Against the Ropes (22 page)

She laughed a little, then sighed and bit his stomach lightly. Or what she could get of his stomach. Not much there to sink her teeth into. “Eavesdropping is rude.”

“Let's call it a recon mission. Nobody has to apologize for missions.” He tilted her back enough that she could look up at him. Swiping his thumbs over her cheekbones, he nodded. “No tears, so it couldn't have been that bad.”

“Not that bad. Just that expected. You're not supposed to be embarrassed by your family.” She paused. “Are you?”

He gave her a pained look, then shrugged. “I don't think there's any ‘supposed to' when it comes to family. You just . . . do or don't.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I'm not Dr. Phil over here, Reagan. I don't have the answers.”

“Okay.” She sighed and pressed against him. “I'm a mess.”

“Do you want to”—she could feel him swallow hard—“talk about it?”

“Let's not, for tonight. I just want to feel you.”

She swore the sigh he released came with its own whispered
thank God
. But he merely stroked her hair and let them both breathe.

It wasn't everything she needed, but for the moment, it was enough.

*   *   *

THE
next morning, Greg watched with a grin as Reagan sauntered—no other word for it—into the gym about fifteen minutes into practice. She wore a tight pinstripe skirt and matching jacket with a deep purple shirt underneath. Her long legs ended with heels that matched the navy of her suit, and her hair was up in its normal elegant twist that left her gorgeous neck bare.

The team was still in cardio warm-ups, about to be divided into weightlifting and shadowboxing groups. But at the sound of her heels, the entire group looked up from their
stretching and watched as she approached Coach Ace. The burly, barrel-chested man had his arms crossed, watching his team for any sign of weakness or incompetence.

Most of which he found daily, and let them know it.

Someone gave a low wolf whistle, and Greg fought against the urge to stand up out of his hamstring stretch, find the asshole and kick him.

But Reagan seemed to take the unexpected attention in stride. “Good morning, gentlemen.” She clacked up to the coach, whispered something in his ear that had him dropping his arms, then walked toward his office. Coach Ace followed, barking for Coach Cartwright to finish the warm-ups.

They stood, and Tressler leaned in from behind him. “Jealous?”

“Don't be an ass,” Greg replied in an easy voice. “If you can manage that, I mean.”

“Just wondering if it matters much that your current mattress partner is constantly spending time alone with other guys. Coach Ace looked pretty excited to meet with her. Wonder if that's how she's keeping her job after all those fuckups.”

Greg pushed him back a step. “Shut up.”

The younger man held up his hands. “Hey, it's no biggie to me if she keeps her job by ‘servicing' others. The longer she stays, the longer I get to admire that ass walking around the gym. Just don't be shocked if you find out you're not the only fuck in town for her.”

Greg realized then that the color of rage wasn't red. Everything he'd heard before said when you went into a rage-induced bender, the world was covered with a red mist.

He realized, three minutes later, it was black. Pitch black, like his memory of the past three minutes. He came to, half-sitting on the mat, half-lounging with his back against Graham's front, his arms locked behind him. Tressler was likewise trussed up, with another teammate holding him back and Brad crouched by his face, speaking quietly into Tressler's ear.
Whatever Brad was saying wasn't going over well with the younger Marine, because he flung a fuck-you at him and kicked out as if to make contact.

Marianne hustled over, her two interns following behind. Nikki stayed back, eyes wide with fascination, while Levi looked disgusted at the whole thing.

Angry with himself, Greg struggled out of the hold and stood, turning his back on Tressler. Graham stood beside him, half-angled in front, as if to be able to grab him in case he went after the asshole again.

Greg shook out his arms, realizing then that his knuckles burned. He wasn't ready to turn around and see the handiwork on Tressler's face yet. Please, God, let him not have done damage.

“What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On.”

In the nearly silent gym, the deep words, spoken low, were like a gunshot. They all turned in unison and saw Coach Ace, hands fisted by his side, standing beside a horrified-looking Reagan.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

“I wanna know what the
hell
is going on in my gym.”

