Below the Belt(23)

Damn you, decisions . . .

“I’m Chalfant. Toby Chalfant. I’m with 2nd Recon.” The kid held out his hand for a shake. Brad stared at it a moment, then took it. Easiest way to get the kid—Chalfant—to back off was to follow along.

If Chalfant noticed Brad’s less-than-warm greeting, he didn’t act like it. “Anyway, so I was wondering if you do any coaching on the side or anything.”

“Coaching,” he muttered, going with the old shirt. Nasty, but he wasn’t out to impress the ladies. He was keeping himself as sane as possible with as little laundry as possible. “I’m here for a tryout, kid. Same as you.”

The “kid” was at least three inches taller than him, and spindly. But Brad had noticed him, and not just for his height. He had spirit, and a willingness to learn. Unfortunately, learning at this stage in the game wasn’t the point. You were here to show what you already knew. Brad doubted the young, cheerful Chalfant would make the team, unless injuries kicked more than the usual amount out.

Which reminded him of his own issue, and how he was going to sneak a bag of ice from the storage room Marianne Cook had reconned for her training room.

“Well, you know, if you ever wanna grab lunch or anything, my friend’s got an apartment here. I’m staying with him most of the time, since it’s more private than the barracks. We could hang out and watch some practice videos, maybe you could give me a few ideas . . .”

The hope and eagerness in the younger man’s eyes was about to kill him. Unable to bring himself to kick a Marine for being young and naive, he lifted one shoulder. “Sure, maybe sometime.”

“Costa!”

The barked word had Brad’s back straightening. Coach Ace had a voice that could make a SEAL piss his pants. As if sensing now was definitely not the time to hang around, Chalfant gave him a grimace of sympathy and waved before jogging off to get his bag.

Without any hitches in his step, without any pops or cracks from any joints.

Effing junior Marines.

Sweat-heavy shirt on and his duffel bag hitched over one shoulder, Brad turned and walked back to the coach. Every step was a deliberate choice to not limp or wince, to stay strong and not show any weakness.

“Costa,” Coach Ace repeated when Brad halted in front of him. “I’ve made a decision about how things are going to run from here on out. You’re the oldest one here.”

Jesus H., was there a newsletter circling or something?

“I’m going to be asking you to take on some of the younger men. They’re your responsibility to keep motivated and out of trouble.”

Brad blinked, then rubbed at one temple. “I don’t understand exactly what you mean, Coach.”

“Consider it a tryout for captain. I watched you turn Chalfant’s focus from the pain to the gain in ten seconds flat. Sometimes, the motivation has to come from within the nucleus of a team, not the staff supporting it. I want to see how you handle that responsibility. So . . . get to know your mini-platoon.” He handed Brad a sheet of notebook paper with four names on it. “This is your new job.”

“My job is to box, sir.” Brad stared, unseeing, at the paper. He was struggling as it was to keep up and not get cut or kill himself. Now he had this added on?

“Now your job is to box, and to keep your mini-platoon in line. Consider it a bonus, without the pay increase.” Coach Ace slapped a hand on his shoulder and walked on, calling out Higgs’ name.

Something told Brad that Higgs—who was barely a year younger than him—was getting his own mini-platoon. When he saw Coach Ace hand Higgs a sheet of paper, the theory was confirmed.

He read the names on his own sheet, half-amused, half-groaning to see Chalfant’s name at the top. The other two were quiet guys he didn’t foresee any major problems with. But the last one . . .

Tressler.

Damn it all to hell and back. That moron was his responsibility now? What kind of sick joke was the universe playing on him?

Now he was a Marine, a boxer and a babysitter.


*

MARIANNE grabbed the wrap and sat back down on her low stool to examine the ankle hanging over the bench. “I’m going with a tendon strain, not a sprain. Give it two days of rest—”

The Marine, Bailey, coughed out what sounded like, “Bullshit.” She ignored that.

“—or, barring that, do your best to stay off it whenever you’re not in practice. Elevate, ice and heat, ibuprofen and no jumping or running outside of practice.”

“But Coach Cartwright just gave me a list of conditioning to do outside of practice,” he said quickly, leaning forward to hover over her while she wrapped the ankle.

Her hands didn’t pause in their work. Over, under, around. Check for circulation. It was soothing work, something she enjoyed and had no problems with. Wrapping ankles wasn’t beneath her, like some trainers complained it was. “You’ll just have to find other ways to condition yourself. Like getting extra rest. You know, being properly rested before a practice can almost double your performance.”

He looked skeptical.

“No, really.” She glanced around, then remembered she wasn’t in her regular training room. “I’ve normally got my pamphlets. There’s a great one I did on how many hours of sleep a night each individual needs. It’s got some scientific research about—”