.”
She was quiet, blinking furiously to clear her line of vision so she could keep typing. If her fingers were busy, she could think better.
“I find it amusing,” Coach went on in a calm voice, “that I sat in here yesterday and had someone else willing to put other people ahead of his own wants. Know someone like that?”
She didn’t look up now, because if she did, he’d see the tear that rolled down her cheek and dropped into her lap. Maybe he saw it already. But he was kind enough—or embarrassed enough—to say nothing about it.
“I had a good Marine, a good boxer and a damn great leader sit in that chair yesterday and tell me he was walking because he thought I’d fire you otherwise. He was prepared to take the hit so you could keep your job.”
She looked up sharply, tear—and embarrassment—forgotten. “He quit? He just . . . quit?”
Coach watched her silently.
“That stupid son of a bitch,” she murmured, shaking her head. When she got her hands on him, his knee was going to be the last thing he worried about. “That stupid, pigheaded, stubborn—”
“Much as I love to hear a woman wax poetic,” Coach Ace said dryly, “I’ll just say he didn’t quit. He tried, but I shot him down. He can’t leave. I need him. The team needs him.”
She let her eyes drift closed. Her mind, having been so sharp with anger and frustration only moments ago, now felt fuzzy with relief. As if she were drifting on fluffy clouds of thought, with nothing concrete to anchor her anymore. The whole thing was just fucked up.
“So I’m keeping my trainer, and I’m keeping my boxer. I guess we’re all done.”
She cracked one eye open and held up the sheet of paper. “I’m not finished. Are you going to make me sit here and finish typing?”
He flashed a rare grin at her. “Nah. I just know that when people are nervous, doing something with their hands makes them easier to talk to. You happened to come in when I was struggling with the keyboard. Luck of the draw.”
“Next time, I’ll bring my knitting needles and we can gossip over the scarf I’m making my Nana for Christmas,” she said, and he laughed.
Sobering, he stood. She did as well, and held out a hand.
“I promise our, uh, situation won’t affect our work, on either side, from now on. Business only.”
The coach raised a brow at that. “You mean to tell me I just confessed that man was ready to walk out of my gym to save your job, and you’re not going to give him a second chance?” He whistled low. “That’s cold.”
“He . . . but he . . .” She blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, I’m confused. Were you telling me all that to get us back together?”
He rolled his eyes and walked to his office door. “I’m here to coach boxing, not play Cupid. This isn’t Marine Matchmaking Headquarters. Date-A-Boxer,” he grumbled. “If you can’t take the information I just gave you and put two with two together, then the both of you aren’t ready to date a turnip.”
She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be insulted or amused. He opened the door ahead of her and she waited for him to walk through, but rammed straight into his back with her nose instead. “Ow!”
“Oh, uh . . . sorry.” He took one step back, in which he stepped on her toes and nearly tossed her to the ground. “Sorry, sorry. My bad.”
“Coach . . .” She danced out of the way as he quickly shut the door again. “What the—”
“You know . . .” He glanced around the office wildly, his hands shoved deep in his sweatpants pockets. “Could you, uh, finish that report really fast?”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Right now? You’ve got practice to get ready for. I’ve got a training room to supervise.”
“No, see, because you were early and practice doesn’t start for another”—he checked his stopwatch—“forty minutes.”
She waited for a better explanation than that. He stared at her, a mountain of a man she’d be crazy to try to dodge around to get to the door. “You seriously want me to sit in here and type. Like a secretary.”
“My fingers.” He held up ham-sized hands, which really did have quite thick, blunt digits attached. With a soulful look, he glanced toward the computer and back again. “You’d really help me out.”
Since crawling between his legs to get to the door wasn’t an option, she sighed. “Just finish the form?”
“Just that one last form.” He sat back down, grabbed his clipboard from the corner of his desk and a pen and settled back in the chair. “Maybe one more. Or two. Three, maximum.”
“One,” she said firmly and settled down, resolving she would cave and do two as penance. It felt as if she’d gotten off easy on the ass-chewing she’d deserved. “Coach?”
“Hmm?” He was scribbling now, and she could easily imagine he was writing down boxing combinations, or conditioning drills, or group work.
“Would you have still boxed with a torn meniscus?”
“I did, for almost a year. I told him the same thing, and that the surgery isn’t difficult, and recovery is more annoying than painful.” When she chewed on her lip, he set the pen down and sighed. “He’s a big boy, Cook. Don’t make me play couples counselor, too. I’m not cut out for that shit.”
When she took in his imposing scowl and irritated body language, her lips twitched. “I don’t know, I think you might make a good one. You’d be one of those no-bullshit, straight-shooting kind of counselors that won’t let guys lie and girls weep to get out of being open.”
“Pass.” He went back to his clipboard. But she noticed he brought his phone out of his pocket and spent more time texting than writing.
“Done.” She pushed the first form toward him. “I hit save. Is that all?”
