Below the Belt(78)

“He already knows.”

She blinked at that. “He . . . Since when?”

“Since the beginning of practice. I skipped yoga and talked to him about it.”

She sat back in her seat with a chair-squeaking thump. “You went and talked to him without me?”

“Uh . . .” Brad knew a trap when he was walking right into one.

“You obviously did,” she went on, without giving him time to pick an answer. She closed her eyes, then ran a hand down her face. “Great. Not only could you not talk to me about it, you went to the coach first.” She laughed, but the sound was scratchy. “When you throw someone under the bus, you do it right.”

“That’s not what I did. That’s not what I meant,” he corrected when she shot him a glare so cold he wondered if he’d ever need to ice his knee again. He was losing his grip on the situation. Losing her.

“Look, I wanted him to understand first that—”

“That I can’t do my job. That’s what you basically said, by going there first. And you’re right.” She glanced down at the desktop, with its neatly stacked papers and files. “You’re probably right,” she said again in a low voice. “I should have pushed harder from the start. Played hardball. I would have, if you’d been anyone else. I take responsibility for that much. I just . . . from that first night we had dinner . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes shifted from contemplative to accusatory. “Is that why you asked me out that first time? The night we went to dinner?”

“That was just dinner,” he said weakly.

“I was bugging you about your knee.” She held up a finger, then another. “You shot me down. I started again, and you asked me to dinner. To distract me? Was that . . .” Her eyes grew round, and his stomach roiled. If he’d have eaten lunch, he’d have lost it. “Is that what this whole thing was? Oh my God.”

“No. Jesus H., no, Marianne. You’re spinning.” He stood, went to pull her into his arms. If he could hold her for a minute, just a minute, they’d both calm the hell down and they could talk it out more rationally. “I—”

“Tell me the truth.” Her voice cut through him like tiny blades, but it was nothing compared to the hurt he felt when she scooted her chair out of his reach. “Right now, because I’m watching your eyes and I’ll know this time. Did you ask me to dinner . . . did you start this with me to keep me from hassling you about your knee?”

He hesitated, and that cost him. He could see it in the way she shut down. “I asked you to dinner to stop the inquisition, but—”

The blood drained from her face, and if she hadn’t been sitting down he would have had to lunge to keep her from falling to the floor face-first. As it was, he wondered if she’d just slide straight out of the chair into a puddle on the ground.

“I’m such an idiot,” she whispered.

“No.” He kept his voice firm, praying it would cut through whatever emotional bullshit she was letting block him out. “No, you’re not. This is my shit. I should have—”

“I should have seen past my emotions. I sat there, and let myself love you, and let this go on longer than . . .” She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. “I’m an idiot, and a fool. And most likely jobless. So.” She clapped her hands together once, the sharp sound echoing in the empty training room. Then she stood on stiff legs and grabbed her bag from under the desk. “Just . . . whatever paperwork you have, slide it under the door before you leave. I’ll grab it and put it in your file in the morning before the meeting. Thirty minutes before warm-up, like you said.”

“You’re leaving? Just like that.” God, why couldn’t she slow down and let him talk for a minute?

“Just like that,” she agreed, looping the strap over her shoulder. She watched him for a moment, face still white, eyes a little hollow. When he didn’t move, she waved an arm expectantly toward the door. “You have to go first. I need to lock the door.”

“I can’t . . .” He cleared his throat, struggling to talk around the lump. “I can’t just leave with us like this.”

“You can, and you will. Unless you want to be arrested for trespassing.”

His legs felt like lead, and it had nothing to do with the afternoon’s conditioning exercises. But he managed to walk out through the wide double doors of the training room and wait for her to close them. “Just . . . can you call me later? Please. Let me know you got home okay, or something?”

“I’ve been driving myself around Jacksonville longer than you’ve been in the Marine Corps. I’ll get home just fine.” She locked the door, then turned and headed for the parking lot. He started to follow, then remembered his duffel and ran to grab it, cursing a little when his knee caught and hitched his stride. When he got to the parking lot himself, her car was pulling out.

She was gone, and there was no way in hell she wanted him chasing after her.

Jesus H.


*

MARIANNE made it home—barely—before the tears started. How could she have been so damn stupid? She’d sat there and fallen in love with one of her athletes. Had given herself permission to. That was bad enough, though not the end of the world. But she’d let it blind her to his problems . . . or at least to the severity of them. She’d let it damage her credibility as a trainer.