Below the Belt(56)
Marianne snickered. “Sorry, but that’s sort of funny.”
“Funny for you, maybe. Not funny for me, when everyone assumes I’m a bia!” She sighed. “Okay, so you’ve got everything under control here. Nothing odd to report, or any suspicions on who wrecked the training room?”
“It was kids, I thought.” Not that she’d fully bought the theory, but it helped her sleep at night. She lugged the jug to the cart, faltered, then breathed a sigh of relief when Reagan reached the other side and helped her slide it on. “Thanks. And . . . that’s why you should probably pick a new outfit tomorrow.”
Reagan glanced down to see a big water spot on the front of her jacket. “It’ll dry. The MPs said it was kids when it was just a big mess in your training room. Now they’re thinking it might be tied to whoever left the nasty note upstairs.”
Marianne raised a brow. Reagan shrugged. “I saw photos. My job is to keep things running smoothly and make sure none of this crap gets leaked to the press. It can get ugly quickly. People have a hair trigger when the more physical sports are mentioned to begin with. You add in the military, and protesters start rubbing their hands together, salivating.”
Marianne understood that one. She’d lived in Jacksonville long enough to have seen her fair share of protests outside the front gate. Some had been small, barely worth mentioning in the local paper. Others had been national news.
Levi walked in at that moment. Despite the fact that he wasn’t scheduled, Marianne gladly waved him over. “You’ve got mail.” She rolled the jug toward him, and he caught it easily. “Push that out there, would ya?”
He grunted a reply, tossed his book bag down on a bench, grabbed a sleeve of cups on the way out and left.
“How about your interns? How are they?”
“Your average college students. Little bit of focus, lots of daydreaming and—for Nikki—ogling. Pretty standard.”
“I was a college student until like a month ago,” Reagan said dryly.
Whoops. “Sorry, you look older.”
“Six-year plan, and then some. Not the point.” She tapped her toe on the ground for a moment. “Guess I’m off to the races to figure out where to go from here. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”
“Have fun,” Marianne said with a wave. “Resting bitch face,” she said to herself with a laugh and went to create a new pamphlet about the effects of alcohol on an athlete’s body.
*
“FAVORITE color.”
Brad didn’t hesitate. “Green. You?”
“Tied between blue and turquoise.”
Brad’s spoon halted halfway to the bowl of ice cream they were sharing. And in this case, “sharing” meant Marianne was eating most of it and pushing his spoon out of the way for the good chunks with the cookie dough in them. It was cute. “That’s the same color.”
“No it’s not.” She knocked his stationary spoon aside and dug out another bite with chocolate chip cookie dough in it. “They’re completely separate things. Check a crayon box sometime.”
“Your leading argument is based on a three-year-old’s craft supply? Weak.” He snagged a good bite for himself and ignored her pout. “You were the one who didn’t want to get your own bowl. Suck it up and share like a big girl.”
“You’re in training. Why are you even eating ice cream?” She took up a spoonful too big for her own mouth, and pointed it at him. “I offered to split a bowl because that’s what girls do. We offer to share food because it makes us feel more delicate and dainty. Then you were graciously supposed to say no, you couldn’t, but go ahead and have some anyway, please. And then I would have my bowl to myself and not worry about feeling fat. Everybody knows that. But you ruined it by agreeing to share. Then I was stuck sharing. You locked me in and broke the rule.”
“Who the hell made up that stupid rule?”
“God.”
“Jesus H.,” he muttered, then took another bite, even though he was full. Just because. “Don’t offer if you don’t want to share.”
“Have none of your other girlfriends trained you yet?” She took the bowl from where it sat between them on the couch and held it in her lap, conveniently out of reach from his own spoon.
“I’ve never had a long-term girlfriend.”
She looked horrified at that. “Did I pop your girlfriend cherry?”
He laughed so hard at that his stomach cramped.
“Wasn’t meant to be funny. I don’t have time to housebreak you, you know. Nobody told me I’d be starting from scratch with you.” She stared at the wall in wonder. “Seriously, a relationship virgin? Why am I being punished?”
“I’ll do my best to keep up to your standards,” he managed to gasp. God, she cracked him up. “Brothers or sisters?”
“None.” She looked sad for a moment. “I wanted them. Not sure why my parents didn’t have any more. But it’s not my business to ask, so . . .” She shrugged. “You?”
“I’ve got a younger brother and a younger half sister. Brother in college, sister—because the half never really mattered—in high school.” He held out a hand for the bowl; she studiously ignored him. “You can take them both, if you want. I’d love to be an only child for a while.”