CHAPTER

3

Marianne watched the poor, trodden masses stand at attention while Coach Ace read them the riot act. It was a speech she’d heard a dozen times, from a dozen different coaches in a dozen different ways. The gist was always the same, though.

Sloppy, out of shape, pathetic performance, how did I get saddled with such a sorry bunch of losers? I shoulda gone to culinary school like my mama begged me to. Blah blah blah.

Standard first-day fare.

Normally, though, it was geared toward high schoolers, and was delivered with less . . . colorful language. She smiled as the Marines stood at attention, being reamed out by Coach Ace, then Coach Willis—Cartwright seemed to pass on this round of ass-chewing. They were stoic and focused. Quite a change from the typical eye-rolling, sarcasm-producing teens.

After a few minutes of the interesting pep talk, the Marines broke for dinner. According to her schedule, they had about ninety minutes to decompress, grab food, shower, run errands or do whatever else it was they needed to handle around base. There wasn’t a ton to do on base, and they didn’t have enough time to make it out to Jacksonville, sit through a restaurant meal and come back, though some of them might be stationed on Lejeune, and so could pop back home to see families or roommates. The rest were housed in the BOQ or barracks, having been shuttled in from whatever base they were stationed at.

She watched with an amused smile as most of the men walked straight past her. A few nodded politely or smiled, but most simply breezed by. None, she noted, stopped to take one of the nutrition pamphlets she’d put on a stool outside her door. She propped a shoulder on the wall by the door and bit back a grin.

Day one, everybody was a tough guy. No showing weakness. No whining to mama. Give them another week, and she would have a full house of Marines wanting ice packs, heat packs, cramps massaged out, lacerations taped up, ankles wrapped and who knew what else.

One Marine walked up to stand in front of her. “Ma’am—”

“Marianne. Or Cook, either one.”

“Cook,” he said, as she had suspected he would. He was likely in his early twenties, which made her several years older than him, and he had a cute spray of freckles across his nose that complimented the russet-gold hair. But oh, God, coming on base could really be a dual hit and stroke to the ego. Hot Marines watching her walk around like she was the sexiest thing they’d seen all day, and then calling her ma’am like she was their old-fart aunt.

“What’s up?”

“Could I get an ice pack for the road?”

“Sure thing, come on in.” She walked back to the icing station and grabbed a plastic bag, blowing in it to fill it with air and wrapping the edges around a bucket. Made for easier filling. “What’s the ailment, Marine?”

That was the beauty of this job. She didn’t have to memorize names or ranks. Shout, “Hey, Marine!” in a full room, and you’ll get a full room answering you back.

He glanced around the room, as if he were waiting for someone to pop out and scream, “Surprise!” at him.

“We’re alone,” she assured him, biting on her lip to contain the smile.

He blew out a breath, then held up his left hand. Even from several feet away, she could see the last two knuckles were swollen. Likely dislocated.

“Ouch.”

“Doesn’t hurt,” he insisted, a little too quickly in her opinion. “I just don’t want it to swell more and cause problems later.”

“Well, you’re right on that part at least. What’s your name?”

“Toby Chalfant.”

“Well, Chalfant, you came to the right place.” She tied the ends of the plastic baggie and brought it over to sit on the bench next to him. When she held out her hand, he hesitated. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

His lips twitched and he gingerly stretched his arm out to place his wrist in her grip. It hurt more than he wanted to admit—that much was obvious. When she wiggled his pinky and ring finger, his eyes squinted and his jaw clenched, though he didn’t flinch or pull away.

“Ice, ice baby,” she said and handed him the bag. “Would it do me any good to ask you to take the rest of the day off? Or to just use your other hand?”

He gave her a look that clearly asked, Are you insane? He was too well-trained—either by his mama or by a very proud gunny somewhere—to say it out loud.

