Against the Ropes (15 page)

She let that sink in for a moment.

“Anything to say?” he bit out.

“People like kangaroos.”

There was silence on the other end.

People like kangaroos? That's the best you can come up with?

She was so getting fired.

“Robilard,” he said, in a voice so low and menacing she'd need to check if she was bleeding somewhere from the sheer venom alone, “make this go away. Make it all go away, very quickly, or you will be exiting stage right.” That was the last she heard before the line died.

“Right,” she said, her voice shaky. “Good to hear from you, too, sir.” She sat down and let her cell phone drop to the desk. Would anyone notice, she wondered, if she crawled under the table and just cried for a few minutes? Nothing more, just a couple good sobs to clear the system . . .

Yeah, probably not a good idea.

Doing the best she could by rote, she called the bus barn and confirmed their transportation, then went online using Coach Ace's computer—holy molasses, Batman, the thing moved at the speed of a snail—and checked what the local paper had to say.

After she found it, she felt her lip sneer. It was the same reporter from the other day, that David Cruise. The one who had written that stupid, overly verbose crap about the double helix of violence and whatever else. The poor guy had been paint splattered, and she knew that wasn't a great first impression. But come on.

There was a knock on the door, and she went to open it. Coach Ace stood there, and she started to apologize, but he shook his head. Then he stepped back, and two MPs took his place. “Ms. Robilard?”

She nodded, her tongue too thick to speak.

“We were told you were the athlete liaison for the team. Is that correct?” the same one asked.

She again nodded.

“We'll need your assistance, ma'am. We're conducting an investigation into the events that have taken place leading up to the paint incident.”

“Oh.” She blinked, then looked back at the coach. “Uh, can we use your office?”

“You've got it. Let me know if you need anything.” He stepped aside so the two young Marines could walk in and sit down. Before he left, the coach bent down closer in the guise of grabbing the door handle, and added, “You need anything, you come get me. All right?”

So grateful for the show of immediate support after she'd just been dumped on, she nearly teared up at that. But it would only embarrass them both, so she nodded quickly and turned to go sit behind the desk.

“Gentlemen,” she began, forcing her most professional tone of voice. “What can I do for you?”

15

G
reg worked the heavy bag, keeping one eye on Coach Ace's door. Nobody else was getting a damn thing done in the gym, either. When the MPs started calling in one Marine at a time, you knew it wasn't good. And it definitely was a big kick in the nuts to productivity.

The whole thing sucked. He swung, punched, punched again, then said “Fuck it,” and let his fists fly, forgetting the training pattern the coaches had handed down. Channeling his frustration, his anger, his inability to help Reagan into the heavy bag, he felt the soothing burn up his shoulders, into his back. Felt the way his knuckles started to tighten, his wrists ached. Knew he was getting out of control, but couldn't stop.

He had no idea how much time passed while he worked the bag. Could have been a few seconds, or an hour. That anger, the frustration of the day worked its way out through his fists. And he let it control him until he felt the tap on his shoulder. In instinct, he swung around, fists still cocked, and found one of the younger Marines backing away, palms up.

The younger man was sweating bullets. Greg knew it wasn't
just from the pretty mild workout they'd had. He shook his hands out and relaxed his stance so his teammate wouldn't worry. “Sorry, got in the zone.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He glanced at the bag behind Greg, then back at him again. “You okay? I thought you were going to pull something the way you were working it.”

“I'm fine.”

“Okay.” His eyes darted toward the coach's door. “What's going on in there? Why do they keep calling people in? I don't get it, we're the ones who keep getting targeted. We're the victims here. Why are they after us?”

Greg sighed. For some people, the police—in any form—were something they could never associate with the good guys. Either prior experiences or the way they were raised ingrained in their minds that all law enforcement were out to get everyone, were all crooked, were all bad. He'd seen enough of it himself in the numerous foster homes. Kids—usually older and more jaded than him—would tell him stories that could raise the hair on his arms. Cops that took bribes, that ran drugs, that bought into prostitution rings.

He was fortunate enough, he supposed, it didn't stick. There were dirty cops, just the same as any other occupation. But the sunny optimist in him believed most cops were out there doing their job.

“Calm down, dude.” Taking a break from the bag, he wrapped an arm around the younger man's shoulders and took a quick walk with him around the perimeter of the main floor. “They're just trying to fill in the blanks on what's been going on. Nobody's in trouble here.”

“B-b-b-but I l-l-let the balloons f-f-fall,” he stuttered. “My f-f-fault.”

“No way.” He shook the man a little as they kept walking. The other man's gait was decidedly stuttered as well. His sneakers squeaked over the waxed floorboards. “There were three of you, and trust me, we all saw your faces. You were just as shocked as the rest of us. You're good.”

