CHAPTER

2

The smell of a fresh roll of athletic tape. The feel of sanitized plastic seats squeaking beneath her hands. The echo of ice poured by the pound into ten-gallon water coolers to be taken out for the athletes to rehydrate.

Marianne closed her eyes, breathed in deep and sighed with pure joy. This was her world. This was where she reigned with pleasure. Some athletic training rooms resembled nothing more than a dungeon, and even then, she was in her element.

But this one, she had to admit, was pretty decent. Probably because she was comparing it to her last job, where she had worked in a small high school that could barely field enough boys for a football team. But she’d loved it.

And she would love this, too. She just needed to get into the swing of things.

Levi, one of her college interns—she had interns!—walked in bear-hugging a big five-gallon cooler. His steps were more like a waddle thanks to the girth of the round plastic. “God, these guys killed this one fast. They’re camels, I swear.”

“As long as they’re hydrated camels, I don’t mind.” Marianne helped him maneuver the cooler over to the massive industrial sink that stood in the corner of her training room. Before, at the high school, she’d have had to wash the cooler herself. But thanks to having not one, but two, interns earning credit for the semester shadowing her, the grunt work was out of her hands for the low, low price of writing weekly updates and a more lengthy end-of-semester evaluation.

It was a beautiful thing to move up in the world.

Levi popped the top of the cooler and dumped out the last dribbles of ice before running the hot water. He shook his head a little to get his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I’ll wash this one up and get the second cooler out there in a few minutes. Honestly, I don’t know how . . .” His voice trailed off, and Marianne glanced over to see what had happened.

Nikki had happened. Otherwise known as assistant number two. It had taken Marianne about point-five seconds to realize Levi was in some serious puppy love with the cute golden-haired coed. His voice rose an octave every time she was in the room, and his eyes tracked hers like the family pet hoping for a stray word of praise.

Nikki set a towel in the laundry hamper—which the janitors would handle later, another perk of the new job—and grinned. “One of them already threw up. Less than three hours. That’s gotta be a record somewhere.”

Marianne started for the door. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. He just puked in a trash can while running laps. Barely slowed down at all to do it. He’s already back in formation and running with the rest of the crew.”

“Probably just drank too much water too fast before running.” She debated a moment, then decided to hold off on going out. No guy wanted the trainer running out there to baby him for something as simple as throwing up water. She wasn’t their mommy and they weren’t toddlers with scraped knees. Finding the balance of knowing when to step in and when to let them push on was part of her job. Baby the athletes and they didn’t want to come to her at all. Ignore the potential problems and they could injure themselves permanently.

Nikki walked around to the sink where Levi was washing out the jug and reached around him for a sleeve of plastic cups. “I’m going to run these upstairs. Looks like they’ll be using both the catwalk for cardio and the downstairs area for training, so I think we should have a second water station up there.”

Marianne bit back a smile as Levi’s eyes nearly rolled back in pleasure from Nikki’s nearness. “Good idea.”

Levi propped the clean jug on the drying rack and grabbed the cups before she could. Given Nikki’s short stature, she would have had to ask for help anyway. “I’ll go take them out. You can get the next water cooler ready.” He darted out of the room before she could protest.

Watching these two dance around each other could be amusing for the next few weeks. As long as it didn’t interfere with their work, she could appreciate others finding a little fun where they could get it.

Nikki fisted her hands at her hips. “I wanted to take it out.” Her pout turned to a Cheshire cat–like smile. “Any excuse to check out the hot Marines, right?” She moved to the clean cooler and started scooping ice, raising her voice above the crashing sound of the metal breaking through the chunks. “How can you be stuck in here all morning and not have any urge to peek? Half of them aren’t even wearing shirts anymore!”

“Old news.” Marianne shrugged, but grinned back. “I was raised here, remember? I think I got that out of my system in my teens.”

“There is no way you can get ‘hot guys’ out of your system. I’d have to be half-dead before I couldn’t recognize quality beef like that.”

Marianne’s mother would have agreed readily. Marianne just chuckled and went back to inventorying the bandages.

“Hey, Marianne?”

She turned to look at Levi, whose head was poking through the door. “Yeah?”

“The coach wants you to come out and meet the team. They’re about to break for lunch, so he says now’s a good chance to introduce you.”

“Sure thing. Just a second.” She finished up counting rolls so she didn’t lose place, documented the number and set the clipboard aside and headed out of the room.

The air was the first thing to change. Moving from the cool, AC-infused air of her training room into the muggy, heavy, humid air of the gymnasium, she almost struggled to breathe for a moment. The lights were dim, coming from far overhead, and her eyes adjusted before she walked toward the group of Marines and the three coaches. The men were in formation, feet shoulder-width apart and hands at the smalls of their backs, eyes straight forward. Though she knew they could hear her tennis shoes squeaking across the floor, not one of them moved a muscle to see who was coming.

Too well-trained.

Putting on her professional, distant smile, she shook hands with the head coach, whom she’d met the day before. “Hey, Coach Ace. How’s the first practice going?”

He smiled and shook. “Not too bad, Ms. Cook.”

