Below the Belt(38)

He’d done that. To a woman he cared about a great deal. He’d hurt her because he got a boo-boo and wasn’t prepared to accept it.

He was an *-slash–douche bag.

At the end of the practice, three hours after yoga time had ended, he approached her training room with trepidation. When he walked into the door, he saw several Marines inside icing various body parts. They draped over the three tables, sat in chairs, and leaned against the wall. One even lay sprawled on the floor over a few towels.

They’d all given up the tough-guy act, he decided with a smirk. Too late now. Walking to Armstrong, he nudged the man with his toe. “What’s up with you?”

“Sore wrist.” He held up the arm with the ice bag flopped over it. “Wonky punch to the bag. I’ll be okay.”

“Better be,” Brad warned. “I’m not about to be the first guy to lose one of his group members.”

“You won’t be,” Coach Willis said as he walked in with a clipboard. “Just had to let Ciaston go.”

“Injury?” Brad wondered. The guy had been a solid boxer. Not at the top, but not clinging to the bottom rung, either.

“Attitude,” he answered shortly, then walked to Marianne, who was massaging another Marine’s thigh. She glanced over the list Coach Willis held out under her nose, not stopping in her ministrations, nodding and commenting back with him.

Brad’s jaw clenched as he watched her hands move effortlessly, competently over the Marine’s thigh. He knew exactly what those hands felt like running over his own body, and his jealousy kicked up a notch when he watched them move higher until they were working, thumbs digging, into the area between the other man’s thigh and groin area.

It didn’t help that, even as the Marine flinched—in discomfort, Brad assumed—she glanced down at him with a smile and a warm word or two to ease the other man’s mind.

She looked up then, and just noticed his presence. Her warm gaze frosted over, and she looked back down again. “Nikki, we’ve got a customer who needs some ice.”

“On it!” Hustling over, the female intern who had spent more time ogling the team as they worked out than doing anything Brad could see as effective, hustled toward him. Her polo, he noticed, was considerably tighter across the breasts than Marianne’s was, and her own khakis were short shorts that probably shared a hint of ass cheek when she bent over.

Brad wasn’t interested in finding out.

“Ice for you, right?” She put her hands on her hips in front of him. “What ails ya? Hand, shoulder, knee, ankle?”

“Leg,” he said, then added, “I’ll just take it to go.”

“Nope. Sit down,” she said, pushing at his chest until he took a step back and fell into a chair that looked like was one of the desk chairs, not meant for sweaty athletes. They’d run out of space on the cheap plastic ones. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move a muscle, cutie.”

“Cutie,” he muttered.

“She’s hot, isn’t she?” Armstrong grinned.

“She’s twelve,” Brad responded. Though her actual age was probably closer to twenty, she couldn’t have been farther from the type Brad would have considered “hot.”

“Aw, you’re just old,” Armstrong said with a moan.

“She’s here to work.” The other intern, a quiet guy roughly the same age as the girl, let the bag drop on Brad’s lap. His scowl told Brad the kid had been listening, and took exception to them discussing the potential hotness of his fellow training intern. “Don’t be jerks to her.”

“Who’s being a jerk?” Brad asked with a shrug, then settled the ice against his knee. “Long as she does her job, I’ve got no problems.”

The intern made it clear he was adding Armstrong to his shit list by scowling his way, then walked off.

“Making friends wherever you go,” Higgs said from the doorway.

Brad flipped him off.

“How long you gonna be?” Higgs checked his watch. “I was going to go to Sweeney’s for some grilling action.”

“So go. I can get home.”

Higgs hesitated, then shrugged and took off.

Armstrong asked quietly, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, then sighed. The wounded pride strikes again. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just tired.”

“It’s catching up to a lot of us,” Armstrong agreed. In a hushed voice, he added, “I think our group is the best, though.”

“Everyone thinks their group is the best. What matters is who’s standing here when the team roster is compiled.” Brad didn’t want this kid to mistake his intentions. “We’re here to get a spot. If that means you have to beat out one of our group to do it, you don’t hesitate.”

Armstrong looked uncertain, but then the young female walked by and tapped his shoulder. “Your time’s up, cutie. Off you go!”

Handing her the wet bag, Armstrong waved to Brad and headed through the door.

He could lead without being best buddies with the guys, couldn’t he? Hell yeah. It wasn’t that hard.

The real problem lay in how to handle Marianne and his injury. Or just handle Marianne, period. The problem was, he liked her. Liked her a hell of a lot.