22

N
obody moved. Nobody spoke. Greg wasn't sure anyone even breathed. He glanced across from him at Tressler, who stared steely-eyed at the wall to the left, mouth pulled into a mulish line of silence.

After thirty seconds of complete silence, Coach Ace stepped forward. “You,” he said, pointing at Tressler, “let Cook look at you, then get back to work. And you,” he added, pointing to Greg, “get in my office.” When nobody moved, Coach added a bellowing
now!
that had them all scrambling.

He walked with stiff joints toward the coach's office. As he passed Reagan, he saw her reach out, just a fraction of an inch, then pull back.

Probably for the best. He wasn't in a good place to be coddled or soothed. He needed to burn the anger right out of him.

He stood, in parade rest, facing Coach Ace's empty desk, waiting his punishment. Would he get thrown off the team? Sent back with a black mark for his service record?

A month ago, he would have shrugged and not given a
hot damn. He was there for fun, not because he had anything to prove. If he got cut, so be it. If he made the team, so be it.

That was a month ago. Now he knew his leaving would put the team in jeopardy. He'd miss his friends. He'd miss the competition, the new way of pushing his body, the camaraderie that came from a different type of family outside of his company back at home base.

He'd miss Reagan.

God, that struck the hardest. His impulsive, stupid actions could have cost him the chance to stay and be with her as long as possible. The longer he boxed, the more time he had with her.

Even if they kept him, she might have seen more than enough of his behavior to be done with him. Couldn't blame her if she was. In those moments, he'd ceased being a human, a man, a Marine, and become something more base. An animal whose pride and position had been challenged.

More like a freaking whiny bear with a thorn in his paw. So the idiot kid made a few sexual jokes, who cared? He should have shrugged it off. He should have been the bigger person about it.

Instead, he'd shown his true nature. His upbringing.

Nature or nurture, he was screwed either way.

He heard the door swing open all the way behind him, though he didn't look. Coach Ace walked into view, slammed his massive, muscular body into his desk chair and gripped the edge of the desk to keep from rolling away. “God damn it, Higgs.”

He waited quietly, eyes faced straight ahead.

“What the hell are you doing pulling shit like that in my gym? You're old enough to know better. You've been around longer. He's just a damn kid.” After a moment, he added, “Answer.”

“Yes, sir. I apologize for my lack of temper and control, sir.”

“Coach.”

“Coach. I apologize. I let some comments get into my
head and it affected me more than it should. I apologize for disrespecting your gym and the team, sir. Coach.”

He watched as Coach ran a large hand down his face, scrubbing hard before settling back in the rickety chair. “You put me in a shitty position. What the hell did he say to you to make you go off like that?”

Greg debated a moment. This was what they called a no-win situation. “Personal insults, nothing more. I should have ignored them, Coach.”

“You should have. But you didn't, and now we're here.” At the soft knock, which Greg didn't turn around for, Coach Ace waved an arm. “Come on in, Ms. Robilard.”

Greg's entire body tightened until his neck hurt from the strain. He waited while she brushed by him to take a seat. The soft push of her breasts against his shoulder nearly had him groaning. He wanted to look at her, study her face, see exactly what was going on in that beautiful mind of hers. Was she as horrified at him as she'd looked out there? Disgusted? Scared?

Please, God, don't be scared of me.

“Ms. Robilard, is there a policy in place for fighting amongst the team members?”

“Not that I know of,” she said quietly. “I believe this is at your discretion on how to handle it. But before you do,” she said quickly, rushing on when it looked like Coach Ace was about to speak, “you should know that Gregory and I are seeing each other. I've already submitted the paperwork to my supervisor, but was going to tell you today after practice.”

He had to bite back a sigh of relief. She wouldn't have confided that if she'd been ready to dump him, would she? Probably not.

“Lovebirds,” Coach Ace groaned, his dark face contorting into agony. He let his head hit the desk. “I'm surrounded by lovebirds. What did I do in a previous life to deserve this?”