“Marianne.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to the group assembled in front of him. She knew the drill, and faced the Marines. They’d all donned their shirts now—poor Nikki—but most were plastered to their fronts, leaving no imagination where their body shapes were concerned. These were fighting machines, well-honed. Body fat begone.

“Men, this is Marianne Cook, the athletic trainer assigned to our team. Her training room is behind you, to the left there through the double doors. I’ll let her say a few words, then we’ll break for a few hours to fuel up.”

“Thanks, Coach.” She waited a beat, then asked, “Can they relax?”

“Sure thing. Ease down, boys.”

She watched their muscles relax, their bodies loosen up, their gazes swing around the gym and their shoulders roll to ease the aches. And as she took inventory of the Marines, she spotted the idiot from the night before. The one who had done a pathetic job hitting on her and her mother. The infant. What had his friend called him? Tress . . . something? His eyes caught hers, and he flushed and his mouth gaped a little.

Oh, yeah. She bit back a grin, doing her best to keep the professional mask on. Sometimes, pretending to be a ladies’ man bit ya big time. Nice lesson, huh, kid?

“Hi guys. I’m Marianne; or you can just call me Cook. Either one. I respond to both.” It’d be easier on everyone if they called her Cook. Seeing her as one of the guys would make the entire thing smoother. “I’m either going to be around here, observing and keeping an eye on you while you work, or in the training room. I’ve got two assistants as well, Levi and Nikki.” She pointed toward the door, where her interns waved. Nikki’s wave might have been a tad more enthusiastic than Levi’s, but at least she wasn’t drooling.

“I’ve also got some pamphlets here.” She fanned the stack she’d brought out with her. She’d made them herself, and was pretty darn proud of them. “They talk about proper nutrition both before and after a training session to give your body proper fuel. I’ll leave them outside my door so you can grab one on the way out.”

She took a deep breath, about to give a quick, well-practiced speech on the importance of stretching and hydration—both of which could prevent a multitude of injuries themselves—when she saw another surprising face in the crowd.

The second man from last evening. The one who had stepped in when the infant had started bothering her and her mother. The reluctant savior. She knew he saw her; she was impossible to miss. His face was an impassive mask, eyes staring straight ahead, just a little to the left of her, like something on the blank wall behind her shoulder was more interesting. But his jaw clenched in a way that said he wasn’t entirely unaware of her presence.

Well. Curious.

*   *   *

WELL. Shit.

Brad focused on the speed bag in front of him . . . mostly focused. The work was repetitive; he could work the bag by rote. But cruising on autopilot wouldn’t get him his spot on the team. Already, he knew his skills weren’t to the same par as others’. He wasn’t as fast as Higgs, and—it galled him to admit—he wasn’t as powerful as Tressler and his big mouth. A man named Sweeney took the prize for the most creative moves, with the sort of skill to see three moves ahead of his opponent and make the right choice. The man was like Bobby Fisher on a chess board, always calculating and ready.

But he had determination, guts and sheer refusal to quit. And his conditioning was above the curve. While some dropped like flies in the heat, he’d stand out as going the distance. He couldn’t beat them, but he could outlast them.

Please, God, let that count for something.

But right now he couldn’t think about outdistancing his fellow teammates. No, of course not. His mind kept drifting back to the icy blonde with hot legs and a banging body. Oh, sure, she hid it under the obligatory baggy staff polo that might as well have been a potato sack and a pair of loose khaki shorts. But he’d seen her the night before in a formfitting tank top and hip-skimming jeans. The woman was stacked.

And all but walked around with a sandwich board proclaiming, “Hands Off, Marines.” Shame, really.

He missed another combo, and Coach Willis’ barking, rasping shout had him blinking and dodging the bag before it hit him square in the face.

“Costa! Christ on a cracker, what are you doing with that bag?”

Brad turned, then jolted back a step when he found the shorter man standing right behind him. He had to be barely over five feet tall. “Coach—”

“Swear to God, boys, swear to God.” Willis shook his head, upper lip twitching. The motion sent his moustache into an awkward dance. Brad bit back a laugh. “If you can’t keep your head in the game, maybe you shouldn’t be playing it.”

Shit, shit, shit. Daydreaming about the Nordic princess had scraped his concentration raw. “Sorry, Coach. Just lost it for a second. I’m good.”

“You can go be ‘good,’” he said with a sneer and some air quotes for extra insult, “by running a few stairs and laps. Up, across, down, across. Ten rounds.” When he waited, Willis rubbed a finger across his moustache. “Go. Now.”

“Yes, Coach.” He took off immediately, sprinting to the first set of stairs. The gymnasium was set up with a set of stairs in each of the four corners, leading up to a catwalk above where spectators could watch games or events. The drill was simple enough. Run up a set of stairs, sprint across the length of the catwalk to the next stairs, run down, sprint across the gymnasium floor by the wall, back up again. Around and around he would go.

And where his dumbass mind would stop, Brad didn’t know. Jesus. Daydreaming about a woman when he should have been giving every brain cell to the task at hand, no matter how mindless.

He blanked her out—blanked it all out—and put his energy into completing the sprint drill in the fastest time he could. His best hope now was to wow the coaches with his speed and commitment so they would forget about his momentary lapse.

