Below the Belt(27)

“Something happened,” Kara argued, then picked up a cookie. “These are sinful, by the way. Only let me have three. Three and a half. Which, rounded up, is four.”

“You can have as many as you want. And no, nothing happened. We were interrupted before . . .” She sighed when Kara shot her a knowing look. “Okay, yes, we were interrupted before something actually could have happened. Probably would have,” she conceded, to her friend’s smug delight. “Oh my God.” Sinking farther into the cushions, she covered her eyes with the non–wineglass holding hand. “What the hell is wrong with me? I was going to make out with someone in my de facto training room. I’m a sadist. I’m a sex fiend. I’m—”

“A healthy red-blooded woman who shouldn’t ignore her own body’s cravings. You know our cravings tell a story.”

Sensing a lecture about her chakras or her chi or something, Marianne steered the conversation another way. “You still doing yoga privates outside studio time?”

“When I can get them.” For the first time that night, the strain of what Marianne knew was a heavy financial burden etched lines into her friend’s brow. “I’m lucky the studio owner doesn’t mind me giving privates on the side. I guess he could technically call it competing business, but he’s good about it. Knows I need the money.” Brightening a little, she sat up straighter and set her wineglass aside. “Why, are you interested in some privates? You don’t have to pay me, you know. We can work it into our hangout times.”

“Uh, no. Not for me.” She sighed, knowing she really should be better about her own stretching regimen. “Actually, the head coach—remember me telling you about him?”

“Big man, deep voice, good coach, nice guy?” Kara nodded.

“That’s the one. Coach Ace asked if I could bring some yoga into the team’s routine. He’s really committed to keeping them healthy, and he thinks doing some team yoga would be a good way to do that.”

Her friend beamed. “What a fabulous idea! I’d love to come in and do a workshop. I’ll email you my studio schedule and you just tell me what time’s best for the team. If I’m not in the studio, then I’m available to teach a private.”

“When do you work on the blog?”

She waved that off and took another cookie—number five, by Marianne’s calculation, so she hid a grin. “Late at night, early in the morning, between classes at the studio in the office. It’s one of those added bonus things. I don’t schedule specific time for it. It gets done during all those pesky moments of downtime.”

Pesky little moments most people looked forward to. Kara, on the other hand, seemed to find them the bane of her existence. If she wasn’t doing nine things at once, she considered herself bored.

“You might have to start scheduling in time soon,” Marianne pointed out. Kara’s blog chronicling her struggles with her son’s allergies and providing resources and information for those who were battling similar issues had been picking up steam recently, with a few articles featured on major websites. “And it’s great passive income.”

“Nothing passive about it. It’s work.” Kara smiled softly. “But it’s nice work. I like it.”

Just then, a blur ran through the room and landed on the couch. Marianne managed—barely—to catch her wineglass before she bobbled it.

“Hey, Mom. I’m starving.”

“Starving, huh?” Kara stroked one hand over her ten-year-old son’s hair. “But I just fed you last week.”

“I’ve got a hollow leg,” he said with a grin that told Marianne this was an old routine for them. “Can I grab a snack?”

“Take some cookies,” Marianne offered. When Kara looked up, she grimaced. “Sorry, was I supposed to ask you first if it was okay? They don’t have peanuts or peanut butter.” She fumbled for her phone in her purse at her feet. “I can bring up the recipe so you can see the ingredients if you want. I got it from Pinterest.”

Kara looked hesitant, but Zach shook his head, answering first. “Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got snacks in the kitchen. Can I have one, Mom?” he asked again.

Eyes blinking rapidly, Kara nodded and shooed him out of the living room. “He’s always better at it than I am.” Her voice was soft as she watched her son disappear into the kitchen. “I always hesitate, just a blink, before I say yes or no to something. I keep asking myself, Should I take the risk this time? Will he resent me for saying no again? But he never does. He’s just so . . . easy.” She said the last with a sort of humble bafflement.

“Probably because his mom’s a kick-ass mother.”

At that, her friend gave a watery laugh. “I’ve missed you.” She let her head drop to Marianne’s shoulder for just a moment. “I know you’re not here forever, but I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Me, too.” She picked up the plate. “Eat another cookie.”


*

BRAD jabbed, jabbed again, threw a left hook that took his opponent by surprise and watched as Armstrong went to his knees on the mat. Even with the protection of the headgear, Brad knew the hit was a hard one.

“You dropped your damn guard again, Armstrong.” He pulled his gloves off and tossed them to the side, then spit his mouth guard out in disgust. Squatting, he waited until Armstrong’s head raised. Pupils were responsive, not fixed or dilated. “You’re fine. On your feet, Marine.”