Completing the Pass (27 page)

“No, he shouldn't have. We don't need drinks,” Marianne said quickly, stalling her mother's arm. “Can you tell him we appreciate the gesture but—”

“Nope. He's already gone. And that was definitely no boy. They're paid for, so enjoy.” The server winked and headed back to the bar.

So the other one—the one not using horrible pickup lines—had sent them. As an apology for his friend? Or more? She found herself searching the thinning crowd around the bar, just in case. But the server was right, both he and his younger companion—along with most of the crowd they'd come with—were gone.

“Looking for our mystery Marine, are we?”

She threw a crumpled up cocktail napkin at her mother. “Don't start. And I can't drink this. I'm driving home. My boxes aren't going to unpack themselves. I've got a to-do list a mile long, and I want to have some pamphlets ready to print for—”

“Oh, relax.” Mary leaned back in the booth. “Sip slowly, drink water, and slow down for five minutes. You're having a drink with your mother; it can't be that sinful.”

She debated for a good twenty seconds before grabbing the bottle and having a fresh sip of cool, refreshing beer. Fine. Five minutes, then back to real life.

Mystery Marine, thanks for the drinks, but no thank you.

Tressler eyed Brad with childish mutiny from a corner of the wrestling mat. “You didn't have to fuck up my night, man.”

Not even minute one of training camp, and already Brad was making lifelong friends. He closed his eyes and stretched his back on the mat.
Tuck right knee to chest, rotate back until crossing body, and feel the stretch. Stare up at ceiling and not at idiot.

They were in some semblance of a semicircle, waiting for the coaches to begin day one. There were several sleepy eyes in the crowd, and a few who looked like they'd been pushed out of bed with a bulldozer. And of course Tressler, who would have been worse off if Brad hadn't stepped in and “encouraged” him to make an early night of it.

But did he get thanks for being the mature, levelheaded one and keeping him from making an ass of himself? No. Of course not. Maybe he should have let the kid keep talking to the mother-daughter combo. He would have gotten a healthy slap eventually.

Brad had almost done just that. Walked on by, hit the head, and gone home alone to get a solid night's rest. But something in the way Tressler's younger blonde-haired prey had looked—an interesting mixture of boredom and concern—had stopped him in his tracks. And though she probably hadn't meant it, the gratitude and relief when he'd taken Tressler in hand had shone in her eyes, making him feel eight feet tall.

“You're not my commanding officer here.”

“Nope,” he agreed easily.
And thank God for that.
He stared at the exposed beams that criss-crossed over the high ceiling of the arena. Dropping the leg, he let it fall a bit more, allowing the pull to stretch his muscles.

“I don't have to do what you say.”

“Okay then.”
Switch sides, stretch away, ignore moron.

“I could have had her,” Tressler continued, almost to himself.

Brad snorted. And he wasn't the only one.

“Knock it off, you two.” Higgs, who looked a little rough himself, slapped a palm on the mat. The smack of flesh echoed off the high rafters of the gym. “I'm not listening to a bunch of whiny pussies for months.”

Brad took the insult the way it was intended, with equal parts camaraderie and respect, and a little warning tossed in for good measure.

Sadly, Tressler didn't seem to have the maturity to do the same. “Who are you calling a pussy, pussy?”

“Jesus,” Brad muttered, closing his eyes again when Higgs stood. “Knock it off, both of you.”

“I agree.”

The low growl took them all by surprise. Every Marine was on his feet, at attention where he stood, as the coach approached. He was a mountain of a man, solidly built but still huge. His dark skin only made the contrast of his white teeth, bared in a grimace, and his shocking white hair stand out that much more.

“Bunch of ladies, bickering and moaning. ‘She stole my boyfriend. She wore my favorite shirt. I saw her texting Tommy and I like Tommy so she can't do that,'” he mocked in a high-pitched faux teen girl voice.

A few chuckled before coughing.

“Yeah, it's humorous.” He let his clipboard fall to the mat with a rattle. “Funny, when men can't be five seconds in each others' presence without acting like a bunch of middle school girls who got snubbed for the big dance.”

Brad bit the side of his cheek to keep from smiling.

The man walked between the Marines, through them, weaving in and out on silent feet. Brad kept his eyes forward, the only warning of the coach's presence the change in atmosphere when he passed by. For a man who must have weighed two-fifty, he moved like a ghost. “I'm sent the few, the proud, the—what? What was that delicate term you used?” He paused by Tressler and Higgs, who both stared straight ahead. “‘Pussies,' was it?”

Tressler said nothing. Kid had caught on, finally.

“Well, if that's true, then we've got our work ahead of us, don't we?” He made his way back to the front of the mat, where they could all see him. “At ease, boys. This isn't formation; this is practice. I don't expect you to salute and stand at attention around me. I'm your coach, not your commanding officer. And I'll tell you what—I want you to all check your rank at the door. I make the leaders in this gym, not some brass on your collar when you're back with your units.”

He rubbed his hands together. They were the size of dinner plates. “I'm Coach Ace, and these are my assistants.” He pointed a thumb over his left shoulder, toward a tall, lanky man with almost no hair and glasses. “Coach Cartwright.” Thumb jerked to the right, to the short man with a shocking orange-red moustache that would make the Lorax proud. “Coach Willis.”

He spread his arms out wide. “Coaches, this is what we have to work with. Let's see what we've been given. Men? Are you pussies, or are you Marines?”

As one, for the first time, the entire squad gave a loud “Oo-rah!”

Jeanette Murray
 is the author of the Santa Fe Bobcats novels, featuring
Romancing the Running Back
 and 
Takes Two to Tackle
, as well as the First to Fight novels, featuring 
Fight to the Finish
 and 
Against the Ropes
. She spends her days surrounded by hunky alpha men . . . at least in her imagination. In real life, she's a wife and mother, keeping tabs on her husband, her daughter, and the family dog on the outskirts of St. Louis.

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