CHAPTER

4

Marianne watched with interest as Brad pummeled a bag. Most of the Marines she’d watched go through the circuit with the bag had started off focused, then slacked off as the coaches had moved on to study other students. Just going through the motions so they could move on to another, more exciting exercise.

But not Brad. He attacked the bag as if he expected it to feint left and throw him a sucker punch at any second. His dark eyes were laser-sharp and intense, taking in every small shift of the heavy bag as it swung on chains from the impact.

That sort of intensity was intriguing to her, as well as impressive. That he didn’t slack off just because nobody was watching or because he could get bored spoke volumes about his training ethic, and his desire to be there.

And okay, yes, if she was being completely shallow—she was her mother’s daughter; it was inevitable one shallow moment would slip in—watching him move and shift around the bag, his arms taut and precise, even while delivering powerful blows, was pretty much the sexiest thing she’d seen in too long to remember.

His biceps flexed with every jab, his calves tensed as he stayed light on the balls of his feet and the cords of his neck stood out in relief. In short . . . he was an amazingly delicious package.

He paused for a moment to bend down and grab his water bottle, and she admired the way his mesh shorts stretched over his butt. Yup. He had a body meant for ogling.

And then . . . yup again. He took the lust factor up to a ten by stripping off the soaking wet T-shirt and tossing it to the side with a loud, smacking plop.

His arms sported faint tan lines from short sleeves, but as far as imperfections go, it was all she could find. His skin was slicked with sweat, beads of it making the sparse hair on his chest glisten a little. Naturally, her eyes followed the line of hair down past his belly button and . . .

“Should we turn the air up higher?”

Marianne nearly bit her tongue holding in a yelp of surprise as Levi stepped up beside her.

“What?”

He gave her a clinical once-over. “You’re flushed. Is it too hot in the training room?”

“On the contrary.” She smiled a little and stepped back into her domain. “That gym is a sweatbox. Compared to that, it’s like the inside of an ice bar in here.”

That was a true statement. True enough, anyway. They kept it a cool sixty-eight in her room to help athletes coming in who might have overheated themselves. But the hot air from the gym wasn’t the real reason she was flushed.

Just go stick your head in the ice machine, Cook. God.

She waited until Levi grabbed the towels he had come in for and darted back out before slowly edging her way to the doorway again—and immediately felt like a creepy stalker. She had every right to watch the guys train. That’s why she was here; to watch, to educate, to help. She couldn’t help if she was stuck in her room twiddling her thumbs and quizzing coeds on the skeletal system.

With a quick glance around, she stepped fully out of the door and into the gym. The air was thick with sweat; the salty scent nearly knocked her back a step. Thank God she’d chosen to wear shorts today instead of long khakis, like she’d considered. Her legs would be sweating in under a minute in these conditions.

A group of Marines sprinted past, one of them sending an abbreviated wave as they zoomed on by. She recognized him as Tressler, the one from the bar, and smiled a little. Even now, he couldn’t keep himself from paying attention to a woman. At this rate, he was going to run into a wall if Nikki said three sentences to him.

A few Marines were with speed bags, but nodded respectfully as she walked by. A few more were running footwork drills, using short orange cones and a ladder formation marked out on the wooden floor with painter’s tape. Coach Ace nodded as well while she walked past, then motioned for her to stop a moment.

“How are things, Coach?”

“Just what I was about to ask you.” He leaned forward a bit, and she had the momentary mental image of a dark tree bending slightly in the wind. “See any problems yet?”

“Too early to tell. Everyone’s a tough guy at this stage in the game.”

He grunted, then walked up behind a lanky Marine at a speed bag and gave him a quick love tap to the back of the dome. “Keep your eyes on the bag, Marine.”

“Yes, Coach,” he answered quickly in clipped syllables, just as if he’d said, “Yes, sir,” instead.

“I want tough guys, Ms. Cook.”

“Marianne.”