“One more.” He handed her another from the manila folder. “Please?”
She sighed, as if completely put-upon, and went back to typing.
Brad would be by any minute to start their originally scheduled meeting. Would she stay? Or let him talk to the coach on his own? Maybe there wouldn’t be a need to worry the coach about it, and they could just clear the air fully and move on.
Yeah, that would be good. Get out her feelings on the subject of their relationship—I hate you for making me love you but I still love you and I hate that, too—and he could say his piece and they could part ways as colleagues. Mature, rational and succinct.
Yeah. Right.
CHAPTER
24
Brad paced the gym floor, not sure whether he was ready to knock down the coach’s door or run to the locker room to throw up. All he knew was he needed this to work more than he needed anything else.
“She’s been in there forever,” Higgs complained, walking over to Brad. He set his poster board down and propped an elbow on Brad’s shoulder. “What the hell could they be doing in there?”
“Coach started to open the door, like three
minutes ago,” Chalfant said helpfully. “I think he caught sight of us and slammed it again really fast, ‘cause we weren’t ready for her yet.”
“Because she got here early,” Brad grumbled. He could only imagine what she was in there talking about. “If she’d gotten here at the time we set up, I’d be in there with her and I’d know what the hell she was thinking.”
“Breathe,” Higgs muttered. “Breathe, damn it. You’re going to hyperventilate and swoon.”
“Guys don’t swoon,” Chalfant said helpfully.
“Yeah, they pass out,” added one of Higgs’ group members.
“Everything’s a joke.” Brad rubbed at his forehead. He needed this to work. It had to work. He had to show her he could set aside his pride and be all in, the way she had been from the moment she agreed to jump headfirst into their relationship.
She deserved him to be all in, too. Hell, he deserved for him to be all in.
“You’re more nervous than a virgin getting grilled by your date’s daddy on prom night,” Higgs joked, poking him in the ribs.
“At least Coach Ace isn’t her daddy,” Tressler put in helpfully. The rest of the guys cracked up laughing. Brad scowled.
“I think you’re sweating more now than you do after two hours of cardio training.” Higgs lowered his voice so only Brad could hear. “You doing okay, buddy?”
“No,” Brad said tightly.
“Can I get out of this damn chair?” Tibbs asked.
“No,” Brad said again. “Now sit down, shut up and be a good prop.”
Tibbs grumbled, but stayed seated. It was the only way Brad would let him participate past helping to create his visual aid.
“Tired,” Higgs breathed after a minute. “So tired. We got, what, ninety minutes of sleep thanks to making these posters? When is she coming out of there?
“Pamphlets,” Brad corrected automatically. “They’re pamphlets.”
“Right. Pamphlets.” Higgs grinned at that. “Cook does love her pamphlets.”
Here’s hoping she loves this.
He started to ask Higgs to check the time again, then froze. Were those . . .
Were those footsteps?
“There’s almost an hour before morning conditioning.” He looked toward the hallway. “Who the hell would be here?”
“Uh . . .”
Brad swung around to stare at his roommate. “What did you do?”
“So, funny story . . .”
“What. Did. You. Do.”
“Okay, okay, calm down. You’re starting to scare me.”
“I know where you sleep. You should be scared.”
The door to the gym opened, and Graham Sweeney walked in, followed by his group. They each carried in their hands a poster, folded in thirds like the ones his and Higgs’ groups were holding, to resemble a pamphlet.
“Are those . . .” Brad squinted. “Are those pamphlets?”
“They are. What?” Higgs said when Brad glared. “I thought we needed reinforcements.”
“I don’t even know what those say!” Brad wanted to wrap his hands around his roommate’s neck and squeeze. So very slowly. Ounce by precious ounce of pressure, until his roommate’s eyes bugged out like a cartoon character.
Higgs shrugged unapologetically. “What? If five is good, ten is better. If ten is better, fifteen is best. They like Cook, and they respect you. They want to help.”
“Great, but . . . what the hell do those things say?”
“All the leftover ideas we scrapped because we didn’t have time to make enough pos—pamphlets,” Higgs corrected himself. “It’s all stuff you agreed to, just didn’t have time for. Seriously, nothing too off the cuff. Don’t worry, they stay in the spirit of the thing.”
“The spirit of the thing,” Brad repeated through his teeth. He was a man on the edge. He didn’t want this ruined by anyone’s attempt at humor.
Sweeney walked over and slapped Brad on the shoulder. “Big morning, huh? Early practice.”
“Why are you here?” he heard himself ask before he could think better of it. Then he winced at how ungrateful it sounded.
“Because you’re a teammate. Even if teams haven’t been finalized, I think of you as a team member. We all do. And these infants respect the hell out of you, Grandpa.”
At that, Brad felt his lips twitch. “I respect the hell out of you, too. Thanks.” He shook Sweeney’s hand, then grunted when the other man brought him in for a chest-thumping hug.