He hit the ninth lap strong, pleased with his time, barely winded, when, on the seventh stair up, it happened in slow motion. His brain registered the sickening sound of pops from his right knee, followed by a grinding sensation from under the kneecap that instantly made him nauseous. Brad grabbed for the railing before he pitched face-first into the concrete step and busted something.

Easing his butt to the step below, he stretched his right leg out fully. It clicked. Fucking clicked. He bent it to ninety degrees. A dull sort of pain radiated out from his knee, sharpening like ripping teeth when he straightened it again.

The hiss of breath he sucked in echoed in the steel-and-concrete staircase. He was alone, so at least that cut out the embarrassment of looking like a weakling.

Come on, work, dammit.

He bent the knee, straightened it out, bent it again. Then he slowly stood and tested the supporting weight.

No collapsing, no absolute brain-numbing pain. Just a dull ache. So, maybe he twisted it. Easy enough to push through. He walked up two steps and sucked in a breath again as the sharp pain hit. Okay. That wasn’t going to cut it.

But what the hell else was he going to do? Move into the stairwell like a hobo? Screwing his eyes closed, he evaluated the two possibilities. Quit, or push on.

No contest.

He swallowed the nausea as he half walked, half jogged up the stairs to finish out the ninth lap. He’d lost almost all his edge in time, but as he jogged across the top of the catwalk, nobody seemed to notice he’d been missing from sight longer than normal. He kicked up the speed a little when he caught Higgs glancing upward, and gritted his teeth against the grinding feeling.

That couldn’t be good. But damn if he’d let any of his teammates see his weakness. Not yet. They weren’t a fully formed team, which made them opponents as much as a team. Boxing was tricky that way.

Sweat dripped from the back of his neck as he finished out his final lap, the pain causing every step to feel like twenty. So great, now he looked like an out-of-shape asshole. But probably better that than to get cut immediately with an injury.

Not that it was that bad. As he walked across the hardwood floor toward the large orange jug, he shook out the leg a little, making it seem like a normal stretch in case anyone walked back into the gym. There was no grinding pain now. Just a dull throb, like a toothache, and completely manageable. If this was how it would feel most of the time, it would be no issue.

Still, he’d use ice and heat after practice to be safe. He wasn’t a complete moron.

“Costa!”

His hand crunched around the paper cup he’d glugged water from. “Coach Cartwright.”

The wiry man who looked like a stiff breeze would send him out to sea paced up. He had a wispy-thin voice to match. “Finished with your punishment?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Good. Go hit the weight room. Coach Ace is in there getting measurements and sizing up weight classes.”

“Yes, Coach,” he repeated, tossing the cup into the trash before jogging lightly across the gym toward the interior weight room.

As he pushed open the door, he found a long line of Marines ahead of him, with Coach Ace standing in the corner by a scale. He stepped up behind his roommate and another Marine, who were chatting.

Higgs turned and gave him a funny look. “Where’ve you been?”

“Conditioning,” he said easily. No need to mention it was a punishment.

Higgs just shrugged, then tilted his head to the left. His blond hair was soaking with sweat, darkening it to a golden brown. “Have you met Graham Sweeney?”

Of course he hadn’t. It wasn’t social hour at the O Club, for criss sake. But he held out a hand to the man standing beside Higgs. “Hey, man.”

Sweeney smiled easily. His darker, olive complexion and thick black hair made Brad think of Tuscan landscapes rather than a smelly, sweat-soaked gym room. “Hey. I was just telling Higgs here, I’m at my home base, so I’ve got a house out the back gate in Hubert. If you guys ever get sick of the BOQ or base food, come on by. We’ll toss a few steaks on the grill and relax a little.”

“Yeah, thanks, man. Sounds good.” The offer was decent, but he wouldn’t be taking him up on it anytime soon. He had enough to think about without adding budding bro-ships to it.

“We were just saying, too bad about Ramsey,” Higgs said with a shake of his head. “Disgusting luck. I thought he looked good in warm-ups.”

Brad thought hard and came up with a foggy impression of a built guy with gym-rat muscles and a semipermanent mean sneer. “What happened?” How much had he missed in ten dang minutes?

“Dislocated his shoulder using the bag.” Sweeney grimaced. “Showing off, looked like to me. He’s done. Went out fighting, though.”

“It wasn’t pretty,” Higgs agreed. “I could hear him in the training room, even through the door. He was screaming at the hot trainer like she was ruining his life. Though I think it was the coach’s final word, not hers, that put the fork in him.”

Brad’s skin prickled, and not just from the weak AC hitting his sweat-soaked body. Already, injuries were taking over. Part of him felt mental triumph at one less competitor on the field. But the other half of his brain reminded him he could easily be next.

The line shifted and he bounced on the balls of his feet as he stepped forward. Still fine. No sharp pain at all.

He’d play it by ear. Take it easy, stretch often and, if push came to shove, see a doctor out in town on his own dollar. One thing was for certain. There was no way in hell he was telling the sexy athletic trainer he was hurting. He’d rather take a bullet.