Below the Belt(74)

“Don’t,” she said weakly as Kara started to roll the window down.

Her friend froze, finger still on the button. “What’s wrong?”

Marianne waited until Brad got in his car and drove away. “He was here for an appointment,” she murmured. “He’s in pain, hurting, potentially injured, and won’t tell me about it. Won’t let me do my job.”

“Oh. Ohhh.” She settled back in the seat, the red bun of her hair bobbing gently against the headrest. “So . . . what do we do now?”

She took a deep breath, then bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep the tears from coming. This hurt way more than she’d imagined. Like she’d been slapped, then punched in the gut then kicked off the side of a building. He’d had hundreds of chances to be honest with her. And instead, he’d sat there and listened to her say she loved him . . . and hidden the truth.

A truth that could wreck her career, and his leg.

“Maybe . . .” Kara’s voice trailed off, then she just reached over and squeezed Marianne’s knee. “Maybe he’s going to talk to you today. It could be a brand-new development?”

Marianne pasted on a smile for her friend and nodded. And kept nodding, because her throat had closed up due to emotions she wasn’t ready to unpack in public.

As if understanding she couldn’t talk, Kara started the car and headed for the back of the grocery store’s parking lot, where the employees parked. They ate in silence, the only sound the low volume of Kara’s radio and her occasional texting to her son, who was at the babysitter’s. Then she drove them both back to the gym.

They sat in the car for a few minutes in understanding silence. Brad’s car was there, empty, so he was already inside. Marianne stared at the doors with dread.

“You could call in sick,” Kara murmured quietly. “I have to go set up now. I could tell them you felt sick during lunch and went home.”

“No.” Feeling a little stronger, she shook her head and grabbed her bag. “I have to go in there. I’m going to give him the chance to come to me. If he’s not willing to talk about it . . .” She slapped the dashboard, watching dust motes sprinkle the air, twirling around in the sunlight.

“If he’s not . . . then you’ll come out here and dust my car?” Kara asked hopefully.

Marianne laughed, though it wasn’t quite to her normal level of happiness. “Thanks.” She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “Here we go.”

She walked into the gym with Kara, parting ways at the door of the training room. She set her bag down, said hello to Levi and Nikki, then settled in for some paperwork. When Nikki asked if she was going to join them for yoga, Marianne waved her off and kept working.

If she was going to be fired soon for failing to aid a Marine with an injury, she needed to have her paperwork up to date for the next trainer to come in.

But curiosity got the better of her, and she peeked in to watch the Marines turn and twist themselves into pretzels. Kara was truly wonderful. Going at a three-quarter speed to give the novices a chance to keep up, she picked positions that worked best for loosening the muscles they needed. Not exactly a cardio workout, but important all the same.

But Brad, she noted with some concern, was not among them. His roommate was, as were the rest of Brad’s group. But Brad was absent. She checked the water stations, but no dice.

Probably in the locker room, she told herself. He’d driven here after his appointment, so clearly he was around somewhere. And he had to come see her afterward for ice, anyway. She’d give him his final opportunity to fess up at that time, and then . . .

Well, she had no clue what then. But a very big part of her was already tightening up against the knowledge that she’d have to let him go. Even though she didn’t want to.

Bad Marianne.


*

“COACH, can we talk?” Brad knocked on the open door with his knuckle and waited for Coach Ace to look up. He didn’t, but waved Brad in without glancing away from his computer.

“Fucking machines,” he muttered while Brad took a seat and set his bag by his feet. His thick finger stabbed at the mouse with vicious intensity, repeatedly, until Brad wondered if the thing would just collapse under the pressure. Another minute of moving the mouse around and intense clicking grated against Brad’s nerves before Coach gave up and pushed away with a disgusted snort.

“Used to be, we could just scribble down our thoughts on a sheet of paper. Or, hell, tell someone. Now I’ve got forms spilling out from every which way, and half of them have to be done online, and the system hates me, and my computer hates me . . .” He sighed and glared once more at the mutinous computer before giving Brad his attention. “Losing Tibbs was a blow, but the paperwork is the real bitch. What do you need, Marine?”

“It’s about my knee, Coach.” Brad dug through his duffel and pulled out the brace his PT had insisted on. “I just saw a physical therapist and they want me to wear this.”

Coach held out a hand and Brad willingly passed the brace. He studied it for a moment. “Torn meniscus, right?”

Brad nodded, a little surprised he’d guessed.

“I had one myself, maybe a decade ago.” When Brad raised his brows, the coach scowled. “Fine. Two decades. The surgery was no biggie. The exercises during recovery were from hell, though.” He winced, as if imagining having to do them today. “Is there a reason Cook didn’t come talk to me about this? She’s usually more on top of things than that.”