Below the Belt(62)

He didn’t ask where she’d been. Which made her wonder if it was just a guy thing to not wonder, and not explain. Had she overreacted from the start?

“Want a hot date with a badass Marine?”

That had her smiling. Slowly. “Oh, don’t you know it.”

“How about five badass Marines?”

Her smile turned from sultry to amused. “Sounds like more than I can handle, if you want the truth. But for you and your Bad News Bears, I’ll make an exception. Gym?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“See you there.”





CHAPTER


18


“If you’re going to swing like that,” Brad said, ducking easily as Chalfant threw a pathetic hook, “you’re going to have to stop telegraphing. Otherwise . . .” He threw a one-two punch into Chalfant’s stomach that sent the man stumbling back until he tripped and landed on his ass.

Brad used his teeth to rip off the Velcro and tossed his right glove away to help Chalfant up. The man stood, face red with embarrassment.

“Cheer up, Chalfant.” Tressler, ever helpful as he leaned against the railing of the catwalk, grinned. “You could always be the water boy.”

Chalfant growled and advanced, gloves up by his shoulders. Brad stepped between them and shouldered Chalfant back. Tressler barely moved, just laughed softly.

Tibbs ran by, huffing a little as he made another lap around the outer circle. He punched Tressler lightly on the shoulder as he passed by. “Don’t be an ass,” he managed to gasp.

“Don’t bust a lung,” Tressler shot back.

“Jesus H.,” Brad said to the ceiling, ripping his other glove off and letting it fall.

No divine assistance was forthcoming.

Armstrong managed to keep his fat out of the fire by focusing on the bag Brad had set him up with in the corner. It probably helped that he’d taped his left arm up to resemble a block, so he had no choice but to keep it up. Muscle memory would make it difficult for him to lower it next time he had the choice.

“You,” he said to Chalfant as the younger man started forward again, “go take a drink and cool off. Tibbs!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Walk it out for a bit!”

The large man held up a hand in acknowledgment from across the gym and slowed his pace.

“And you,” he said, pointing to Tressler. The man’s shit-eating grin slowly faded as Brad walked up. He leaned in, lowering his voice until it was just above a whisper. “Go downstairs, into the hallway by the main doors, and study the team photos.”

Tressler pulled back and blinked in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, sure.” Arms crossed, Brad stepped back. “You’re hot shit, right? Don’t need the extra practice?”

Tressler made a huffing sound and looked to the left, over Brad’s shoulder. As if he couldn’t quite make eye contact.

“There are guys up here who want it. Not need—want. You don’t want it. So, get out of the way. Go study the photos. Read the names. You can tell me what you’ve learned when we get done up here.”

Tressler scoffed, pushed off the railing and walked to the stairs. Either he’d take Brad seriously and give the photos of boxing teams of old a real study, or he’d take a nap.

Either way, he was out of their way upstairs, where Brad could focus on the Marines who actually wanted the help.

Tibbs ended up back on their side of the catwalk, and Brad clapped once to get his and Armstrong’s attention. “Take a break, guys. Grab some water, rest your eyes a minute, take a leak, whatever you need to do. Come back ready to go in ten.”

Tibbs looked like he wanted to fall over, but he walked toward the stairway that led to the head, and Chalfant followed. His head was dropped low, shoulders up high.

The posture of a resigned man.

Before they left, Brad was going to fix it. Either he’d walk out ready to win, or he’d walk out ready to fake a winner’s posture. Sometimes, there wasn’t a difference.

He walked to Marianne and slid down the wall beside her. His knee locked for a moment when he went to straighten his legs out, then popped out.

After a few moments of silence, she glanced up from her phone. “Do you think anyone would be interested in a pamphlet on the effects of alcohol on an athlete’s body?”

He snorted and leaned over, resting his temple on her shoulder as she made notes in her cell phone’s notepad app. “I’m guessing that’s a no. No offense.”

“I’m sensing a pattern with my pamphlets.” She said it good-naturedly, then set the phone down in her lap. Her arm came around his back and she rubbed her palm in slow, soothing circles. He arched away.

“Don’t, I’m sweaty.”

“So? You’re sweaty in bed, but I like it.”

He nuzzled into her neck for a moment before pulling back. Sitting with her was one thing. But he’d be damned if the guys caught him necking with the trainer. They weren’t playing secret agent spy anymore, but there were still standards.

“How’s your tooth?” she asked, picking her phone back up.

His tooth . . . aw, shit. “Okay. Preventative. I’m good.”

“Mmm.” Her thumbs flew over the screen, typing away.