The other man started to shake. Greg cursed under his breath.

“Want me to come in with you?”

The young Marine gripped his forearm so hard, Greg thought he'd have a bruise in the morning. “Yeah? You would? Please say yes.”

“If they let me,” Greg answered by way of promise.

“Garrison, Christopher,” one of the MPs called as he stepped out of Coach Ace's office. “Christopher Garrison, please.”

“Okay. Here we go.” Greg walked with him to the office and stood by the MP as Christopher took a seat inside. In his most quiet voice, he said, “The guy's scared shitless. I said I'd sit with him. I won't say a word.”

“Name?”

“Gregory Higgs.”

“You're next anyway. Just stay quiet and don't say a word while he's talking.” The MP headed inside, leaving Greg to follow.

Greg waited while they questioned the younger man, paying more attention to the MPs than to his teammate. If they were all that interested in Christopher as a suspect, they damn sure hid it well.

But Greg was pretty sure they didn't suspect anyone from this team. If anyone, it would be auxiliary at best. Maintenance staff or something like that.

They finished up their questions, then freed him to go. Greg shifted into the chair Christopher had vacated and crossed his fingers over his belly. “Second verse, same as the first?”

“We'll ask the questions,” one of the two older men said in a biting tone.

The other rolled his eyes.

Greg decided he liked the one with a sense of humor more.

“Seen anything suspicious lately?”

“Other than threats on walls, paint balloons and slashed tires? Nah.”

The first looked unamused. The second fought off a lip twitch.

“Is there anyone who you believe would have a vested interest in this team failing?”

“Army's team, probably.” When the first one's eyebrows snapped together, he shrugged. “We're a boxing team. It's fun, it's a diversion, but we're not really out there solving world hunger or creating a crisis. So no, not really. I can't think of anyone who would want the team to fail.”

“Anyone with a personal vendetta then, against you or a teammate?”

That was an interesting question. He considered for a moment, but came up empty. “Not that I can think of.”

“Do you have a key to the gym?”

“No, I don't. And I have no clue who all does. I could guess, but that's all.”

The first MP stood, nodding curtly by way of dismissal. Greg stood and gave the second MP a quick smile. “It's been a pleasure, gentlemen.”

“Be careful, Marine. They might stop at pranks, or they might push further. It's not possible to tell.”

The warning from the older MP chilled him, but he gave them both his best I'm-good grin. “Bunch of fighting Marines? Let 'em try.”

*   *   *

LIKE
a chicken with its head cut off.

The expression finally made sense to Reagan. She'd been running nonstop since four that morning. The bus had to be checked, then rechecked. She'd called the MPs out to do an inspection of the vehicle because, well, better safe than sorry. And she'd left Marianne's two interns in the bus in the parking lot as a deterrent against any mischief.

But making sure that was completed, along with the host of other issues that cropped up as you were about to leave for a three-day trip, was insane. She'd been putting out spot fires all over the damn place, and she felt like she hadn't even had a chance to breathe yet.

Now the Marines were loading on the bus, each standing there in his matching windbreaker outfit looking like a solemn troop ready to head off to war. Maybe that's how the coach wanted them. To her, it seemed unnecessarily tense.

Coach Cartwright walked up to stand with her as she ticked the Marines off the list. No man left behind. “How's the prep coming?”

“Fine, thank you. Do you have everything with you, Tressler? Okay, good. Is there something I can help you with, Coach?” she asked as she checked another Marine off the list.

“No, just making sure you're aware we can't afford any mistakes on this trip.”

She looked at the tall, string bean of a man, and shot him her best I've-got-this smile. The one that said
I'm so professional and competent I won't even pretend to be offended you asked that.
“Everything is wonderful. Looking forward to getting to Paris Island.”

“Not sure why,” he grumbled as he walked off. “Hellhole of a place.”

“Oh, goodie,” she said under her breath. “Costa, got everything?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Bradley gave her an encouraging smile as he walked onto the bus.

See? Not every man was out there, determined to make her look like an idiot. Just certain ones.

Greg was the last Marine to load, though she wasn't sure if that was by choice or by luck. He paused while she did a quick run-through on her clipboard. Then when she glanced up, she found him a tad too close. “Hello, Greg. Got everything?”

“Are you coming?”

“I am.”

“Then I've got everything.” He winked at her, and it was a wink designed to say something akin to
If we weren't in public, I'd have my mouth all over you.

Winks could talk, you know.