“Just lucky, I suppose,” Reagan said, and this time Greg
bit his cheek to keep from grinning. God love his smart-ass woman. “It has nothing to do with the situation, but I needed to disclose it anyway and hadn't gotten around to doing so yet. So . . . disclosed.”

“You have a way with timing.” After raising his head again, Coach glanced between them. “You're still capable of doing the duties assigned to you.”

“I am,” she said confidently. He wanted to give her a quick kiss for sounding so calm and smooth, with her deeper business voice.

“And you're going to keep yourself from pounding every little shit who says something about your mama or God knows what else Tressler insulted, got it? You show that kind of temper in the ring and an opponent is gonna wipe the mat with your impulsive ass.”

“Yes, Coach.” He squeezed his fists tight, praying this was the end.

“You'll be spending the rest of practice . . . nah, rest of the day, with Coach Willis, doing some conditioning exercises.” His grim smile creased the coach's dark face. “You've clearly got enough energy for it, so let's burn some off.”

“Yes, sir.” He waited for the coach's nod of dismissal, and left without looking Reagan's way. It killed him to leave her there, but he did it.

And while he was puking two hours later, after having run more than he could remember running in his life, he still thanked God he was there rather than on a plane heading home, away from her.

*   *   *

“I
didn't want to say anything while he was here,” Coach Ace said as soon as the door closed behind Greg, “but some stuff's missing.”

Reagan blinked, focusing her rioting mind back on the moment. “What kind of stuff?”

“Pads, other equipment. It was all locked in the cage in the storage room, but it's gone now.”

She thought for a few seconds. “Well, maybe the maintenance staff moved it to clean the cage? Or another coach came and borrowed it. There are a dozen explanations for that which have nothing to do with our vandal.”

“I've spoken to maintenance, and they've got nothing. Same with the other coaches I know, nobody took it. I guess there are a few other options but . . .” He sighed and let his ham-sized fists hit the desk hard enough to make her jump. “This is getting damn old, pardon the language.”

“Yes, it is.” She thought for a moment, then decided to go for it. “Security cameras would solve a majority of our problems.”

He looked amused, as if catching on to her act. “I'm sure your supervisor already told you the reason why that's not going to happen. No budget.” He said the last sentence as if it were a curse. “We're lucky they didn't stop hosting teams, period. The entire Corps—entire military—is cutting back. And if we keep making a nuisance of ourselves with vandalism and crime, we're very likely going to be next. We already have a target on our backs thanks to the violence of the sport.”

It was the exact thing Reagan feared. “That's not going to happen,” she said through stiff lips. “I won't let it happen.”

“Good luck then.” With a weary sigh, Coach Ace nodded and dismissed her.

“Stubborn group of Marines.” She walked out to the practice area, and noticed most of the team attempting to give her a sidelong glance. Tressler, Greg's opponent in their ill-advised bare-knuckles brawl, was nowhere to be seen. Probably in the weight room, then. But she noticed Greg almost immediately. He was running laps around the catwalk. His gray shirt was soaked through, and his face was screwed up in intense concentration.

She hustled to Marianne's training room to avoid catching his eye. She didn't want to cause even a moment's distraction. Walking in, she stopped when she found Marianne giving an impromptu lesson on something at her laptop. The two interns were hunched over her shoulders, watching. Taking a moment, she got herself a cup of water and sat. Being off her feet felt good, but in general, just being away from the gym was good for her. The tension was triple its normal level, and she knew it was due to the scuffle Tressler and Greg had had . . . though she still had no clue what it had been about.

Marianne finished up and sent her interns on their way, then rolled over to a filing cabinet while still in her chair. “I bought you something.”

Reagan smiled a little at that. “Is it chocolate?”

“No, but it's better for you, on several different fronts.” She pulled out what looked like a shoe box from the bottom drawer and shut it again. Then, wheeling over, Marianne handed the box to Reagan. “You recall that in my training room, I make the rules.”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, but was paying more attention to the box than to her friend. Just because it was a shoe box didn't meant it had shoes in it. She shook lightly, but the weight and movement gave nothing away.

