Below the Belt(82)

“I’d hate to lose him.”

“That’s what I wanted to—”

“And I’d hate to lose you.”

There was the opening shot. “I’d hate to lose the team.”

He nodded slowly, glancing around the room. She stopped typing to watch him. His dark face was devoid of any hint to his emotions. Pissed? Upset? Couldn’t care less? She wouldn’t have made a bet on any of them. “You see, that right there is why I’m about to say what I’m about to say. You’d hate to lose what?”

“Lose . . . the team?” Was that what he meant?

“There.” He pointed one thick finger at her. “Right there. You could have said job, or this opportunity, or even your paycheck. But the first thing out of your mouth was ‘team.’” He settled back again, a pleased smile on his face. “I think that says something, don’t you?”

“I . . .” She looked down at the paper again, but her eyes were blurring. “I don’t want to lose my job either, if that matters. Or the opportunity. And since I like being able to pay my rent . . . I don’t want to lose my paycheck.”

“Who does? But it wasn’t first on the list. That’s what matters to me. When it came down to it, you put the team above your own wants. There’s the kicker.”

She was quiet, blinking furiously to clear her line of vision so she could keep typing. If her fingers were busy, she could think better.

“I find it amusing,” Coach went on in a calm voice, “that I sat in here yesterday and had someone else willing to put other people ahead of his own wants. Know someone like that?”

She didn’t look up now, because if she did, he’d see the tear that rolled down her cheek and dropped into her lap. Maybe he saw it already. But he was kind enough—or embarrassed enough—to say nothing about it.

“I had a good Marine, a good boxer and a damn great leader sit in that chair yesterday and tell me he was walking because he thought I’d fire you otherwise. He was prepared to take the hit so you could keep your job.”

She looked up sharply, tear—and embarrassment—forgotten. “He quit? He just . . . quit?”

Coach watched her silently.

“That stupid son of a bitch,” she murmured, shaking her head. When she got her hands on him, his knee was going to be the last thing he worried about. “That stupid, pigheaded, stubborn—”

“Much as I love to hear a woman wax poetic,” Coach Ace said dryly, “I’ll just say he didn’t quit. He tried, but I shot him down. He can’t leave. I need him. The team needs him.”

She let her eyes drift closed. Her mind, having been so sharp with anger and frustration only moments ago, now felt fuzzy with relief. As if she were drifting on fluffy clouds of thought, with nothing concrete to anchor her anymore. The whole thing was just f*cked up.

“So I’m keeping my trainer, and I’m keeping my boxer. I guess we’re all done.”

She cracked one eye open and held up the sheet of paper. “I’m not finished. Are you going to make me sit here and finish typing?”

He flashed a rare grin at her. “Nah. I just know that when people are nervous, doing something with their hands makes them easier to talk to. You happened to come in when I was struggling with the keyboard. Luck of the draw.”

“Next time, I’ll bring my knitting needles and we can gossip over the scarf I’m making my Nana for Christmas,” she said, and he laughed.

Sobering, he stood. She did as well, and held out a hand.

“I promise our, uh, situation won’t affect our work, on either side, from now on. Business only.”

The coach raised a brow at that. “You mean to tell me I just confessed that man was ready to walk out of my gym to save your job, and you’re not going to give him a second chance?” He whistled low. “That’s cold.”

“He . . . but he . . .” She blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, I’m confused. Were you telling me all that to get us back together?”

He rolled his eyes and walked to his office door. “I’m here to coach boxing, not play Cupid. This isn’t Marine Matchmaking Headquarters. Date-A-Boxer,” he grumbled. “If you can’t take the information I just gave you and put two with two together, then the both of you aren’t ready to date a turnip.”

She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be insulted or amused. He opened the door ahead of her and she waited for him to walk through, but rammed straight into his back with her nose instead. “Ow!”

“Oh, uh . . . sorry.” He took one step back, in which he stepped on her toes and nearly tossed her to the ground. “Sorry, sorry. My bad.”

“Coach . . .” She danced out of the way as he quickly shut the door again. “What the—”

“You know . . .” He glanced around the office wildly, his hands shoved deep in his sweatpants pockets. “Could you, uh, finish that report really fast?”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Right now? You’ve got practice to get ready for. I’ve got a training room to supervise.”

“No, see, because you were early and practice doesn’t start for another”—he checked his stopwatch—“forty minutes.”

She waited for a better explanation than that. He stared at her, a mountain of a man she’d be crazy to try to dodge around to get to the door. “You seriously want me to sit in here and type. Like a secretary.”