“Cook,” he compromised. “What I don’t want is idiots. I can’t field a team from a bunch of half-busted men. And the Corps is going to get mighty pissed if I return their warriors broken and have the balls to ask for a dozen more.”

She bit back a laugh. “Probably.”

“Know anything about yoga?”

She blinked in surprise. “As a theory, or in actual practice?”

“Both, though the latter is what I’m interested in. I figure yoga might help these chuckleheads stretch out. They’re all muscle, but most of them can’t touch their own damn toes. I need all-around athletes, not meatheads built like freezers that can’t move or evade a blow.”

More and more she liked this man. “I’m not really a yoga girl. Pilates, though, that’s what I’m into. But I don’t believe I should be trusted to teach a class. I do know a friend who’s certified in both. She also does some health coaching.” She gave him a smile. “Want me to set up a yoga session? She could come here to the gym to do it. I think her schedule is flexible.”

“I’d like that, yes. If you could be there, watching, that’d be great.”

The thought of two dozen Marines twisted up like pretzels while chanting had her gasping for breath to keep the laughter down. “Yeah,” she squeaked out. “I can do that.”

“A trainer with a sense of humor.” Coach Ace’s lips twitched in what might have passed for a smile in some circles. “Wonders never cease.”

“A coach with a brain,” she said in the same pondering tone. “Wonders, indeed.”

At that, he shocked her by barking out a laugh and slapping her on the back hard enough to send her forward a step before she could catch herself. “You’re a good one, Cook. Keep my boys healthy and we’re gonna get along just fine.”

“Likewise, Coach.” She grinned and took two steps back, only to jump forward out of the way of a pack of runners. She caught sight of Brad at the head of the herd and smiled to herself.

Stop that. He’s not on the menu. Nobody is. Work, work, work.

But since it was her job . . . She watched as he easily led the Marines with a fluid runner’s stride. He wasn’t burning a pace, but he also wasn’t even breaking a sweat as they grazed around the outer corners of the workout facility. And then, when Coach Cartwright pointed toward a set of stairs, they disappeared from view. She waited a moment, knowing the drill.

And was surprised to see a different guy leading the pack when they burst through the doors on the catwalk above to sprint around the perimeter. Brad brought up the rear, and for the first time, he looked . . . not winded. But the effortlessness of his movement was gone. It was clear now every step was purposeful, as every stilted stride set him back from the pack.

He’d been running or moving for hours and made it all look like he’d just started, fresh as a daisy, and one set of stairs sent his body into recovery mode? She doubted that. His knee was in pain. Whether he’d come to the team with the injury or it had happened earlier the other day, she couldn’t know. But the man was definitely in pain, and the stairs were the big killer.

She debated saying something to the coach, then held back. Not yet. He was going to be a tough nut to crack. If she was wrong—if something else was going on and she said something that got him kicked off the team—she’d be pissed at herself. And not only that, but nobody else would trust her going forward.

Fantastic. So her options were . . .

Yeah. Not fun.

*   *   *

BRAD stood warily, watching his balance as he walked without limping. It took something out of him to do it—mostly the breath he was holding in his burning lungs—but he managed. Already the pain was shifting down to more of a dull throb. The lower extremity version of a toothache.

Higgs was still shooting the shit with a few other guys, so he had some time to duck into the trainer’s office and grab a bag of ice. Marianne had been wandering around, and he noticed her leaving the training room. If he was quick, he could duck in and back out again with a bag and no questions. Higgs would wonder what it was for, but he could shake it off as just swollen knuckles or some other shit. They were all going to be battling that one soon enough.

Higgs waved as he started toward the training room and called out, “I’ll be a minute.”

“It’s fine,” Brad said and ducked in. How the hell did his roommate make friends that easily? It was like the guy was a walking friend magnet. People just wanted to be around him.

He did a quick sweep, making sure neither of the two young interns was lurking in corners. But they hadn’t been present all evening, so he figured he was safe. He let his bag drop to the floor with a thud and hurried to scoop some ice out.

“Can I help with that?”

