Against the Ropes (4 page)

“I'm . . . I'm sorry,” he gasped out. “Your car is named Dolly Madison, and it's
not
a joke?”

“She's a mature, distinguished gentlewoman,” Reagan shot back. “You don't mock the first lady.”

“The first lady's been around the block a few times,” he added, which only set his oh-so-humorous chuckles off again.

“Go eat your lunch. I've got work to do. Unless . . .” She waited until his laughter had slowed and his attention was fully on her.

“Unless?” He inched closer, and she could smell the sweat from his workout. How was sweat appealing? That was impossible.

“Unless you want to come back with me and . . .” She glanced to the left, then the right. He hunched in, shoulders rounding as if to protect the secret she was going to impart. “Finish our interview for the PR packet I'm putting together.”

He straightened and stepped back as if he were a vampire and she had garlic breath. “Forgot I had a lunch date with Costa and Sweeney.”

“Uh-huh.” Reagan crossed her arms. “I'm getting the information I need from you, don't doubt it.”

“Whatever you say, Legs.” He jogged away a few feet, then waved over his shoulder. “See ya around.”

“Yes, you will,” she muttered under her breath. “Cocky Marine.”

“That's redundant.”

“Eeeeek!” For the second time that day, Reagan let out an embarrassing shriek, tossing her keys three parking spaces away and shielding her face. When she peeked through her fingers and found Marianne Cook staring at her in amusement, she groaned. “I hate my life.”

Marianne just smiled. “Sorry you didn't hear me over all the pheromones you and Higgs were throwing at each other.”

“Phero . . . no. You totally misunderstood the situation.” Reagan straightened her jacket, then smoothed straight down the skirt she wore. “We're becoming professional adversaries. It's not a personal thing.”

“Right.” Marianne's tone said,
You're full of shit.

Time to change the subject. “What's redundant?”

“Cocky Marine. They're all cocky. The attitude is issued
with the uniforms once they sign on the dotted line. It's survival.” She glanced down at Reagan's feet. “I thought I told you to stop wearing heels like that in the gym.”

Reagan looked down at her adorable, so-on-sale-they-basically-paid-her-to-buy-them peep-toe pumps, then kicked one out to the side just a little. “But they're so cute.”

“They're a death trap. A walking death trap, literally. You're going to slip on the smooth floorboards of the gym floor and snap an ankle.” When Reagan opened her mouth to protest, Marianne shook her head. “Never mind, that's not why I'm out here. I wanted to make sure everything's okay from last night.”

Last night. She'd completely forgotten she'd ditched Marianne and Kara to get started on work. “I'm so sorry, I should have texted or called when I was finished to see how things were.”

Marianne waved her hand at that and leaned against Reagan's bumper in a casual slouch. Reagan prayed to the patron saint of automobiles that the bumper didn't give way on the spot. “No biggie. We all get the whole career thing. I'm not a stranger to weird calls late at night.”

“But how . . . you know what? Never mind.” Reagan opened her driver's side door and shook her head. “Don't want to know. Now, you and I need to schedule a time to meet this week, too.”

“Meet for what?” The trainer stood, and Reagan winced mentally at the rust spot on the hip of her friend's khakis. She prayed it would come out in the wash later.

“Meet to go over the travel arrangements, plus any potential interview questions you might get in the future. Standard PR prep.”

“I'm the athletic trainer. I'm not exactly high profile . . . and that's how I like it.” Marianne gripped the door frame as Reagan slid in. “Have you interviewed everyone else?”

“Almost.”

“How chatty were the Marines?”

Reagan grinned at that. “Some were extremely chatty.”

Marianne raised a brown. “And others?”

“Bradley was very short,” Reagan said, answering the question she knew her friend wouldn't ask. “And very smart on how to answer questions pertaining to your affiliation with the team, your relationship, and how that plays out. He's got it covered. So will you, after I've had my hands on you.”

“Why, Reagan, we just met.” When Reagan's eyes widened and she started to explain, Marianne laughed. “Go to lunch, PR queen. I'll see you later. In flats,” she added in a firm voice, then shut the door.