“Thought so. Take it easy with that hand, try using the right more than the left. If you want to wrap it, just for the illusion of support and to keep the swelling down, come back ten minutes before the evening session and we’ll do that. I can wrap both hands up to the wrists, if that would make you feel better about it. A lot of guys are wrapping just to protect against scrapes and mat burns. Nobody would think twice.”

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.

Jesus H. Brad continually bent and straightened his leg—though the “straighten” part was more theory than actual practice—while icing in twenty-minute increments. Day one, and he was already falling apart. These three-a-days were killers. He had to be back at practice in another thirty minutes, and he wasn’t even sure if he should drive his damn car over.

Lying back on his bed, he whipped out his cell phone from his duffel and called his mom. He’d missed her call to him the day he’d checked in—thanks to being out at Back Gate—and knew she’d be worried.

When she answered, a little breathless, he checked his watch and knew he’d called during dinner time on accident. “Sorry, forgot you’re an hour behind me now.”

“Globe-trotting will do that to you.” His mother’s amused voice warmed him from the inside. “How’s my favorite son?”

“Don’t let Brent hear you say that.”

“He’s at college. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

He laughed, because he knew she’d have said the same thing to his younger brother. They were all her favorites. “Tell me what’s up with you guys?”

“What’s not up with us? Sarah’s got college applications coming out her ears, and your brother dodges my calls faster than you do.” She sighed, the much belabored sigh of a mother hen who enjoyed her chicks and hated when they were far from the nest. “Bob started a new project in the garage. He swears it’s a chair—”

“It is a chair!” he heard his stepfather call from somewhere else in the house. Probably the kitchen table.

“And it’s a lovely one,” his mother insisted.

Brad smiled. His stepfather was always trying a new woodworking project. The family had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that they would never be able to actually park their cars in the garage.

“I need to hear how you are. Making any friends? How’s the food?”

“It’s not summer camp.” He groaned as he tried once more to straighten his knee. The pop and grind made him want to gag. That was just so wrong. “It’s like boxing camp on steroids.”

“Are you hurt?” With a mother’s intuition, she poked at the raw spot with scary accuracy. “Are you in pain?”

“Pain is gain,” he joked. She made a sound that said she wasn’t amused. “I’m fine. I’m sticking with it.”

“Making this team isn’t the end of the world.”

He sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly. Here we go again.

“Your father was proud of you, no matter what. Just trying, being invited to the tryouts . . .” His mother’s voice choked, and he mentally cursed being so far away. “Making the team wouldn’t matter. Your father would be pleased with you just giving it a shot.”

He might be. But Brad knew he wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t make it to the All Military games. Completing that final hurdle was something he’d felt pressed to do the moment he’d joined the Corps. Not by any outside source, but by something inside him.

“Giving it a shot’s only the first step. I’ve got this, Mom.”

A knock on the door had him tossing the nearly melted ice bag into the trash can by his bedside and shoving the heating pad—which he’d purchased at the MCX on the way home with all the stealth of a ninja—under his pillow. “Hold on,” he called.

“Should I let you go?” his mother asked in his ear.

“Yeah, someone’s at the door. Probably my roommate.”

“Okay, baby. Go make friends!”

“Sure thing, Mom. Love ya.” He fought a grin as they finished their good-byes. His mom liked to pretend he was at nothing more than overnight camp, making crafts, learning to paddle a canoe and singing camp songs around the fire at night.

Another knock reminded him why he’d ended the call. “Come in.”

Higgs poked his head in. “You heading over soon?”

“Sure, yeah. Of course.” Why, had he heard something?

Brad studied his roommate’s face, but the man seemed completely oblivious.

“All right then. Want to just ride with me?”

Perfect. The solution to his driving dilemma. He’d been worried enough driving himself home after the morning practice, with the way his knee was aching. Now that it’d had over an hour to stiffen up, driving was a real concern. “Thanks. I’ll just grab my gear and meet you out there.”

