CHAPTER

7

“Day three, and who’s ready to go home?” Coach Ace barked as Brad and his potential teammates held their plank positions over the mat. A drop of sweat rolled down Brad’s forehead, caught momentarily in the lines etched between his brows.

Please don’t run into my eye. Please, for the love of all that’s holy . . .

He nearly breathed a sigh of relief—if he hadn’t been focused on steady breathing already—when it rolled down his nose instead and splashed harmlessly to the mat beneath his face.

“Nobody wants to go home?” Coach Ace walked through the rows, pausing to step over one man’s legs, weaving back around to nudge another’s ass down with the toe of his shoe back to proper plank position. “Sure is hot in here, boys. I’d like to go home myself, I think.”

The Marine next to Brad moaned, and Brad risked a quick glance over. The kid’s face was red as a third degree sunburn, and his arms were shaking like a sapling in a hailstorm.

Hell, Brad’s arms were quivering themselves, but he wasn’t three seconds away from knocking a tooth out like his neighbor.

“Breathe,” he whispered harshly.

The kid blinked furiously as sweat ran down his temples and shot Brad a nervous look.

“Breathe,” he said more forcefully. “Now. In. Out.”

The kid did as Brad commanded, and some of the redness faded out, revealing the freckled skin of his cheeks. So at least he wouldn’t pass out.

“Flex your arms,” he demanded, and the kid did immediately. His entire body focused to a sharpened point, and while he still vibrated with concentration, Brad noted with some satisfaction he’d stopped shaking hard enough to shift the mat. Which was good, because Brad was done helping. He had to focus on his own performance. Head down, eyes forward, push through the pain that was radiating from his knee up to his hip.

Coach Ace’s black gym shoes came to a halt just inside his line of vision. Brad didn’t move a muscle. Another drop of sweat rolled off his forehead and landed on the toe of the coach’s shoes. Neither man moved.

“You looking to take my job, Marine?” came the man’s growly, low voice.

“No, sir,” he said through gritted teeth.

A whimper came from behind him. They were all dying.

“You think you can coach these youngins better than I can?”

“No, sir.”

There was a long pause, then a quiet “Release.”

As one, they collapsed to the mat like two dozen puppets who’d all had their strings cut simultaneously. Most of them sprawled like broken dolls. A few tried to regain their dignity by crawling up to sit half-flopped-over. None of them were looking all that hot at the moment.

Brad leaned over and wiped his face clean with the bottom of his shorts.

“You’re dismissed for the night,” Coach Ace said. “If we called your name earlier, you need to see Coach Cartwright for your additional strengthening exercises. He’s got your sheets. You’ll have nobody to blame but yourselves if you get cut.”

They crawled, rolled and dragged themselves over to the area where they’d dumped their bags. Most were shaking their limbs out, trying to regain feeling. A few looked as though, if they tried to stand, they’d vomit.

Brad stood slowly, rolling up like a ninety-two-year-old man coming out of his favorite recliner. Creaky bones and all. Twenty-nine, and already too old for this shit. But he’d held his own.

“Hey.” The red-faced freckled wonder bounced over to him. Brad mentally cursed the recoverability of the young. “Thanks for earlier.”

Brad grunted and rolled his left shoulder, shaking out his right leg at the same time. He hissed in a pained breath when his knee throbbed and made the same grinding feeling it had been doing all through evening practice. He covered the hiss with a cough, reaching for his water. Right. Like dry mouth was the problem.

“You really pulled my ass out of the fire,” the kid went on, hovering while Brad debated the merits of putting his shirt back on or digging through his bag for a clean one. The old one was gross, but putting on a new one meant doing laundry that much faster.

Damn you, decisions . . .

“I’m Chalfant. Toby Chalfant. I’m with 2nd Recon.” The kid held out his hand for a shake. Brad stared at it a moment, then took it. Easiest way to get the kid—Chalfant—to back off was to follow along.

If Chalfant noticed Brad’s less-than-warm greeting, he didn’t act like it. “Anyway, so I was wondering if you do any coaching on the side or anything.”

“Coaching,” he muttered, going with the old shirt. Nasty, but he wasn’t out to impress the ladies. He was keeping himself as sane as possible with as little laundry as possible. “I’m here for a tryout, kid. Same as you.”

The “kid” was at least three inches taller than him, and spindly. But Brad had noticed him, and not just for his height. He had spirit, and a willingness to learn. Unfortunately, learning at this stage in the game wasn’t the point. You were here to show what you already knew. Brad doubted the young, cheerful Chalfant would make the team, unless injuries kicked more than the usual amount out.

Which reminded him of his own issue, and how he was going to sneak a bag of ice from the storage room Marianne Cook had reconned for her training room.

