Below the Belt(13)

He’d been running or moving for hours and made it all look like he’d just started, fresh as a daisy, and one set of stairs sent his body into recovery mode? She doubted that. His knee was in pain. Whether he’d come to the team with the injury or it had happened earlier the other day, she couldn’t know. But the man was definitely in pain, and the stairs were the big killer.

She debated saying something to the coach, then held back. Not yet. He was going to be a tough nut to crack. If she was wrong—if something else was going on and she said something that got him kicked off the team—she’d be pissed at herself. And not only that, but nobody else would trust her going forward.

Fantastic. So her options were . . .

Yeah. Not fun.


*

BRAD stood warily, watching his balance as he walked without limping. It took something out of him to do it—mostly the breath he was holding in his burning lungs—but he managed. Already the pain was shifting down to more of a dull throb. The lower extremity version of a toothache.

Higgs was still shooting the shit with a few other guys, so he had some time to duck into the trainer’s office and grab a bag of ice. Marianne had been wandering around, and he noticed her leaving the training room. If he was quick, he could duck in and back out again with a bag and no questions. Higgs would wonder what it was for, but he could shake it off as just swollen knuckles or some other shit. They were all going to be battling that one soon enough.

Higgs waved as he started toward the training room and called out, “I’ll be a minute.”

“It’s fine,” Brad said and ducked in. How the hell did his roommate make friends that easily? It was like the guy was a walking friend magnet. People just wanted to be around him.

He did a quick sweep, making sure neither of the two young interns was lurking in corners. But they hadn’t been present all evening, so he figured he was safe. He let his bag drop to the floor with a thud and hurried to scoop some ice out.

“Can I help with that?”

His hand jerked, the handle flipping and tossing ice cubes over his shoulder to clatter on the floor. “Jesus H.”

The female chuckle was low and throaty, and his mind went immediately to hearing that same sound in a dark room with a soft mattress under his back.

And now he needed to stick his nuts in the ice bag to cool them off. Great. He turned—with reluctance—and faced the trainer. She stood with her hands on her hips, smiling at him from a few feet away. She’d pulled back the top half of her hair tonight, letting the bottom part swing to just past her ears. It only emphasized her large blue eyes, which watched him with way too much intuition.

“Are you in a hurry?” Marianne stepped around the ice cubes and grabbed a rag. She knelt down and started mopping up the already melting mess.

Jesus H. “Sorry, here, let me do that.” He bent down to take the rag from her, but she didn’t let go. The odd little silent tug of war ended when he wrapped one hand around her thin wrist and made her look at him. “I spilled it—let me clean it.”

She watched him for a moment, and damn if her eyes didn’t seem to darken while she stared. Then she shrugged and let go, and he told himself he was just making shit up in his mind. He was tired. That’s all. Just exhausted after a long day.

“I’ll get a new baggie. Just one?” She stood, and God help him, it was all he could do to keep his eyes down on the wet floor and not focus on her ass, which was conveniently at eye level now.

“One’s fine.”

“Are you going to tell me what it’s for?”

He let the silence drag out while he scooped the last of the ice into a bucket, then took it over to a sink and rinsed it and the rag out.

“Costa, if you’re hurting, I can help. Or at least I can do my best.”

“Not hurting. Just keeping ahead of it. Nobody likes swollen joints.” He shook his hands out as he spoke, like he was flicking off water, and hoped she took that to mean he was referring to his hands . . . without lying directly.

One blonde eyebrow arched in a silent bullshit call, but he ignored that and held out a hand for the bag. “Thanks.”

She kept it just out of reach. “Can we talk?”

“About what?”

She shrugged again, stepping around the nearest table to hop up and let her feet dangle. “Anything. You’re one of the only guys out there that doesn’t make me feel like a big sister.”

He grinned at that, then made a face. “Was that a dig at me being old?”

Her eyes widened in innocence. “Of course not.” She blinked coyly. “Grandpa.”

“Dammit,” he muttered, but without heat. He’d accepted it was just his lot on the team to be the oldest. Provided he made the team.

“Where are you from?” Her heels thudded gently against the wooden leg of the table.

“Illinois.”

She waited a moment. “Me? I grew up in Jackonville. Moved away for college and my first training gig, then came back for this job specifically. Thanks for asking, chatterbox.”

His lips twitched before he could catch them.

“Jeez, you really ask a lot of questions. I’m an only child, and that was my mom sitting with me the other night at the bar, though you likely already figured that out. Got any siblings over there in Illinois?”