Higgs nodded and shut the door behind him, leaving Brad back in blissful peace.

His head thunked against the wooden headboard. What kind of shit luck did he have? Maybe he really was too old for this sport.

Even as he thought it, he cursed under his breath. He wasn’t even thirty yet. Too old, my ass. So everyone was younger. Big deal. He had more years of experience, and he’d had more years to build up a thick skin and a long endurance.

He’d just have to be careful from here on out. At least until the knee healed. Who knew, maybe by tomorrow he’d be up and running again full speed. The travel must have thrown his body out of whack. Or sleeping in a new bed. He’d catch up, he’d adjust and he’d be back on track by tomorrow.

Next week at the latest.

Now all he had to do was avoid the sexy athletic trainer with eyes who saw too much. If he wasn’t careful, she’d sideline him as a preventative measure and his chance at the team would be done for. Nobody was going to wait around for him to heal. He wasn’t the strongest or the fastest.

Higgs. They’d give Higgs a second chance if he injured something. He was faster than the wind out there, and everyone knew it. He’d run a circle around his opponent and deliver the knockout punch before they even blinked. What he lacked in professional, technical training, Brad could see he had in raw talent. His roommate defined the word natural.

So avoid Marianne Cook, keep his nose to the grindstone and don’t act as old as Father Time while in practice.

His knee grinded like a rusty gear as he lowered his leg to the floor and stood.

Yeah, sure. He could do that.

*   *   *

HIGGS pulled up to the parking lot of the training center, but didn’t turn off the car.

“Problem?” Brad hefted his gym bag from the floor of the car onto his lap, ready to make a break for it. His knee was already feeling better, and he needed to get it moving so it wouldn’t lock up on him.

Higgs stared at the door for a few moments, then shook his head. “Nah. I’m good. Let’s go in and kick some ass, old man.”

Brad rolled his eyes, but bit back a grin. He wasn’t here to make friends, but it was nice to at least like the guy he was sleeping next door to. “You can’t be that much younger than me.”

“Probably not. I’m twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-nine.” Brad hefted his bag over one shoulder—his right, so the strap crossed his chest and the bag hung by his left knee—and started for the door with him.

“And that’s all that counts, Grandpa.” Higgs grinned and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Grandpa,” he uttered in disgust. “If anyone else starts calling me that . . .” he warned. He punched at the door so it flew open and into the humid air of the sealed-up gym. A few guys were already stretching out, early birds who were after more than just the worm.

“Hey,” Higgs called out as he tossed his bag off to the side by the bleachers, out of the way.

Be nice; don’t be a dick. “Hey,” Brad said, throwing his bag beside Higgs’ gear.

A small chuckle sounded behind him, but he ignored it while he changed shoes. When he bounced off the bottom bleacher to stretch on the mat—swallowing a wince on the landing—a few of the Marines smiled up at him.

Okay, clearly the joke was on him. With an indulgent sigh, he plopped down—careful of his knee without being obvious—and asked, “What?”

Two of the younger Marines smiled at each other before one said, “Nothing, Grandpa.”

That little crack had them bursting into laughter like a second-grade class pulling a fast one on the substitute teacher. He glared at Higgs, who smiled angelically and held out his hands in a gesture that said, I’m innocent, bro.

Innocent, his ass. “Yeah, yeah,” he grunted and stretched out his hamstrings. “You children can laugh all you want. Slow and steady Grandpa’s here to win.”

They laughed more at that, but he wasn’t offended. Bullshit and jokes were a way of relaxing in the tense atmosphere their jobs created. If they were saddling him with a nickname, they thought he’d be here long enough to care what to call him.

He’d ignore the sting behind the name and call it a sign others were watching and thought he had what it took to stick for the long haul. He was ready to consider it a good thing. A positive sign.

Of course, he still punched Higgs in the arm on his way to jog a few laps around the outside of the gym for a warm-up and to test his knee.

Fair was fair, after all.