Below the Belt(6)

“Marianne.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to the group assembled in front of him. She knew the drill, and faced the Marines. They’d all donned their shirts now—poor Nikki—but most were plastered to their fronts, leaving no imagination where their body shapes were concerned. These were fighting machines, well-honed. Body fat begone.

“Men, this is Marianne Cook, the athletic trainer assigned to our team. Her training room is behind you, to the left there through the double doors. I’ll let her say a few words, then we’ll break for a few hours to fuel up.”

“Thanks, Coach.” She waited a beat, then asked, “Can they relax?”

“Sure thing. Ease down, boys.”

She watched their muscles relax, their bodies loosen up, their gazes swing around the gym and their shoulders roll to ease the aches. And as she took inventory of the Marines, she spotted the idiot from the night before. The one who had done a pathetic job hitting on her and her mother. The infant. What had his friend called him? Tress . . . something? His eyes caught hers, and he flushed and his mouth gaped a little.

Oh, yeah. She bit back a grin, doing her best to keep the professional mask on. Sometimes, pretending to be a ladies’ man bit ya big time. Nice lesson, huh, kid?

“Hi guys. I’m Marianne; or you can just call me Cook. Either one. I respond to both.” It’d be easier on everyone if they called her Cook. Seeing her as one of the guys would make the entire thing smoother. “I’m either going to be around here, observing and keeping an eye on you while you work, or in the training room. I’ve got two assistants as well, Levi and Nikki.” She pointed toward the door, where her interns waved. Nikki’s wave might have been a tad more enthusiastic than Levi’s, but at least she wasn’t drooling.

“I’ve also got some pamphlets here.” She fanned the stack she’d brought out with her. She’d made them herself, and was pretty darn proud of them. “They talk about proper nutrition both before and after a training session to give your body proper fuel. I’ll leave them outside my door so you can grab one on the way out.”

She took a deep breath, about to give a quick, well-practiced speech on the importance of stretching and hydration—both of which could prevent a multitude of injuries themselves—when she saw another surprising face in the crowd.

The second man from last evening. The one who had stepped in when the infant had started bothering her and her mother. The reluctant savior. She knew he saw her; she was impossible to miss. His face was an impassive mask, eyes staring straight ahead, just a little to the left of her, like something on the blank wall behind her shoulder was more interesting. But his jaw clenched in a way that said he wasn’t entirely unaware of her presence.

Well. Curious.


*

WELL. Shit.

Brad focused on the speed bag in front of him . . . mostly focused. The work was repetitive; he could work the bag by rote. But cruising on autopilot wouldn’t get him his spot on the team. Already, he knew his skills weren’t to the same par as others’. He wasn’t as fast as Higgs, and—it galled him to admit—he wasn’t as powerful as Tressler and his big mouth. A man named Sweeney took the prize for the most creative moves, with the sort of skill to see three moves ahead of his opponent and make the right choice. The man was like Bobby Fisher on a chess board, always calculating and ready.

But he had determination, guts and sheer refusal to quit. And his conditioning was above the curve. While some dropped like flies in the heat, he’d stand out as going the distance. He couldn’t beat them, but he could outlast them.

Please, God, let that count for something.

But right now he couldn’t think about outdistancing his fellow teammates. No, of course not. His mind kept drifting back to the icy blonde with hot legs and a banging body. Oh, sure, she hid it under the obligatory baggy staff polo that might as well have been a potato sack and a pair of loose khaki shorts. But he’d seen her the night before in a formfitting tank top and hip-skimming jeans. The woman was stacked.

And all but walked around with a sandwich board proclaiming, “Hands Off, Marines.” Shame, really.

He missed another combo, and Coach Willis’ barking, rasping shout had him blinking and dodging the bag before it hit him square in the face.

“Costa! Christ on a cracker, what are you doing with that bag?”

Brad turned, then jolted back a step when he found the shorter man standing right behind him. He had to be barely over five feet tall. “Coach—”

“Swear to God, boys, swear to God.” Willis shook his head, upper lip twitching. The motion sent his moustache into an awkward dance. Brad bit back a laugh. “If you can’t keep your head in the game, maybe you shouldn’t be playing it.”

Shit, shit, shit. Daydreaming about the Nordic princess had scraped his concentration raw. “Sorry, Coach. Just lost it for a second. I’m good.”

“You can go be ‘good,’” he said with a sneer and some air quotes for extra insult, “by running a few stairs and laps. Up, across, down, across. Ten rounds.” When he waited, Willis rubbed a finger across his moustache. “Go. Now.”

“Yes, Coach.” He took off immediately, sprinting to the first set of stairs. The gymnasium was set up with a set of stairs in each of the four corners, leading up to a catwalk above where spectators could watch games or events. The drill was simple enough. Run up a set of stairs, sprint across the length of the catwalk to the next stairs, run down, sprint across the gymnasium floor by the wall, back up again. Around and around he would go.