“Well, you know, if you ever wanna grab lunch or anything, my friend’s got an apartment here. I’m staying with him most of the time, since it’s more private than the barracks. We could hang out and watch some practice videos, maybe you could give me a few ideas . . .”

The hope and eagerness in the younger man’s eyes was about to kill him. Unable to bring himself to kick a Marine for being young and naive, he lifted one shoulder. “Sure, maybe sometime.”

“Costa!”

The barked word had Brad’s back straightening. Coach Ace had a voice that could make a SEAL piss his pants. As if sensing now was definitely not the time to hang around, Chalfant gave him a grimace of sympathy and waved before jogging off to get his bag.

Without any hitches in his step, without any pops or cracks from any joints.

Effing junior Marines.

Sweat-heavy shirt on and his duffel bag hitched over one shoulder, Brad turned and walked back to the coach. Every step was a deliberate choice to not limp or wince, to stay strong and not show any weakness.

“Costa,” Coach Ace repeated when Brad halted in front of him. “I’ve made a decision about how things are going to run from here on out. You’re the oldest one here.”

Jesus H., was there a newsletter circling or something?

“I’m going to be asking you to take on some of the younger men. They’re your responsibility to keep motivated and out of trouble.”

Brad blinked, then rubbed at one temple. “I don’t understand exactly what you mean, Coach.”

“Consider it a tryout for captain. I watched you turn Chalfant’s focus from the pain to the gain in ten seconds flat. Sometimes, the motivation has to come from within the nucleus of a team, not the staff supporting it. I want to see how you handle that responsibility. So . . . get to know your mini-platoon.” He handed Brad a sheet of notebook paper with four names on it. “This is your new job.”

“My job is to box, sir.” Brad stared, unseeing, at the paper. He was struggling as it was to keep up and not get cut or kill himself. Now he had this added on?

“Now your job is to box, and to keep your mini-platoon in line. Consider it a bonus, without the pay increase.” Coach Ace slapped a hand on his shoulder and walked on, calling out Higgs’ name.

Something told Brad that Higgs—who was barely a year younger than him—was getting his own mini-platoon. When he saw Coach Ace hand Higgs a sheet of paper, the theory was confirmed.

He read the names on his own sheet, half-amused, half-groaning to see Chalfant’s name at the top. The other two were quiet guys he didn’t foresee any major problems with. But the last one . . .

Tressler.

Damn it all to hell and back. That moron was his responsibility now? What kind of sick joke was the universe playing on him?

Now he was a Marine, a boxer and a babysitter.

*   *   *

MARIANNE grabbed the wrap and sat back down on her low stool to examine the ankle hanging over the bench. “I’m going with a tendon strain, not a sprain. Give it two days of rest—”

The Marine, Bailey, coughed out what sounded like, “Bullshit.” She ignored that.

“—or, barring that, do your best to stay off it whenever you’re not in practice. Elevate, ice and heat, ibuprofen and no jumping or running outside of practice.”

“But Coach Cartwright just gave me a list of conditioning to do outside of practice,” he said quickly, leaning forward to hover over her while she wrapped the ankle.

Her hands didn’t pause in their work. Over, under, around. Check for circulation. It was soothing work, something she enjoyed and had no problems with. Wrapping ankles wasn’t beneath her, like some trainers complained it was. “You’ll just have to find other ways to condition yourself. Like getting extra rest. You know, being properly rested before a practice can almost double your performance.”

He looked skeptical.

“No, really.” She glanced around, then remembered she wasn’t in her regular training room. “I’ve normally got my pamphlets. There’s a great one I did on how many hours of sleep a night each individual needs. It’s got some scientific research about—”

“Forget it,” he muttered and sat back. The movement was so jarring, the table scooted three inches and she had to roll forward on her stool once more.

“That sounded pretty disrespectful, Marine,” came a lazy voice from behind her.

As if he’d been hit by lightning, Bailey sat up straight, nearly kicking Marianne in the nose on reflex. “I apologize, ma’am. I’ll do my best. I can grab some of those pamphlets on my way out.”

“Cook,” she reminded him, for the third time since he’d huffed into her makeshift training room. “Just Cook. And you’re fine. Being injured is never fun, but you—”

“I’m not injured, ma—Cook. I’m not injured,” he added again to Brad, who’d walked in and hopped up easily on the second table. He let his duffel fall to the floor and lay down, lacing his fingers over his stomach as if he had nothing else to do and all the time in the world to kill.

She knew better. He wanted ice for his knee, and didn’t want anyone else to know.

“Whatever you say, Marine.” His voice stating he was purely unconcerned, Brad closed his eyes and tuned them out.

