Below the Belt(29)

They had mentally placed him at the top of the pile, as someone to aim for. Not based on his skill or speed, but based on his endurance, his knowledge and his work ethic.

He wouldn’t see it like that, though. He’d see it as them just watching the competition for weaknesses. So analytical, so pessimistic.

She grinned. He was so damn hot.

Even Tressler, cocky little shit that he was, quietly emulated Brad. As Brad showed Chalfant a combination, Tressler stood behind, mimicking the moves without being obvious. Committing the combination to muscle memory.

Coach Ace walked to the middle of the floor and cupped his hands. “Marines! Assemble!”

There was an initial scramble to head to the center mat. She saw Brad hop the rope, then immediately hitch a step in reaction.

He needed to be checked out. It could be something so minor it would need nothing but some stretching and extra heat and ice. Or it could be much worse. He could be putting his career as a Marine on the line, and for what? The chance to fight in a ring?

Pro athletes were being paid for their performances. In a way, though she disagreed with it, she understood the desire to push through the pain. But to risk his career—his real career—for the happiness of being on the boxing team? It didn’t compute.

Soon enough, she would have to make him trust her and fess up.


*

COACH Ace waited until they were quietly lined up in formation before he began. “I know I pushed you well through lunch. Nobody complained, nobody fought back and nobody asked for a break. Thank you for pushing through.”

Brad mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

“The reason I asked you to push through is because there is no practice tonight.”

That brought out a murmur among the guys. Probably already making plans to hit up a bar or find a willing woman, Brad thought with an inner eye roll.

His eye caught on Marianne standing just outside her door, wearing her polo shirt and capri-length khakis, with her arms crossed over her breasts.

Suddenly, the idea of a willing woman wasn’t far from his own mind.

“Instead of meeting at the gym, I want you to spend some time with your assigned platoons. Leaders, you’re in charge of making that happen. Your choice how, your choice where.” At the surprised silence, the coach’s dark face creased into a smile. “Gentlemen, boxing is a sport of one against one inside the ropes. But never let yourself forget that this is a team. First, foremost, always.”

Brad heard Higgs mutter a low “Oo-rah” from behind.

The second they were dismissed, Chalfant raced over to him.

Jesus H.

“What are we going to do tonight?” The younger man caught up with Brad as he turned to grab his bag. “We could see a movie. Or maybe watch one at the apartment. Oh! Dinner.” His eyes grew wide with anticipation. “We could go to this place my roommate told me about. It’s in Wilmington, but we’ve got the time, so—”

Brad tossed his cell phone at him to make him stop talking. “Put your number in there, then give it to the others. I’ll let you know when I figure shit out.”

“Oh.” Looking a little like a kicked puppy, Chalfant looked down at the phone in his hand. “So . . . okay. I’ll just . . .” He rotated the phone a bit, then wandered off, thumbs moving over the screen to put his number in.

“That went well.”

Brad turned to see another Marine standing there. Sweeney, he remembered. The one who owned a house out the back gate.

“What went well?” He leaned against the pushed-in bleachers, waiting for Sweeney to continue.

“I do believe that’s the kid’s hopes and dreams you’re crushing under the heel of your shoe.” With a small shake of his head, the other man leaned companionably next to him. “They’re babies.”

“They’re not even ten years younger than us.”

“In some ways. Half these guys haven’t even seen a deployment yet. You know how that shit ages you.” He let his head fall back against the hard plastic. “Grandpa.”

“If I’m the Grandpa of this outfit, you must be my two-minutes-younger twin brother. Plus,” he added darkly, “you outrank me. So we should probably be calling you Great-Grandpa.”

At that, Sweeney chuckled. “Not too far off, probably. But like the coach said, we leave our rank at the door. Take care of your mini-platoon, Costa. You’ve got some good ones.” He left, making Brad wonder what the hell that had been all about.

He waited for another few moments at the bleachers, eyes closed, ready to fall asleep on his feet like an elephant. Something freezing cold pressed against his belly, and his eyes widened. “Jesus H.!”

Marianne stood beside him, blinking innocently. “Oh, sorry, should have warned you.” She pulled the bag off his stomach and murmured, “Cold ice, coming in.”

The innocent mischief that sparkled in her eyes made him want to throw her over his shoulder, drag her back to the training room and spank her—then give the tables a good spin with a workout they were most certainly not designed for. “Yeah. Thanks for the warning.”

She tilted her head over to where Chalfant was getting Armstrong’s number in his phone. “Looks like you’ll be spending some quality bonding time with the boys, huh?”

“Like a father on his visitation weekend,” he muttered, making her laugh. “I like quiet. I like solitude. Is that so wrong?”