Below the Belt(60)

No surgery was a good thing. A great thing. “So what, keep icing and all that?”

“For starters, you’ll need six weeks of rest, no strenuous physical activity. Then we’ve got to deal with physical therapy for a few months, in addition to the rest. We can go from there, monitoring how you feel and—”

“There’s no way,” Brad said firmly. “I work out every day, heavily. I can’t rest. Not now.”

The doctor sighed and rubbed at his forehead, and Brad knew exactly what the older man was seeing. Some arrogant son of a bitch who came in for an opinion and was throwing it back in his face, wasting everyone’s time.

“Look, doc.” Brad stepped down from the exam table gingerly. “I’m in the middle of important tryouts. I don’t have the option of postponing. This isn’t like being a runner, where there’s always another marathon somewhere a month from now. This is it. My only shot. I need something to just get me through. Cortisone shots or whatever.”

“Then . . .” The doctor waved him back and stared at the wall for a moment. “You understand this isn’t my first recommendation. That what I’m about to say is not my first choice in treatment.”

“Yes.” This sounded promising.

“After the MRI, we’ll get you fitted for a knee brace, put you on light exercise and—”

“Light won’t work.”

“If you’re not willing to follow orders, then I’m not entirely sure what I can do for you.” The doctor stood, sending the rolling stool across the room. “Good luck to you.”

Brad leaned against the exam table and let his head fall back. He was in too deep. He couldn’t handle this himself. He had to call Marianne. She’d know what to do, who to send him to so he could get this taken care of.

But then he’d be putting her in the middle of something ugly. Hey, I know we’ve been dating like two weeks, but please straddle this shady line of workplace ethics and keep this secret from your boss for me. Okay, thanks.

Thanks, life, for the impossible choice.

Be honest with her, and ask her to be dishonest at work. Or lie to her, but give her the deniability.

Or the third choice: be honest with her, and let the chips fall where they may.

Was he ready for that yet? Ready to accept that he would willingly be putting this dream of his in her hands?

Maybe. Maybe he was. But he’d still have to think about it.

A cute nurse walked in then, flipping through the clipboard that held the thin sheets of paper that made up his file. “Mister . . . Costa.” She glanced up and gave him a once-over. Despite being in full civilian attire, there was no way she didn’t recognize him as a Marine. She confirmed it when she asked, “I don’t see your insurance information here. We do accept Tricare. We just need your military ID and the name of your primary care manager and we can work that out.”

“Paying cash,” he said shortly, which made her blink. But she didn’t miss more than a beat.

“Then I’ll lead you up to the front office to check out.”

He stopped her with a hand on her arm as she started to walk out. “Where would I go for physical therapy?”


*

THE couch remembered her.

It was the most ridiculous thought, but it made Marianne smile anyway as she sat down in the same spot on the same couch she’d spent a great deal of her high school years using. Whether she’d been reading, studying, playing around with her laptop or watching a movie with her father, this had been her spot. Just like her father and mother both had their own spots in the family room.

“I think the dent’s still there,” her father said from his position on the recliner. The leg rest was popped up and the back reclined until he was nearly horizontal. Just like always.

She wriggled her butt a little on the cushion. “Feels like it.”

“Oh, stop that,” Mary said as she passed, swatting at her daughter’s arm. Then she handed her a mug of coffee—lightened just how she preferred it—and a small plate of homemade cookies. “Now what made you stop by tonight?”

“She wanted to steal some food and use her dent,” her father filled in. “Don’t you remember us popping in unexpectedly to see your parents when we were hungry and poor?”

“Okay, first off, I’m not poor,” she corrected.

“Mary, take those cookies back. The girl’s not poor.”

Marianne wrapped her arm around the plate balanced on her knee. “My cookies.”

Her father grinned. Her mother just rolled her eyes.

Marianne took a big bite of a cookie. Around the mouthful, she reiterated, “Not poor. But I’ll admit to hungry. Store-bought cookies are no substitute, Mom.”

“So come get them more often, sweetheart.” Mary leaned forward. “How’s work? Meeting anyone?”

Oh, so they were going to play that game. The “I Didn’t Catch You With Condoms” game. Mary liked to consider herself a modern woman, but knew Marianne’s father would hate hearing his little girl was getting some on her own time. “I meet anywhere from ten to twenty someones regularly. I ice them, stretch them, wrap them . . .” When her mother scowled, she blinked innocently. “Not what you meant?”

“I meant anyone to date. With all that delicious eye candy at work, I find it hard to believe you haven’t jumped on the chance to score one of those for yourself.”