Below the Belt(41)

“The Marines are good enough for my brother, but not good enough for me to date. I see how it is.”

“Is that Brad?”

Brad winced when he heard his mother’s voice. “I thought you were in your room.”

“Living room. Why? And here’s Mom . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Bradley, I’m going gray over here worrying about you. Have you heard of this invention called a telephone lately?”

“No, tell me more.”

When his mother sighed in exasperation, he laughed. “Mom, come on. I’m exhausted. Cut a son some slack.”

“I heard more from you when you were deployed than I have since you checked in over there.”

Brad glanced down at his knee, currently stretched out on the bench. “Not much to tell. Just same old, same old.”

“Hmm. How about your roommate? Is he a decent guy?”

“Decent. Talkative. Okay, I guess.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve made a friend.”

Brad winced at that. He wouldn’t go so far . . .

“Call more,” his mother admonished, then handed the phone back to Sarah.

“I’m hanging up now. I’m waiting on a text.”

“From who?”

“Uhhhh. Good-bye, Brad.” She hung up before he could pry any more information out of her. He set the phone back in his pack and stood. Sarah, going off to college. It had been a trip to watch her drive the last time he’d visited. Unnatural. His sister was supposed to stay little forever.

And that sentiment only made him feel that much older.

Time for bed, Grandpa.


*

THE second his back hit the bed, his door opened. Brad didn’t even bother sitting up, just held up a hand with his middle finger extended.

“I’m going to pass on the invitation.” Higgs jumped until he bounced on the mattress, sending Brad bouncing until his head hit the headboard. “Whoops!”

“Damn it, Higgs.” Rubbing at the bump on his head, he sat up. “What the hell do you want?”

“Can’t a guy want to chat with his roomie?” When Brad gave him a bland stare, Higgs sighed. “Fine, I’m here for intel. Give me some info.”

“Info on what?” Why am I not at Marianne’s right now?

“Marianne Cook.”

Was the man a mind reader?

“I know you and her are . . .” He held up a hand, tilting it back and forth.

Brad mimicked the gesture. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I get it. You two are something together. You’ve got the ka-boom factor.”

“The ka-boom factor.” It was like talking to a hyper golden retriever. “Use regular words, please.”

“You’re the gas, she’s the flame. You get anywhere near each other and . . .” Higgs slapped his hands together. “Ka-boom.”

“That is the most stupid thing I’ve heard in a long time. And I got to listen to Tressler mouth off about scoring ass and how he mentally rated chicks on a ten-point scale before ‘letting them’ get with him.”

Higgs pulled the fourth-grade move of pretending to gag. Brad couldn’t blame him there.

“How are your guys?” his roommate asked, scooting down to the floor and stretching his legs out. He wore athletic shorts—clean, Brad prayed—a simple red USMC shirt and white ankle socks with no shoes. Clearly, he felt comfortable enough invading Brad’s room that he didn’t need to dress up for the occasion.

“They’re okay, minus Tressler.” Sadly, the kid was good, and he’d likely be making the cut. “What about yours?”

“Two are decent, three don’t stand a chance. Mixed bag.” He stared at his feet for a second as he gripped his heels and stretched. “Have you figured out the angle on this whole mini-platoon thing? Sweeney and I talked about it last night, and couldn’t get there.”

“Well, there are a few theories.” Warming up to it, and glad to be talking about something that really mattered—boxing—he rolled his shoulder and let his right leg stretch out, then let the knee bend ever so slightly. It always felt better bent. “Theory number one: the coaches are testing us older guys on our leadership abilities, and want to see if any of us would make decent captains.”

“We thought about that,” Higgs agreed, bending one leg to stretch deeper with the other.

“Theory number two: it’s a test to see how far we’ll go to follow Coach Ace’s lead. Do as ordered, no questions asked.”

Higgs nodded and switched legs.

“Or, in a more Machiavellian plot twist, the unlikely theory number three is they could be testing us to see which one of us is willing to forsake all distractions and focus solely on our own performance to make the team.”

“That’s cold.”

“Boxing isn’t a team sport.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Higgs sat up straight, glaring. “I know we go into that ring one at a time, but damn, man. We go to matches together, we wear matching uniforms, and we’re all one branch. Marines stand by Marines. Don’t act like you’re suddenly in the Army.”

Brad smiled a little at that. “For what it’s worth, my instinct says it’s theory number one. He’s seeing who will step up to lead.” Which frustrated him. He didn’t come to lead; he came to box.