She shivered, checked her list twice, then halted. “Where's Garrison?” The parking lot was empty. She climbed on the bus, which was like a noise explosion. She cleared her throat, but that did nothing. She shouted, “Hey!” but only two people turned around, decided she didn't mean it, and went back to talking.

With exasperation, she turned to Coach Willis. The man was basically half her size, but she'd heard his lungs before. The man could do some damage with those pipes. “Coach, could you please?”

He nodded, stood on his seat, and let out a deafening roar so loud it vibrated off the walls of the bus. Reagan covered her own ears just in time to be spared the worst of the blowback. When all eyes were up front, she nodded. “Thank you, Coach. Gentlemen, I'm missing Garrison. Christopher Garrison. Is he in here?”

They all turned and twisted in their seats, but no Garrison popped up.

“Not here,” said one Marine from the back.

Greg stood. “I saw him earlier. Probably still in the bathroom. I'll grab him.”

“Thank you,” she said, grateful she wouldn't have to go pull him out of there herself. Because, well, ew.

Five nerve-racking minutes later, Greg emerged from the gym with a slightly-green looking Garrison in tow. He said nothing, just pushed the man to the middle of the bus, got him settled in his seat, sat down and shot her the okay sign.

“Driver,” she said, taking her own seat in the front, “let's roll!”

*   *   *

TRAVEL,
Greg decided, was basically no different whether it was for a training operation or for a boxing match. Bunch of sweaty, smelly Marines on a bus, singing stupid songs or laughing about the same five jokes they'd been telling each other since the beginning of time. A few humble brags, a few not-so-humble brags. Some talk about friends everyone had in common, some gossip—oh yeah, Marines could outgossip a granny.

It wasn't that bad, all in all. But the worst was . . . he couldn't sit next to the one person he wanted to.

Reagan.

Reagan, who looked so proper in her business suit and neat ponytail. Who wore heels that were completely impractical for travel and a suit that had to be stifling and uncomfortable as she sat up there with the coaches and Marianne. Reagan, whose voice was so deep and husky while she was in her professional mode, it gave him the most untimely boner of his life.

Nothing said awkward like popping wood in the back of a bus with a dozen other guys.

“How's Garrison?” Sweeney leaned over the top of his seat, arms folded. “Was he booting in the head?”

“Oh, yeah.” Greg wrinkled his nose. “Not cool. He's an okay guy, but man, his nerves aren't really where they should be.”

“Or maybe he's just that bad outside of the ring, and once he's in the ropes, he's got nerves of steel.”

Possible. Greg shrugged. “Either way, I think he'll be happy when it's all over.”

They were silent a moment. “How's Reagan holding up?”

“She's holding.” He wouldn't let her crack. “How'd babysitting go the other night?”

Sweeney grinned. “That kid's hilarious. Seriously. And
hey, did you know there are, like, fifteen different substitutes for peanut butter?”

“No . . .” Greg said slowly. “I don't suppose I did.”

“Some aren't all that great in your regular PB and J, but are good for cooking. Others suck in the cooking department, but are better on bread.” He held up his hands when Greg stared at him. “What? The kid's got allergies. We talked. I learned a few things. Have you read Kara's blog?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“It's really interesting. And sort of awe inspiring, all the stuff she's had to go through because of his allergies.”

“Well, she's a good mom.” Anyone could see that after two minutes with her and the kid.

“She is.” Graham was quiet for a minute. “Think she'd say yes to a date?”

That had Greg swiveling his head back around. “With you?”

“No, with Coach Willis,” Graham said dryly.

They both looked forward, watching as Coach Willis leaned over his knees and discussed something with Coach Cartwright across the aisle. The man was like the Lorax come to life, with his shocking orange beard and short, stalky stature.

“I think she'd say no to Coach Willis. Just a hunch,” Greg said, grinning. “But with you, I dunno.”

“What's wrong with me?” his friend asked defensively.

“So much,” Greg said with a grin, dodging his friend's joking punch. “So much.”

“Cool it, or the coaches are going to come back here and separate you two.” Brad leaned over from across the aisle. “We've got a match tomorrow. Don't be a bunch of assholes and ruin it for everyone.”

“Speaking of ruining it for everyone . . .” Graham dug through his bag for a moment and pulled out the morning paper. “Anyone read about the protests? It's that guy again, the same guy who wrote the first article.”

“It occurs to me,” Brad said as he took the paper from
Graham, “that this guy is getting a lot of play off what looks to an outsider to be a bunch of harmless pranks. He's really pouring the gasoline on the fire.”

“And why?” Greg asked, angling himself to read over Brad's shoulder. “There are more interesting things to write about.”

“Maybe he's the one creating the story in the first place,” Graham said, voice dark. When both the other men stared at him, he added, “What? It's a theory.”