“Here she comes,” Chalfant hissed. The sound echoed through the gym, and then the silent room was full of the shuffling of running shoes on hardwood as Marines scrambled to take their places.
The first face Brad saw was Coach’s. He looked smug, and maybe a little satisfied.
And then he saw Marianne.
And prayed he was looking at his future.
* * *
WHEN the coach cleared his throat, Marianne nearly jumped out of her seat. “I think that’s enough for now.”
She looked down at the form she was typing out, then at the screen. She was only half done. “But I—”
“Cook, that’s enough.” His tone had edged into his hard-ass coaching voice. “Go get set up for your day. I’ll work on it later.”
She glanced at him skeptically, but shrugged. Fine then. “Okay, well, if you need me, you know where to find me.”
He stood and waited for her to walk around the desk, then opened up the door. She hesitated this time, wondering if he’d pull the same trick and close her in again. When he raised a brow, she pointed to him, then the door. “I was just making sure you weren’t going to repeat the last performance at the door.”
“Smart-ass,” he said fondly.
“It’s genetic.” With a smile she hoped he took sincerely, she stepped out of the office.
And straight into Pamphlet Heaven.
Everywhere she looked, there were Marines standing around, holding poster boards tri-folded like pamphlets. And they were all watching her expectantly. Concerned, confused and maybe a little scared, she looked back at Coach. He nodded and nudged her out into the gym fully.
She walked by the first Marine—Tibbs, who was sitting down like a good boy—and read the outside of his poster.
“Why Marianne Cook Is an Amazing Trainer,” she read out loud. Tibbs opened the fold, and she read through several bullet points about her accomplishments as an athletic trainer . . . most of which weren’t so much academic or career-related, but emotional. Things like, “She has gentle hands” or “She’s efficient” made her smile. She swallowed hard when she read, “We trust her, all the way.”
“Thank you,” she whispered to Tibbs, then walked to Chalfant. He grinned at her, his freckled face looking so young and sweet, and presented his own pamphlet.
“Why . . .” She let out a short chuckle before she could finish the title. “Why Brad Costa Is a Kick-ass Boxer.” She looked around for Brad, but either her eyes were too watery to find him, or he was actually not in the gym. “Tell me, Chalfant, why is he a kick-ass boxer?”
Without a word, the young Marine opened the pamphlet and let Marianne read Brad’s finer points . . . which were listed in several different handwritings. Clearly, his group had gone in on this one together to write out why each of them adored him. He really was a wonderful leader. The idiot.
She walked to Tressler, who winked. She tried to keep a stern face, but failed miserably. “What do you have for me here?”
“This one’s a good one.” He held it up. “Why Cook and Costa Make a Good Team.”
“Oh,” she breathed out, her breath catching in her throat. Oh, God. There was no way she could read this one out loud. She read silently instead. It was done in Brad’s handwriting, making it that much more special. He talked about their dedication, their willingness to push past obstacles to make the boxing team better.
It was sweet, but it wasn’t a relationship-maker.
The next one made her double over in laughter. One of Higgs
’ men held up a pamphlet titled, “Why Marianne Loves Brad.” That arrogant moron. She couldn’t help but smile as she read the inside in the spirit he meant it . . . humorously.
Several more pamphlets pointed out what he respected about her, what he admired about her. Why he was sorry he’d evaded the truth. They were wonderful, affirming things to hear.
But they weren’t enough.
Until she came to the last one. Higgs was holding it, and he smiled softly. “This one is the best one yet. It took me forever, so you better like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” she said, biting her lip to keep from grinning at the absolute insanity of this project. He flipped it around, and she nearly gasped. Only the reminder that there were nearly twenty Marines staring at her from behind kept her from making a sound. But she let her hand drift up to cover her trembling mouth as she read the title.
“Why Brad Costa Fell in Love with Marianne Cook.”
She stepped forward and whispered, “Where is he?” as she read through the reasons. Because she made him laugh. She made him relax. She gave him perspective, kept him from taking himself too seriously, kept him grounded. Because she was willing to make tough choices, and he loved her for caring more about his health than hurting his feelings or making him angry. Because she was it for him. Because he recognized her.
Marianne blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. A few tears escaped anyway and trickled down her cheeks. She wiped at them impatiently with the back of her hand. “Higgs. Where is he?”
“He’s over here.”
She whipped her head around to find Brad standing in the doorway of her training room. His posture said he was relaxed, with his arms crossed over his chest and one shoulder propped against the door. But she could see in his eyes the intensity and focus, and knew if she laid a palm over his heart, she would feel vibrations of energy.
She started toward him, then turned back around for a moment, cupped her hand and called, “Thank you!”
The Marines all waved and started for the hallway toward the parking lot—presumably to store the posters in their cars. But she couldn’t let them go without hitting home that she appreciated their efforts.
Below the Belt Page 25