Below the Belt(73)

“It’s fine.” In that soothing, maternal way she had, Kara laid a hand on Reagan’s forearm and rubbed gently. “I know what you meant.”

“Okay.” She breathed out and brushed hair back behind her ears. “I’m good at writing official copy for media, but I wanted to actually keep a blog, connected to the team’s website. Just good little bits for the media to snatch up, photos, that sort of thing. But the whole idea of knowing how to format it gives me the willies. Think we could get together and you could give me some pointers from that aspect?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” Kara glanced over her shoulder as Marianne grabbed her wrist and tugged. “I’ll talk to you about it later. After yoga?”

Reagan called out a good-bye as Marianne steered Kara out the door and into the parking lot.

“Geez, Cook, where’s the fire?”

“I get two hours, and you were fifteen minutes late. I want to eat without wolfing the food down. You know that’s bad for your digestive system.” She hopped into Kara’s car—the Mom-Mobile, as she thought of the compact SUV, with its kid-friendly radio stations programmed and the juice boxes at the ready. “I’m not going to join the yoga session today. Too much paperwork.”

“Hmm.” Kara pulled out of the parking lot and into base traffic, doing her best to drive as slowly as humanly possible. “Too much paperwork, or too many repressed feelings?”

“You’ve been watching Dr. Phil again, haven’t you?” She sighed as Kara took a turn at the speed of a sea slug. “Okay, I’m cautious about the MPs, too, but this is insane. Why are you driving like this?”

“Oh. Right.” She picked up the pace marginally. “Mom habit. He’s noticing my driving more now, making comments on stuff. Won’t be much longer before he’s in the front seat, learning from my moves. I’ve been hyperaware of my own driving for a while now. Practice what you preach, and all that jazz. I’ve had to hide my cell phone in my purse on the floor of the passenger seat so I’m not even tempted to check messages at red lights.”

“Sounds like hell. Grinders or salad bar?”

Kara snorted. “You know I’m going to pick the salad bar, and I know you want me to say grinders. So why don’t we grab you a grinder, then swing by and pick out my salad from the grocery store, and we can park and eat in peace?”

“This is why we are friends. Sold.”

Ten minutes later, Marianne sat in Kara’s car as her friend ran into the grocery store to grab her salad. Kara had left the car running so Marianne would have AC and the radio, but there was nothing remotely appealing about the kids’ music playing. After studying the radio controls for a few seconds, she gave up. Just her luck, she’d hit the wrong button and screw up the car, leaving the radio stuck on death metal or something.

So instead she people-watched. The strip mall where the grocery store was located was full of thriving businesses. A shoe store, a party supply store and a physical therapist’s office lined the left side.

Physical therapy. She’d considered being a PT for a bit in college. Smiling at the memory, she watched as a mom held open the wide glass door for her limping teenage son to walk through. Probably a football injury, given the kid’s size.

She’d have never been happy in an office all day. Serving athletes, definitely. But not nearly as close to the action as she wanted to be. No, she’d made the right choice, even if it wasn’t as profitable as . . .

She sat forward, squinting. Was that . . . No. No way.

Apparently, yes way.

Brad—her Brad—paused at the door, opening it wider for the teen who was still hobbling his way up to the front door from the parking lot. Probably because the kid needed crutches to match the ACL brace he was sporting, and was too stubborn to use them.

Speaking of stubborn.

Brad gave the mom a little salute—probably in acknowledgement of a thank-you, though Marianne couldn’t hear anything from this distance—and headed out to the parking lot, favoring his leg. He was nearly to the first row of cars when he turned back. Marianne’s eyes darted to the door and saw someone wearing the typical PT uniform of khakis and a polo shirt running out to catch Brad, holding a knee brace in his hand. Brad accepted the brace and headed back to his car.

He was getting physical therapy on the side. And had a knee brace he wasn’t using.

The sound of crinkling paper assaulted her ears, and she glanced down to see what was left of her grinder balled up in her fists. Her stomach roiled at the thought of eating, and she tossed the sandwich in the backseat.

He’d been going behind her back from the start, seeking outside medical attention, and deliberately not telling her. Why? Because he didn’t trust her judgment, or her abilities? Or was there something else to it?

The driver side door opened and Kara slid in, her plastic bag squeaking as she set it on the center console. “Sorry, I had to wait for them to refill the green peppers, then there was a line at checkout. Where do you want to park and eat?” She glanced over, noticed Marianne’s attention was focused elsewhere and followed her line of sight. “Oh, is that Brad?”

Marianne nodded numbly.

“Well, that’s a fun coincidence.” In her cheerful way, she grinned. “Let’s nab him and make him our lunch prisoner. I can quiz him on which yoga positions he thinks have been the most beneficial for the team.”