His hand jerked, the handle flipping and tossing ice cubes over his shoulder to clatter on the floor. “Jesus H.”

The female chuckle was low and throaty, and his mind went immediately to hearing that same sound in a dark room with a soft mattress under his back.

And now he needed to stick his nuts in the ice bag to cool them off. Great. He turned—with reluctance—and faced the trainer. She stood with her hands on her hips, smiling at him from a few feet away. She’d pulled back the top half of her hair tonight, letting the bottom part swing to just past her ears. It only emphasized her large blue eyes, which watched him with way too much intuition.

“Are you in a hurry?” Marianne stepped around the ice cubes and grabbed a rag. She knelt down and started mopping up the already melting mess.

Jesus H. “Sorry, here, let me do that.” He bent down to take the rag from her, but she didn’t let go. The odd little silent tug of war ended when he wrapped one hand around her thin wrist and made her look at him. “I spilled it—let me clean it.”

She watched him for a moment, and damn if her eyes didn’t seem to darken while she stared. Then she shrugged and let go, and he told himself he was just making shit up in his mind. He was tired. That’s all. Just exhausted after a long day.

“I’ll get a new baggie. Just one?” She stood, and God help him, it was all he could do to keep his eyes down on the wet floor and not focus on her ass, which was conveniently at eye level now.

“One’s fine.”

“Are you going to tell me what it’s for?”

He let the silence drag out while he scooped the last of the ice into a bucket, then took it over to a sink and rinsed it and the rag out.

“Costa, if you’re hurting, I can help. Or at least I can do my best.”

“Not hurting. Just keeping ahead of it. Nobody likes swollen joints.” He shook his hands out as he spoke, like he was flicking off water, and hoped she took that to mean he was referring to his hands . . . without lying directly.

One blonde eyebrow arched in a silent bullshit call, but he ignored that and held out a hand for the bag. “Thanks.”

She kept it just out of reach. “Can we talk?”

“About what?”

She shrugged again, stepping around the nearest table to hop up and let her feet dangle. “Anything. You’re one of the only guys out there that doesn’t make me feel like a big sister.”

He grinned at that, then made a face. “Was that a dig at me being old?”

Her eyes widened in innocence. “Of course not.” She blinked coyly. “Grandpa.”

“Dammit,” he muttered, but without heat. He’d accepted it was just his lot on the team to be the oldest. Provided he made the team.

“Where are you from?” Her heels thudded gently against the wooden leg of the table.

“Illinois.”

She waited a moment. “Me? I grew up in Jackonville. Moved away for college and my first training gig, then came back for this job specifically. Thanks for asking, chatterbox.”

His lips twitched before he could catch them.

“Jeez, you really ask a lot of questions. I’m an only child, and that was my mom sitting with me the other night at the bar, though you likely already figured that out. Got any siblings over there in Illinois?”

He raised a brow.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll never get a word in edgewise,” she said with mock seriousness.

He turned to look at the wall for a moment before she caught the smile.

She grinned, totally onto him. “You can’t resist forever. Eventually you’ll crack under the pressure. I have ways of making you talk. Do you need a ride back to the BOQ?”

He nodded before he caught himself, then shook his head. It was like being slowly but methodically beaten by a teddy bear. Not painful, but difficult to keep track of all the whacks. “I have a ride back.”

“Ah. Okay, well that’s good.”

Higgs took that moment to stick his head in. “Hey, Grandpa, ready to roll?”

“Yeah, sorry, I—”

“Oh. Did I interrupt?” Higgs walked fully into the room and looked back and forth between them. He didn’t even bother hiding his curiosity—or the fact that he wanted to watch whatever he’d interrupted.

“No, I think we were done. I was just offering Costa here a ride back if he needed one, but looks like he’s all squared away.” Marianne hopped off the table, and Brad resisted the strong urge to wrap his hands around her waist and catch her fall. She was short enough to make the jump dangerous.

She landed softly with no effort.

Or not so dangerous, and he was just overreacting.