Flats. Reagan shuddered—as did Dolly Madison as she pulled out of the parking spot and headed toward the main offices. Some things were just not worth arguing.

4

G
reg walked into the BOQ, salad container in hand, and heard Costa on the phone in his own room. They shared a common entrance, but had small individual sleeping quarters. His roommate was probably talking to Marianne, since those two couldn't seem to go more than three minutes apart without talking to each other. He gave it a three-count, then burst into Brad's room and yelled, “Costa! Put your pants back on and get that stripper out of here!”

Brad whirled on him, fully dressed, phone to his ear, with a death stare. “No,
Mom
, that's just my soon-to-be-dead roommate. No, I don't have . . .
Mom
! Come on.”

Whoops. Greg swallowed back a laugh. Cook would have found the whole thing funny. His roommate's mother was an unknown quantity in the joke's equation.

“No, he didn't say stripper, he's got a weird slur. Yeah, I know. It's a sad situation. I think the coach kept him on the team out of pity.” He walked over and punched Greg on the shoulder, then pushed him out of the room and slammed the door. Chuckling, Greg walked to the small table in the common room and
sat down to eat. He mentally counted out the minutes, and after five, Costa appeared.

“I hate you,” his roommate said succinctly. He walked over to the tiny kitchenette they shared and opened the fridge for a bottle of water.

“I thought you were on the phone with Cook. My bad.”

“Because telling my girlfriend I've got a stripper in the room is much better than telling my mom.” He settled down in the seat across from Greg and sulked. “Your humor needs improvement.”

“I get that a lot.” He dug into his salad, fork freezing halfway to his mouth when Costa stared. “What?”

“You're eating salad.”

Greg stared at the plastic container for a moment. “What? No way. Those grocery people lied to me. They swore this was a cheeseburger.”

“You've never willingly eaten anything healthy. What's wrong?”

“I'm eating a salad, so clearly it must be cancer.” Put off of his impulse salad, he set the fork down for a minute. “Maybe I got sick of you harping on my diet. You're always nagging me about ‘fueling the temple,'” he said with air quotes.

“And here I thought you didn't care about that.” Looking smug, Costa sipped his water.

So maybe he cared a little. The entire boxing gig had only been a game to him at the start. He hadn't even asked to be sent for the tryouts; his commanding officer simply called him in and told him he'd be going. Each additional day he was at training camp was another day he didn't have to show up for regular work. Past that, boxing wasn't a passion for him.

Fighting had simply been survival, once upon a time.

“Sorry about that whole mom-on-the-phone thing.” He reached into the mini fridge behind him for a soda. Some habits died harder than others. A health nut was not built in a day.

“No big deal.” Costa smiled a little and looked at the phone sitting on the table. “She'll laugh about it later. Next time I walk in on you talking to your mom, though . . . payback.”

Greg smiled, but couldn't work up a laugh. Instead, he stuffed another bite of lettuce and other assorted healthy crap into his mouth.

Fat chance of Costa ever catching him on the phone with his own mother, since Greg hadn't seen his mom since before his first birthday. Couldn't describe her if his life depended on it. He carried no memories of his life before his mom dumped him with the state, and for that he was grateful.

But each and every foster “mother” since he was about four? He could sketch them from memory. All fourteen.

“Have you finally unpacked?”

Costa's question broke his contemplative eating and thinking. “Yeah, figured my name on the roster was the sign I'd been looking for. Time to act like it's real.”

“It's been real from the start.”

“Ah, there's that stick-up-the-ass roommate I've been missing.” He grinned when Costa scowled.

Greg had come into the adventure hoping to make new friends and have some fun. Really wring the experience dry. Costa had been eagle-eye focused on the prize from the start, willing to sacrifice the option to make friends in order to get ahead. Thank God he'd loosened up, mostly due to meeting one flaming-hot athletic trainer named Marianne Cook. She'd snapped the stick in half and forced him to be a social human.

He checked his watch and stood, closing the take-out box on his still mostly uneaten salad. “I've gotta go get my two guys from the barracks whose tires were slashed for afternoon practice. God, I hope their cars get fixed soon. I'm not in the mood to play taxi service all week.” He dumped the container in the trash, which landed with a satisfying thump.

