Below the Belt(84)

“Uh . . .”

Brad swung around to stare at his roommate. “What did you do?”

“So, funny story . . .”

“What. Did. You. Do.”

“Okay, okay, calm down. You’re starting to scare me.”

“I know where you sleep. You should be scared.”

The door to the gym opened, and Graham Sweeney walked in, followed by his group. They each carried in their hands a poster, folded in thirds like the ones his and Higgs’ groups were holding, to resemble a pamphlet.

“Are those . . .” Brad squinted. “Are those pamphlets?”

“They are. What?” Higgs said when Brad glared. “I thought we needed reinforcements.”

“I don’t even know what those say!” Brad wanted to wrap his hands around his roommate’s neck and squeeze. So very slowly. Ounce by precious ounce of pressure, until his roommate’s eyes bugged out like a cartoon character.

Higgs shrugged unapologetically. “What? If five is good, ten is better. If ten is better, fifteen is best. They like Cook, and they respect you. They want to help.”

“Great, but . . . what the hell do those things say?”

“All the leftover ideas we scrapped because we didn’t have time to make enough pos—pamphlets,” Higgs corrected himself. “It’s all stuff you agreed to, just didn’t have time for. Seriously, nothing too off the cuff. Don’t worry, they stay in the spirit of the thing.”

“The spirit of the thing,” Brad repeated through his teeth. He was a man on the edge. He didn’t want this ruined by anyone’s attempt at humor.

Sweeney walked over and slapped Brad on the shoulder. “Big morning, huh? Early practice.”

“Why are you here?” he heard himself ask before he could think better of it. Then he winced at how ungrateful it sounded.

“Because you’re a teammate. Even if teams haven’t been finalized, I think of you as a team member. We all do. And these infants respect the hell out of you, Grandpa.”

At that, Brad felt his lips twitch. “I respect the hell out of you, too. Thanks.” He shook Sweeney’s hand, then grunted when the other man brought him in for a chest-thumping hug.

“Here she comes,” Chalfant hissed. The sound echoed through the gym, and then the silent room was full of the shuffling of running shoes on hardwood as Marines scrambled to take their places.

The first face Brad saw was Coach’s. He looked smug, and maybe a little satisfied.

And then he saw Marianne.

And prayed he was looking at his future.


*

WHEN the coach cleared his throat, Marianne nearly jumped out of her seat. “I think that’s enough for now.”

She looked down at the form she was typing out, then at the screen. She was only half done. “But I—”

“Cook, that’s enough.” His tone had edged into his hard-ass coaching voice. “Go get set up for your day. I’ll work on it later.”

She glanced at him skeptically, but shrugged. Fine then. “Okay, well, if you need me, you know where to find me.”

He stood and waited for her to walk around the desk, then opened up the door. She hesitated this time, wondering if he’d pull the same trick and close her in again. When he raised a brow, she pointed to him, then the door. “I was just making sure you weren’t going to repeat the last performance at the door.”

“Smart-ass,” he said fondly.

“It’s genetic.” With a smile she hoped he took sincerely, she stepped out of the office.

And straight into Pamphlet Heaven.

Everywhere she looked, there were Marines standing around, holding poster boards tri-folded like pamphlets. And they were all watching her expectantly. Concerned, confused and maybe a little scared, she looked back at Coach. He nodded and nudged her out into the gym fully.

She walked by the first Marine—Tibbs, who was sitting down like a good boy—and read the outside of his poster.

“Why Marianne Cook Is an Amazing Trainer,” she read out loud. Tibbs opened the fold, and she read through several bullet points about her accomplishments as an athletic trainer . . . most of which weren’t so much academic or career-related, but emotional. Things like, “She has gentle hands” or “She’s efficient” made her smile. She swallowed hard when she read, “We trust her, all the way.”

“Thank you,” she whispered to Tibbs, then walked to Chalfant. He grinned at her, his freckled face looking so young and sweet, and presented his own pamphlet.

“Why . . .” She let out a short chuckle before she could finish the title. “Why Brad Costa Is a Kick-ass Boxer.” She looked around for Brad, but either her eyes were too watery to find him, or he was actually not in the gym. “Tell me, Chalfant, why is he a kick-ass boxer?”

Without a word, the young Marine opened the pamphlet and let Marianne read Brad’s finer points . . . which were listed in several different handwritings. Clearly, his group had gone in on this one together to write out why each of them adored him. He really was a wonderful leader. The idiot.

She walked to Tressler, who winked. She tried to keep a stern face, but failed miserably. “What do you have for me here?”

“This one’s a good one.” He held it up. “Why Cook and Costa Make a Good Team.”