Or, if he hadn’t tuned them out, then did an impressive job faking it.

She finished the wrap and gave Bailey’s calf a light slap. “You’re done. See me again before evening practice and we’ll check the wrap and go from there. And Bailey,” she added when he slid his shoe back on. When he glanced at her, it was panic she saw in his eyes. “Don’t hide it. I’ll find out eventually if you’re hurting, and how bad. But it’s only going to get worse if you keep the truth from me.”

He nodded, gave her what she assumed he considered a courteous nod and left the room. With a sigh, she began cleaning the remnants of the tape she’d used and wiping down the bench with cleanser.

“What’s wrong with him?” Brad asked in a low voice. He didn’t move a muscle or open his eyes. If one didn’t know better, they might assume he was at full rest. But Marianne knew, better than most, that looks were deceiving. He was fully capable of being on alert in under a second.

“I don’t fix and tell. So,” she said, changing the subject, “how was practice?”

He grunted, then raised his arms until his hands were cushioning the back of his head. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and it stuck to each plane and dip of his chest and abdomen.

Talk about a work view. God, the man was gorgeous, with his clothes both on and off. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit watching the way his body moved in nothing but shorts while he worked the mat with a sparring partner earlier. When she should have been inventorying rolls of gauze to see how many supplies they’d lost to vandalism, she hadn’t been able to stop staring. His back had been a slick, tanned work of art. Knowing the way the muscles moved and stretched under that skin, how hard they’d be to the touch, had almost been as sexy as actually touching him.

“I think that spot’s clean.”

Brad’s dry words snapped her back to reality. She glanced down and realized she’d been wiping the same spot on the empty table for the past . . . oh my God. Three minutes. She’d lost three minutes staring at Brad’s stomach. Flushing, she turned and tossed the rag in a bin, putting the spray bottle away and organizing her already well-ordered, meager supplies.

“Did you need ice?”

He chuckled from behind her, as if knowing exactly why she couldn’t turn around and look fully at him.

“We have gallon bags for ice right now, since whatever asshole tore apart my training room decided to use a roll of the regular ice bags as saran wrap for light fixtures.”

When he made an inarticulate sound, she turned to look at him. He sat up now, legs still extended on the table, watching her.

“Do you know what happened?”

She lifted her hands, then let them drop. “Best the MPs could come up with was kids. Most likely choice is teenagers who live on base and were bored last night. The doorjamb was broken, so that’s how the MPs assume they got in. From there, they just created havoc. Nothing of value was stolen; it was just a big-ass mess. Typical teenage rebellion stuff.”

Brad’s brows drew down, as if not satisfied with the answer. Frankly, neither was she. But what the hell was she supposed to do about it? Run around playing Inspector Gadget? She didn’t have time for that junk. Her supervisor had come to survey the damage, promised the janitorial staff would be over quickly—which they had been, and they were currently working to put right the training room—and that the obscenities would be painted over after everyone left so the walls would be dry by morning. Tomorrow, she’d begin the painstaking process of starting fresh in her room and praying that new supplies arrived ASAP.

“Obviously, you’ve got a lot going on, so I’ll grab my ice and go.” He eased down—again, not nearly as nimbly as he’d hopped up—and moved with cautious steps to the small ice machine.

She could have done it for him, but it was a test, in her mind. She wanted to see if he’d let his guard down around her, let her know what was bothering him physically.

He clearly wasn’t ready to talk yet.

“I’ve got to make some calls tonight. I’ve been put in charge of a few Marines.” He sounded so disgusted by it, she had to smile. “Something about keeping track of them, or keeping them on task, or something. If they need a babysitter, they shouldn’t be here.” He let the lid of the ice machine slam down harder than necessary, but she didn’t scold him. Zipping the bag closed, he stared at it. “I’m not here to mother people. I just want to box, and do my best.”

“I don’t think anyone wants you to be their mother,” she said softly. “I think they see a leader in you. Above and beyond the obvious rank situation. You’ve got something in you that guys look up to.”

He raised a brow at that. “What, being old?”

“There is that,” she conceded, and grinned when he laughed. “No, there’s more. I watch you . . . all of you,” she added quickly when he flashed her a grin. “The younger guys watch you. And sometimes, they want to show off for you. When one of them whizzes past, you just keep going at the pace you’ve set, and it doesn’t bother you.”

“Oh, it bothers me,” he said darkly. Settling down in a chair, he rested the ice bag on top of his knee. She ached to sit in front of him, to use her hands to massage at the different points, to prod and find the problem so she could fix it. It was her calling, and it was painful to sit back and not be allowed to do her job.

