Below the Belt(9)

He gave her a grateful smile and stood, bag of already melting ice in his right hand. He headed out the door, nodding respectfully to the man who passed him in the doorway.

Another customer. She tossed the bucket she’d used into the wash bin and was ready to grab another when she noticed it was her handsome stranger from the night before. His shirt, a light gray, had a shadowy line running down the front from the neck to his waistband. His brown hair had deepened to nearly black with sweat. And his dark eyes were scanning the room in a slow, methodical way that made her think he was waiting to be ambushed.

And unlike sweet Toby Chalfant, the sexy stranger sent her heart into a different gear entirely.

Marianne, if you let your heart race like that, he’s going to pick up on it.

And why the hell are you even letting this one man affect you like that? Pull it together! You are a professional—act like it.

She took a deep breath, then gave him her most professional, polite smile. “What can I do for you?”

He said nothing for a moment, just surveyed the room.

Okay then. Two could play that game. She crossed her arms and waited.

After a few moments, he hopped up onto one of her tables and swung his legs up, bending over as if stretching out his hamstrings. “Where are the assistants?”

“Sent them out for an early dinner. Figured it’d be a slow first day.”

He glanced once more at the empty room. “Figured right.”

“So.” She slapped a hand down on the table next to him, her palm stinging and echoing against the thick plastic like a smack on flesh. “Are you in here for business or pleasure?”

He scowled. “Out of those two options, business, I guess.”

“No time for pleasure?” Crap. Why had she asked that? He might take that for flirting. She wasn’t flirting. Of course she wasn’t flirting.

If he thought it was a flirtatious remark, he didn’t seem inclined to reply in the same vein. “I’m here for the job. Which, right now, is boxing and training.”

“Of course. Name?”

“Does it matter?”

You know, he was a lot more personable the night before in the bar. “I’m working with the lot of you for the next several weeks. Yes, it matters. At least until you get cut.”

She’d meant it in jest, more as a general you, not so much him in particular. But he scowled at her like he wanted to bite her head off, as if she’d meant it personally.

There was silence for another while. She bit back the next sarcastic remark and decided to wait him out. When he said nothing, she turned and headed to wash the bucket she’d used on the last Marine.

“Brad Costa.”

Brad. She liked it. Short, strong, solid. Suited him—the stubborn male.

“I just need ice.”

At that, she turned. “Why didn’t you say so?”

He shook his head . . . whatever that meant.

She started scooping ice into a new bag and fresh bucket, tying off the ends with a simple flick of her fingers. “What’s the ice for?”

“Does it matter?” It seemed to be a favorite question of his. He reached for the bag, but she held it out of the way.

“It does, in fact, matter. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you big strong boys, so if you have a boo-boo, I need to know.”

“It’s just preventative. Nothing hurts, and I want to keep it that way.”

She raised a brow, indicating she wasn’t buying the bullshit he was trying to sell. But since he wasn’t offering any more insights, and she didn’t want to have a three-hour standoff, she passed him the wet bag. He stepped down from the table—interesting that he didn’t hop down like he’d hopped up—and headed for the door.

“You’re welcome,” she called at his back.

He halted, but didn’t turn around. “Thank you.”

She snickered as he walked through the double doors that led to the parking lot, then she made a split-second decision. Who said she couldn’t thank him for the drinks the night before? Might be better to just acknowledge the first meeting, get that out of the way, and move on. Maybe he’d loosen up a little afterward.

Marianne sprinted after him, but as she hit the doors herself, she watched as he continued on to a car, limping more than a little. Everyone else was already out of sight, having raced off to make the most of their short break time. So he likely thought he was safe letting his guard down.

She watched the limp pattern as he shuffle-walked to his car, then eased into the driver seat carefully. Right leg, likely the knee. His ankle seemed to be rotating fine, but he was struggling to bend the knee to get in the car, which appeared to be a rental.

Might just be sore muscles. If that were the case, heat would be better than ice, which she would have told him if he hadn’t been such a hard-ass about it. But he wasn’t ready to discuss it.

So she’d observe and make notes. It was part of what she did, watching for potential problems and working to prevent injuries just as much as putting out the fires once one cropped up. A healthy team was the goal, and a healthy team was the sign of a damn good trainer.

Brad Costa, I will just have to break you down and get you to confess. You won’t know what hit you.


*

IT was a train. A train had hit him. Right at the kneecap.