Higgs backed out slowly. “You know, I actually need to run a few errands, so if you could still give him a ride . . .”

“Higgs,” Brad warned in a low voice.

Marianne shot him a smile as sunny as the hair tucked behind her ears. “Absolutely. No problem.”

And just like that Higgs was running for his car. Damn traitor. This. This was why it never paid to make friends out of the competition. Guy probably thought he was doing him a favor or some crap, having incorrectly read the tension in the room.

Marianne motioned to a chair. “Have a seat. It’ll just be a minute before I can lock up and go.”

He settled on the squeaky vinyl chair and stretched out his right leg, resting the ice bag over the top of his kneecap. No point in pretending it was his hand and waste the ice. Her eyes missed nothing, although she was busy shuffling papers around on her desk.

So, he gave it back to her and watched her in return. She wore less makeup than she had at the bar, though that wasn’t a shocker. The polo was too big by at least a size, and she tucked it in and did that poof-out thing from the waistband of her cuffed khaki walking shorts. He’d bet money she intentionally made herself less sexually appealing at work. Habit? Or something she did only because of the current clientele? If she’d worked for a women’s team, would she have stayed so toned down?

“Okay, ready to roll.” She beamed over her shoulder, then nodded to his leg. “We can stay until your twenty is up.”

“I’m good. It’s not a big deal.” He clenched his jaw to keep a grimace from his face while he stood. He couldn’t limp this time. No wiggle room for the pain. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“I like getting to know the athletes. Makes it easier when you guys are in here and I’m keeping tabs on everyone.” She waited for him to walk out the door, then shut off the lights and locked up. “I’m parked near the front, so it’s not too far.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.” Her tone was cheerful, not a single hint of sarcasm. But maybe that was the beauty of it. It was so non-sarcastic, it made a full reversal and became the ultimate in comebacks.

Or the pain was eating holes in his brain like Swiss cheese and he was reading too much into it. She was a trainer. Not the KGB. She was there to tape ankles and hand out ibuprofen. Not to investigate his entire life.

She walked to a clean little Honda and opened her own door before he could do it for her. Fine. Fewer steps for him. He eased into the seat, and this time the grimace was as much from how scrunched he felt in the tiny car as from the pain of folding his right leg in.

“I know, I know,” she said easily as he fought to slide the seat back a few inches. “It’s small. But I’m small, so it’s not wasteful.”

“You’ve got a point.” As he settled the ice back on his knee, he watched as she navigated the base roads easily and headed in the right direction without waiting for his guidance. “You know your way around.”

“I’m not a military brat or anything. But you know, you live in Jacksonville long enough, you’ll make friends with kids who live on base. Plus, I worked at the Dunkin’ Donuts by the commissary for two very long months the summer after I graduated high school.”

He smiled at that. “Nothing makes you work harder in school than a taste of minimum wage.”

“Exactly why my dad pushed me into the job.” She followed the speed limits exactly, made all turns at a snail’s pace, and stopped for at least five full seconds at a four-way stop with nobody there. When he raised a brow, she wrinkled her nose. “The MPs scare me.”

He couldn’t hold back the laugh then. She amused the hell out of him, being intimidated by the military police.

“No, seriously, they do. Once, when my friend and I were driving home from work, they pulled us over. She just had a broken taillight, so they were reading her the riot act over that. But it made a big impression on my very sheltered seventeen-year-old self.” She shuddered at the memory.

Damn, she was funny. “They can be pretty intense.”

As she rolled to a stop in front of the BOQ, she waited while he grabbed his bag and the ice-bag-turned-water-balloon.

“Muscle or tendon?”

He stared at her for a minute in the dim light from the dashboard and street lamp. “It’s nothing.”

She bit her lip, and he could almost see her mind turning over another angle to approach it with. She wasn’t going to let up. She was the teddy bear, and she could go on whacking him forever until he broke. There was no way he’d hold up under her scrutiny. So, he just said the first thing he could think of to hold the questions back.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”