“Just think about it.” She waved at his knee. “Want to talk?”

“About this? No. About other things?” He sucked in a breath, then shook his head. “Not really, but it needs to be done.”

Oh, great. Here came the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. Honor and duty and whatever. “There’s not much to talk about, is there?”

He watched her a moment, shifted the bag a little to the outside of his knee then looked down. “Probably not.”

“I should apologize, actually.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but she held up a hand. Manners had him holding back, though he looked like he would rather not. “I do need to apologize and just get this out of the way.” With a deep breath, she put on her most remorseful face. “I know it’s hard to resist this.” She indicated her entire body. “It’s rough, being so hot. The number of men I’ve had to swing at with bats to get them to back up . . .” With a dramatic sigh, she rolled her eyes. “But you know, eventually everyone has to take the hint. You’ll just have to do your best not to lust after my luscious curves.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “It’s a tall order.”

“Being a Marine? Kid stuff.” She pffted that. “Keeping your hands off Marianne Cook? Good luck.” She laughed when he did. “It’s fine, Brad. Seriously.”

He looked relieved. And she hoped, with the humor she’d practiced with Kara, the situation wouldn’t be awkward for either of them now.

“Which Marines?”

When he blinked, shifted the ice bag to the inside of his knee and shook his head, she knew he hadn’t followed.

“The ones you’re in charge of. Your babysitting job,” she added with a silly face.

He reached into his bag and, from one of the outer pockets, pulled out a folded sheet of paper. She took it and sat in a chair next to him.

“Chalfant is a good guy, and he’s one that idolizes you.”

“He’s known me three days,” Brad growled. “He doesn’t know me enough to idolize me.”

“He senses something in you to aspire to.” She let the paper fall to her lap and faced him. “Why is that such a big deal? Why are you fighting being a role model? You lead people all the time when you’re at your regular job. So why not here?”

“I’m here to box.”

“You’re here to be a part of a team.”

“Boxing isn’t a team sport.”

“The Marines are not a solo act.”

He narrowed his eyes at that, but said nothing. She considered that a point in her favor.

“These two I don’t know very well,” she went on, running her finger over the middle names. And this last one . . .” She started to laugh, then her belly cramped and she doubled over with laughter. He grabbed for the paper, but she rolled her chair out of the way. “No . . . oh,” she gasped out. “You’re babysitting Tressler. Oh, this is great.”

“That little half-wit has nothing but trouble written all over him.” Brad lunged to get the paper, but she danced out of the way. The ice bag fell to the floor with a plop as he caged her between a table and the wall of the storage room she’d commandeered for her temporary training room. “List back, please.”

She pursed her lips together and held it behind her back. With a shake of her head, she made a “nope” sound.

He snaked one arm around her back and gripped her wrist, but didn’t pull her arm out. Instead, he flexed, bringing her body flush against his. Through the thin mesh of his athletic shorts, she could feel his erection growing. Her own nipples tightened in response to being pressed against his wet shirt and hard chest.

Oh, sweet mercy. She was going to do it again. She was actually going to kiss him again; this time in her training room.

There were at least seventeen things wrong with the last part of that statement.

She couldn’t remember a single one of them.

His eyes changed; his pupils dilated slightly, darkening them. And he made a sound in his throat she interpreted as frustration and lust, a fifty-fifty combo.

A cough at the door sent them both into panic mode. He stepped back quickly, catching himself on the table when his right leg wobbled. She breathed, then crossed her arms over her chest as if she were cold to cover the fact that her nipples were so hard they hurt.

She saw Gregory Higgs standing at the door, a cocky smile on his face, one shoulder propped against the doorjamb.

Oh my God. How long had he been there?

“You ready to go, roomie?” he asked with a drawl she hadn’t heard before. When Brad flipped him off, his smile only grew. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt a training session. I can come back if you’ve—”

“Bite me,” Brad muttered, then picked up his bag and hefted it over his shoulder before pushing past Higgs on his way out the door. No good-bye, no “Sorry about that” or “See ya later, Marianne” or “Sorry we got interrupted, I’ll come back and finish this later.”

Bad Marianne.

With her face feeling like it was on fire, she surveyed Higgs. “Did you need something, Marine?”

He watched her for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Nah. It’s cool.” He waited until she was looking straight at him before he said again, “It’s cool.”

Hoping that was his way of saying he would mind his own business, she nodded in gratitude. “Thank you.”

With a wave, he pushed off and disappeared.

Marianne sank onto a chair and fanned at her face, then picked up the discarded ice bag Brad had dropped and rested it against her throat for a moment.

That had resolved exactly nothing.

But it had been a whole lot of fun.

Bad Marianne.