“And so what I say goes?”

“Sure.”

“You'll wear these, then, when you come in here.” Looking pleased with herself, Marianne crossed her arms and nodded. “Open up.”

Suddenly wary, Reagan lifted the lid and found herself staring at a very fuzzy pair of slippers in a vibrant blue. She pulled one out. “What the . . .”

“They're better for you than heels. Plus,” her friend added, taking the slipper from her and turning it upside down, “look. Grips. Good for walking on the tile. Now you won't be risking your neck in my training room with those icepick heels you insist on wearing.”

“Oh, but I can't . . .” She glanced at Marianne, and the very firm line her mouth formed. “You're serious.”

“Serious as a broken ankle. Put them on.”

Reagan watched her friend for another moment, praying to see a glint of amusement in her eyes.

Nada.

With a sigh, she slid her heels off—being careful not to sigh in relief in front of the traitorous trainer—and slid the slippers on. She extended one foot, then the other, then tapped the toes together and watched the fuzzy shoes quiver. They were actually kind of cute, if you ignored all normal fashion sense and just went with what made you smile. They looked ridiculous, though, with her suit.

“I guess they're better than borrowing your Stewie-and-Brian slippers.”

“Keep them by the door, slip into them when you get in here, and back out when you leave. You know I'd rather you wear flats all the time in the gym, but it's better than nothing. It's something I can control.” Nodding in approval, she took the box, placed Reagan's heels in it and slid it by the door. “So how goes it?”

Reagan lifted a brow at that. “You're not serious, are you?”

Marianne sighed. “How can I keep on top of the gossip if my own friend won't give it to me? What were they fighting over?”

“No clue.”

“Who took the first punch?”

“Didn't see.”

“Did Tressler deserve the beat down?”

“Couldn't say.”

Marianne blew at a strand of hair that fell over her forehead. “You suck, you know that? Your boyfriend is in a fight—”

“They always fight. It's what they're doing now,” Reagan pointed out, mostly to annoy her friend. It worked.

“You know what I mean.”

“Was Tressler okay?” Reagan asked quietly after a moment. “I didn't . . . I couldn't . . .” She winced. “I couldn't look.”

“He's fine. His left eye's going to be swollen, but he'll survive. The real problem with that one is his ego, followed swiftly by his pride. They're both oversized, with the ego leading the pack at three times too large.”

“They're Marines. Aren't they all egotistical, prideful patriots?”

Marianne laughed at that. “Probably. Add some crazy in there and you've got your basic definition. God bless them, every one.”

That made Reagan smile, just a little. “I hate that I can't solve any of the problems around here. I feel like they're only getting worse.”

“What if someone donated some surveillance equipment? You know, like got a sponsorship for the team?” Working up steam now, Marianne went on, “If the equipment was free, then there's no cost. If there's no cost, then why would they say no?”

“Liability.” Reagan shook her head, sorry to see the excitement in her friend dampen. “Sorry, already tried that with my supervisor.” And about a dozen other ideas.

“Oh. Right. Of course you did.” She scooted her chair back to her desk and closed her laptop. “Make sure Greg puts ice on his knuckles tonight. And the way he's working . . .” Marianne leaned forward to peek out of the door from her seat. Reagan followed her eye line and noticed Greg running past on the catwalk above the gym. “He might need an ice bath. You got a bathtub at your place?”

“No.” She barely had what constituted as a shower, with the water pressure that was somewhere between someone squeezing a sponge over your head and someone shooting an old Super Soaker at you. “Maybe he's got access to one there.”

“Just bring him back to the gym tonight. You've got keys, right?”

Reagan lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, but why . . . oh, right. You've got the tubs and the ice machine. Of course.”

“I'm here almost every other night, but not tonight, so you'll have to let him in.” Marianne stood, grabbing the fanny pack she kept her supplies in when she was out in the gym or on location. “Bring him back by, let him soak, then help him heat back up again.” She ended with a wink and headed for the door.