Below the Belt(28)

Coach Willis wandered over and leaned over the single rope used to outline the practice ring. “Trouble?”

“There won’t be,” Brad assured him as Armstrong shuffled to his feet. “We’ve got it covered.”

The short coach nodded, but instead of walking off, planted himself in one of the metal folding chairs nearby and crossed his ankles. He was settling in to watch, clearly.

With a sigh, Brad made sure Armstrong was steady before showing him exactly when he’d dropped his right arm enough to give Brad the opening. Armstrong nodded in agreement, then asked to go again.

Brad threw the same combination, but hooked with the right this time to catch him off guard. But he blocked as he should and kicked out a punch of his own while Brad’s balance was still moving forward, catching him in the shoulder. Brad rubbed at the area and grinned when Armstrong hooted in triumph.

“All right, shithead, you tagged me. Tressler, get in here.”

With a puff of breath and a smirk, Tressler slid his mouth guard in. “I’ll go easy on you, Armstrong.”

Brad rolled his eyes and hopped over the rope to watch. Willis rolled to his feet and stood beside him. After a moment, he grunted.

“You gonna correct that form?”

Brad looked down at him. “You’re here. Are you going to correct that form?”

“They’re yours.”

Brad didn’t quite understand how the whole mini-platoon thing was supposed to work. Was this a test of some kind? To see if he was willing to go the extra mile for the team? Or to see if he would put his own training first and foremost, making himself the best boxer he could be?

Who the hell knew anymore?

Biting back a groan, he called a time and walked back into the ring to correct Armstrong’s form.

Again.

This was the practice that wouldn’t end. Already they’d worked well into what would usually be their lunch break. There wasn’t a Marine left who wasn’t wilting like day-old spinach. Normally Brad thrived on outlasting everyone else, but even he was feeling the strain on his stamina.

All he wanted was a bag of ice for his knee, a half-decent meal from the salad bar at the commissary and his quiet room. But no. He wasn’t getting any of that.

And he definitely wasn’t going to have company in his room, either. With a glance back at the training room, where he knew Marianne was restocking shelves with new supplies, he battled back the urge to ask her over for a one-on-one consultation.

Terrible idea.

He was just full of them.


*

MARIANNE finished stacking the last box of cooling pads on the metal shelf and nudged it into place with her knee. Man, it was boiling balls hot. They’d had to turn the AC in her room off to stop the spread of the scent of alcohol. But now that the smell had dissipated a little, the AC was working overtime to catch up. It hadn’t quite gotten there yet.

“That should be good. I can handle the rest from here. Take your break.”

Nikki looked more than ready to haul ass out of the hot room. Marianne had an idea she’d be heading to the main gym where the Marines who lived and worked on base typically worked out. She said the scenery was “inspiring” for her job. Marianne snorted delicately at that.

Levi hesitated, even when the object of his youthful desires had bolted for the door. “Are you sure? There’s more to do.”

“Yeah, but we don’t all have to be here. One of us does, while they’re working out. But since it looks like they’re not stopping anytime soon, no need to punish you guys. Get out, remind yourselves what fresh air smells like.”

He smiled a little at that, then reached for his backpack under the desk. “I’m not sure you should be alone, after what happened in here the other day.”

It was sweet, his worry over her. She gave him an unconcerned smile. “That was at night, and nothing’s happened since. Plus, I’ve got about twenty-five Marines that are three feet away. I’m pretty sure if anything happened, they’d be in here in two seconds flat to protect the womenfolk . . . which would be me.”

At that, he lifted one shoulder. “Okay then.” With a hand raised in a wave, he headed out. Likely, she thought, to chase after Nikki and ask her to eat with him.

Young lust. Such a sticky, tricky web it wove.

There were more boxes to unpack, more wraps and tape to settle. Files she needed to properly put back where they belonged. But something made her edge out of her office to watch—what she hoped was—the end of practice. It was already two in the afternoon, and they’d barely stopped for more than a few water breaks. With the rate and intensity the guys were practicing at, their bodies were burning fuel at an alarming rate. Blood sugar was going to become an issue very quickly if Coach Ace wasn’t careful.

She’d talk with him afterward about it.

The gym had been divided into multiple crude mini-rings. Rope looped over tall traffic cones outlined the different areas where boxers were sparring. If she had to guess, she’d say they were going at fifty percent power. Enough to work on deflection, evasion and some tactical maneuvers, but not enough to knock one another unconscious.

Save that for the Air Force, boys.

She watched as Brad walked into his ring to grip the upper arms of one boxer. He maneuvered him around, all but throwing him like a rag doll. Bending, sliding, swooping him around as if in some bizarre dance move. She knew he was demonstrating the different angles to use when blocking, but it looked hilarious from where she was standing. He was hands-on with the younger guys. More hands-on than he probably wanted to be, or would admit to. But she saw it in the way the younger guys treated him, watched him, spoke to him.