“Must have been a good salad,” Costa said with a raised brow.

“Tasted like I'd rather be fat.”

*   *   *

“YES,
of course I'll hold.” Reagan tapped her foot on the linoleum floor of the training room, the sound echoing in the currently empty room. Currently empty, until Marianne walked in and gave her a
What's up?
look.

“Newspaper,” she mouthed to Marianne, who shrugged and headed for her desk. Reagan watched as Marianne sat down at her desk and began typing on her laptop. From what Reagan could see, it looked like another pamphlet.

Marianne was in a very committed relationship with pamphlets. If pamphlets would take the next step, Reagan was pretty sure they'd get married.

A voice spoke in her ear and she straightened, pacing while she spoke. “Yes, I'm still here. Uh-huh, right. We'd love to do an interview. Do you want to speak with the whole group or . . . okay, sure. I'll pull out a few representatives. Full team photo? I'm sure we can manage that, unless you . . . of course. Yes, I know your photographer has other things to do. No problem.” Reagan reached the end of the training room, spun around and nearly walked into a table. She skirted the furniture and paced to the other side. “I'll look forward to it. You have my number. Thanks again.”

“Gonna break an ankle,” Marianne sang in a told-you-so voice.

“My ankles are fine. It's my hips that are in real danger here. There are tables everywhere.”

“I know. What were we thinking? Tables in a training room. We should have done our decorating with your comfort in mind.” Marianne leaned back in her chair and swiveled to look at her. “Newspaper? Which one? The base paper?”

Reagan blew out a breath at that. “Of course not. That's not even up for discussion. Getting in the base paper is a
given. It was the Jacksonville paper. They'll be doing an interview with the coaches and a few of the guys tomorrow morning.”

“Hmm.” Obviously uninterested, Marianne went back to her laptop. A scruffy-looking young man who was probably only a few years younger than Reagan walked in, gave her a once-over, then kept moving until he reached the storage area of the room. Without a word, he pulled a sleeve of disposable cups down and left again.

“Chatty fellow, isn't he?”

“That's Levi, one of my interns.” She grinned over her shoulder. “I have interns. I'm a real adult.”

“Congratulations on your adulty-ness.” Reagan paused a moment. “When does the adulty-ness kick in, exactly?”

“Still feel like you're playing pretend?”

“Still feel like I'm pretending, and nobody else has caught on yet. I'm waiting for someone to walk in one day, point their finger and yell ‘Aha! We know you're just a kid. Who do you think you are, playing at being an adult?'” She rubbed at her temples. “That sounds stupid.”

“Sounds normal to me.” Marianne stood and looked out toward the gym where the Marines were running through circuits. “I can admit I've led a pretty cushy life. Hardest thing for me so far was staying awake during my fourth year finals before graduating college.” She nodded at a group of young men who jogged by in a line of twos, several of whom gave her a quick wave of acknowledgement. “Working with these guys sort of puts things into perspective. For me, this is what I do. For them, this is a very short, very well-earned break before they go back to being the finest fighting force in the world.”

Reagan felt a squeeze in her chest. “Hoorah.”

Marianne winced. “We'll work on your pronunciation.”

“That we will. For now, I have to snag a few guys for some interview prep.” She took a few steps, then looked back toward Marianne. “How amenable will Bradley be to my asking?”

“Not very, but he'll do it.” She gave Reagan a wicked smile. “Better let me ask. I have ways to persuade him. He'll be much more relaxed about the whole thing.”

“I so did not need to know that,” Reagan said, walking toward Coach Ace to plead her case.

*   *   *

“WHAT'S
the deal now?” Sweeney asked, hopping onto one of the tables in the training room. “Are we being given another group to look after?”

Costa winced a little as he lifted himself—all arms—onto the next table. He settled the ice bag in his hand over his knee before answering, “I doubt it. Probably something PR related. I saw Ms. Robilard talking to Coach Ace before he pulled us aside.”

