Below the Belt(83)

“My fingers.” He held up ham-sized hands, which really did have quite thick, blunt digits attached. With a soulful look, he glanced toward the computer and back again. “You’d really help me out.”

Since crawling between his legs to get to the door wasn’t an option, she sighed. “Just finish the form?”

“Just that one last form.” He sat back down, grabbed his clipboard from the corner of his desk and a pen and settled back in the chair. “Maybe one more. Or two. Three, maximum.”

“One,” she said firmly and settled down, resolving she would cave and do two as penance. It felt as if she’d gotten off easy on the ass-chewing she’d deserved. “Coach?”

“Hmm?” He was scribbling now, and she could easily imagine he was writing down boxing combinations, or conditioning drills, or group work.

“Would you have still boxed with a torn meniscus?”

“I did, for almost a year. I told him the same thing, and that the surgery isn’t difficult, and recovery is more annoying than painful.” When she chewed on her lip, he set the pen down and sighed. “He’s a big boy, Cook. Don’t make me play couples counselor, too. I’m not cut out for that shit.”

When she took in his imposing scowl and irritated body language, her lips twitched. “I don’t know, I think you might make a good one. You’d be one of those no-bullshit, straight-shooting kind of counselors that won’t let guys lie and girls weep to get out of being open.”

“Pass.” He went back to his clipboard. But she noticed he brought his phone out of his pocket and spent more time texting than writing.

“Done.” She pushed the first form toward him. “I hit save. Is that all?”

“One more.” He handed her another from the manila folder. “Please?”

She sighed, as if completely put-upon, and went back to typing.

Brad would be by any minute to start their originally scheduled meeting. Would she stay? Or let him talk to the coach on his own? Maybe there wouldn’t be a need to worry the coach about it, and they could just clear the air fully and move on.

Yeah, that would be good. Get out her feelings on the subject of their relationship—I hate you for making me love you but I still love you and I hate that, too—and he could say his piece and they could part ways as colleagues. Mature, rational and succinct.

Yeah. Right.





CHAPTER


24


Brad paced the gym floor, not sure whether he was ready to knock down the coach’s door or run to the locker room to throw up. All he knew was he needed this to work more than he needed anything else.

“She’s been in there forever,” Higgs complained, walking over to Brad. He set his poster board down and propped an elbow on Brad’s shoulder. “What the hell could they be doing in there?”

“Coach started to open the door, like three minutes ago,” Chalfant said helpfully. “I think he caught sight of us and slammed it again really fast, ‘cause we weren’t ready for her yet.”

“Because she got here early,” Brad grumbled. He could only imagine what she was in there talking about. “If she’d gotten here at the time we set up, I’d be in there with her and I’d know what the hell she was thinking.”

“Breathe,” Higgs muttered. “Breathe, damn it. You’re going to hyperventilate and swoon.”

“Guys don’t swoon,” Chalfant said helpfully.

“Yeah, they pass out,” added one of Higgs’ group members.

“Everything’s a joke.” Brad rubbed at his forehead. He needed this to work. It had to work. He had to show her he could set aside his pride and be all in, the way she had been from the moment she agreed to jump headfirst into their relationship.

She deserved him to be all in, too. Hell, he deserved for him to be all in.

“You’re more nervous than a virgin getting grilled by your date’s daddy on prom night,” Higgs joked, poking him in the ribs.

“At least Coach Ace isn’t her daddy,” Tressler put in helpfully. The rest of the guys cracked up laughing. Brad scowled.

“I think you’re sweating more now than you do after two hours of cardio training.” Higgs lowered his voice so only Brad could hear. “You doing okay, buddy?”

“No,” Brad said tightly.

“Can I get out of this damn chair?” Tibbs asked.

“No,” Brad said again. “Now sit down, shut up and be a good prop.”

Tibbs grumbled, but stayed seated. It was the only way Brad would let him participate past helping to create his visual aid.

“Tired,” Higgs breathed after a minute. “So tired. We got, what, ninety minutes of sleep thanks to making these posters? When is she coming out of there?

“Pamphlets,” Brad corrected automatically. “They’re pamphlets.”

“Right. Pamphlets.” Higgs grinned at that. “Cook does love her pamphlets.”

Here’s hoping she loves this.

He started to ask Higgs to check the time again, then froze. Were those . . .

Were those footsteps?

“There’s almost an hour before morning conditioning.” He looked toward the hallway. “Who the hell would be here?”