Below the Belt(64)

She flipped him off, then stood on wobbly legs. “I immediately regret this decision,” she said, mimicking Ron Burgundy.

“C’mon, Training Princess.” Higgs took her arm and walked her to the stairs. Brad followed behind, clearly not concerned that another man was taking care of his girlfriend. She liked that. No need to thump his chest and freak out about it. He was secure in their relationship. Nice.

They made it down the stairs and she grabbed her bag from the training room. “Go get some rest,” she said, pointing to all three of them. “And food. And water.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sweeney and Higgs said in unison, the cheeky nerds. She shooed them away. Brad waited until they were gone, then leaned in for a kiss. “After practice tonight, you okay with meeting upstairs for my group’s training?”

“Sure.”

“And after that, your place?”

“You got it. And this time,” she said, digging through her bag and finding her flip-flops for the locker room showers, “I’ll be the one giving you the workout.”

He winked, then kissed her again, his fingers tunneling through her short ponytail and dislodging the band. She went up on her tiptoes to meet him and make the kiss last longer.

“Oooooooo.”

She heard the mocking, high-pitched male sound and broke away just before Brad cursed under his breath. He turned and she saw over his shoulder Higgs and Sweeney waiting for him by the door, making kissing faces at them.

“I’ve gotta go kill someone. I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t leave any evidence!” she yelled at him as he sprinted for the two other Marines. Her trainer’s eye couldn’t help but notice the hitch in his step as he took the five stairs to the door to catch up with them. He still heavily favored his right knee.

Tonight, she’d work on him. Subtly, nothing obvious. But she had to get the full story sometime soon. If he messed up his knee permanently, she’d never forgive herself.


*

MARIANNE waited for Brad to finish giving last-minute advice to Chalfant, Tibbs and Armstrong before walking with them back downstairs. She hung back, following at a distance. He sent them off to their own cars—though it appeared they had all carpooled in one car, with Tressler’s SUV being the other. Then Brad turned to her. “Wait for me?”

“Sure.” She waited to see where he was going, then left her bag by the doors and snuck on quiet feet behind him. He turned into a hallway where she knew several trophy cases were held. He walked up to Tressler, who was sitting on the ground, arms draped over his knees, head bent as if in a nap.

For the second night in a row, Brad had sent Tressler downstairs to the hallway containing photos of Marine Corps boxing teams of old. Marianne had no clue why, and clearly, neither did Tressler.

Brad kicked one of his feet, and the younger man struggled to right himself before face-planting.

“Nice nap?”

“You said it was my choice. I could come down here and study or nap. I napped.” Tressler stood, leaning back against the wall. His attitude screamed defiant teenager, though he was at least twenty-one. Everything in him was rebelling against Brad’s authority—whether the authority was perceived or real didn’t seem to matter.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Brad wandered around, and Marianne shrank back into the shadows when he pivoted and turned her direction. But his eyes were on the walls, holding year after year of team photos, with plaques to indicate the year the team competed.

“The Marine Corps has put out some damn fine boxers over the years, haven’t they?” Brad’s tone was casual, his posture relaxed. But Marianne had a feeling nothing about their conversation would be restful for Tressler.

The younger man shrugged one shoulder and stuffed his hands into his sweatshirt pocket.

“Couple of these guys have gone on to the Olympic teams, even. You know?”

At that, Tressler straightened. “Yeah, I know.”

“Something weird, though.” Brad made a slow three-sixty turn. “None of those guys are up here.”

“Yeah, they are.” Tressler pointed to one team photo, though Marianne couldn’t see the year. The colors were faded, though, indicating it wasn’t a recent one.

“That’s a team photo.”

“But there.” Tressler pointed out an individual. “He went.”

“Where’s his own photo?”

Tressler stopped searching for the other Olympians and looked around frantically. “I dunno, another hall?”

“This is it. So, where’s his photo proclaiming him an Olympian? One of the chosen few? A special snowflake individual.”

“It’s . . .” He did another quick spin, like a drunk ballerina. “I . . . don’t know.”

“Doesn’t have one,” Brad supplied. “Why?”

“Hell if I know.”

“He already had a photo. He was with his team.” Brad palmed the brass plate holding the team’s year on it at the bottom. “This was his photo. He didn’t need the individual recognition. He made the Olympic team, sure. But he got there with his guys. His one achievement was no more or less important than what they all accomplished together.”

Tressler sulked. “That’s bullshit. He was the best. He wouldn’t have made it to the Olympics if he wasn’t.”