“She's a hot number,” Sweeney said casually. “Not entirely my type, but definitely a looker. Those legs, in those heels?” He made a burning sound, flicking his fingers together as if they were singed. “Ow, hot.”

“I'm more partial to polo shirts and tennis shoes lately,” Costa replied. Both Sweeney and Greg groaned, and Sweeney threw his paper-covered pillow at Brad. He caught it and tossed it back with a grin.

“Boys, don't make a mess of my training room,” Marianne called out, walking in with her two interns trailing behind. The lanky one with hair that reminded him of Justin Bieber before the singer went wild stopped short when he noticed the three men sitting on the tables. The female intern, with eyes that constantly roamed over the Marines like a cat on the prowl, hustled over to Sweeney's table.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked eagerly. It was like watching a puppy scrabble and paw against someone's legs, waiting to be picked up.

“Uh, no. We're good, thanks.” Greg nearly laughed out loud when he noticed Sweeney inching back and away from the intern.

“Then why are you here?” the guy snapped out. Greg saw anger in his eyes before his bangs covered them again. Quickly putting two and two together, he assumed the kid had a crush on his co-intern . . . and wasn't a fan of the attention she paid to the Marines.

Frankly, the Marines weren't often fans of the attention, either.

“We're waiting for . . . her,” Greg finished, swallowing back the urge to whistle as Reagan walked in, clipboard in hand. Her hair was up today, in some complicated twist thingie that left a few strands artfully sticking out. Her suit had pants this time—damn—but somehow the creased legs of the pinstripe suit only elongated her legs that much more. Of course, it could also be from the huge platform heels she wore.

The woman loved her heels. And Greg was seriously debating making a move to get her into bed so he could see her in nothing
but
those heels. One round in the sack for every pair she owned.

That could keep them busy for weeks by his calculations.

It was good to have goals.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice that deep, formal tone she used for business. “Thank you for coming.”

“Didn't have a choice,” Sweeney said simply.

“Oh.” She blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Right. Of course. Well, thank you anyway. I have here some mock interview questions, and suggestions or guides for your answers.” She walked by each table and handed all three of them sheets. “A reporter from the Jacksonville paper is coming tomorrow and would like to interview a few of you for an article.”

“Why us?” Costa asked, voicing what all three were thinking. Of all of the Marines, they were the oldest, which meant they really were the least likely to want the attention an article would give them. The younger guys would fight each other for the chance to do it.

“Because you are the leaders. I've spoken to Coach Ace and he's fine with taking an hour out of your practice time tomorrow to sit down with the reporter.”

“I'm sorry,” Costa interjected. “We're losing practice time for this?”

“I'm sure as hell not giving up personal time for it,” Sweeney shot back, then flushed. “Sorry, ma'am,” he mumbled.

“Not a problem.” Totally unfazed, Reagan went on. “You three are the most mature and the least likely to go off into tangents that might, shall we say, highlight potential problems.”

“Potential pro . . . oh.” Greg nodded. “You want us to forget the vandalism and stuff.”

“I do, yes. Someone might see it as a challenge to play copycat, or one-up these childish pranks. No need to give them fuel.” She let out a deep breath, then put on one of the fakest smiles he'd ever seen. “Positivity, gentlemen. Keep it positive.”

All three flashed her their own equally fake grins of the grin-and-bear-it variety.

Her smile faltered, but she fought to keep it. “Excellent. So review those, and then I thought we could do some role-playing.”

Role-playing? He could get behind that. Mentally, Greg dressed her up as a sexy librarian. Not hard, really, just slipped some cat-eye glasses over those pretty eyes and maybe undid a button or three on her shirt. Or maybe stretch reality a little and go for a naughty nurse routine. Some white heels with those stockings that ended mid-thigh with the garter? Or they could try—

“Wake up.”

He jolted, slapping the sheet of paper down on his lap to cover his obvious erection as he looked up into Reagan's not-so-amused eyes. “I'm awake.”

“You're first,” she said, motioning for him to follow her
out the door. One more chance to watch that sexy ass in motion. He followed, grinning over his shoulder at Costa and Sweeney.