Against the Ropes (9 page)

“Read it, then tell me if we should weep.”

“Costa?” Eyes still adjusting to the dark, he glanced at
his bedside clock. “It's five thirty in the freaking morning, you asshole. What the hell are you doing in my room?”

“Lights on,” was the only warning Greg got before his retinas felt like they were burning from overexposure.

“Ah, Jesus!” He buried his head in the pillow and moaned. “What is wrong with you?”

“Our paint debacle is in the paper today.”

“Super. Will it still be in there an hour from now, when I was set to wake up?”

“It's bad.”

Costa sat at the edge of his bed, and Greg knew that was the end of pretending to have a shot at sleep again that morning. He cracked open one eyelid and glared at his roommate. “Why don't you sleep with your girlfriend like a normal guy? You've got a hot, available chick fifteen minutes away and you're not even with her.”

“She likes her alone time now and then. So do I. It works.”

Greg let his silence do the talking. It said,
You're full of shit.

“Fine, she had an early morning breakfast date with Kara and kicked me out last night. Fuck you.” He pointed at Greg's lap. “Read.”

“I'm hitting the head first. Open it to the sports page and find it while I'm gone.”

He stepped into the main area of their shared space and over to the tiny bathroom to take care of necessary morning duties.

“It's not in the sports section. It's front page.”

Greg paused in washing his hands. “Front page? An article about Marines and boxing? What, slow news day?”

He walked back into the room, found a pair of shorts and pulled them on before sitting with his back against the headboard and the paper in his hands.

“Not about boxing. About vandalism and something about protests against the intertwined double helix of violence, with killing machines playing bloody war games inside a
roped arena instead of in a desert sandbox.” When Greg glanced up at Brad, brow raised, Brad held up his hands. “Just quoting the article. The dude has serious issues with us, it sounds like. And makes the paint and slashed tires—which yeah, he talked about—sound less like petty vandalism or teenage pranks and more like more serious protests that are gathering strength.”

“Protests about what?” He scanned down the below-the-fold article. When he saw Reagan's name, he slowed down and read the paragraph more fully. Then read it again. And again. “Oh, hell. Reagan's gonna be pissed.”

“Coach Ace and the other coaches. Marianne, the other team members, the athletic director . . .” Brad shook his head. “This is so, so not good.”

Greg set the paper down. “They made Reagan sound like an idiot. Like a naïve idiot.”

Brad cleared his throat. “Is it telling that you care more what the article said about our team's liaison than what it said about us as a team ourselves?”

“What did it say?” He picked up the paper to read it again, but kept coming back to the part where the reporter called Reagan “a country bumpkin with her head so far buried in the sand as to the realities of the team she supports she couldn't see the truth in front of her face.”

His hands fisted around the paper until he felt the pages start to crinkle and tear.

“Right. Well, if you missed it, I won't draw your attention that direction.” Brad pried the paper away. “This is bad. They could shut down the team. Hell, they could shut down the All Military games.”

“Based on one idiot's article? No way.” But the idea put a clutch in Greg's belly. He wasn't ready to leave yet. He liked his team. Wanted to see what they were made of.

Wanted to see what he and Reagan were made of, too.

“Maybe not, but it doesn't help, that's for damn sure. We have to figure out who's vandalizing the gym.” Brad stood,
folding the paper like an efficient businessman on a commuter train and tucking it under his arm. “Time to keep our eyes peeled for anything suspicious.”

Greg gave him a sarcastic salute, which Brad ignored. After his roommate left, he grabbed his phone and thought of texting Reagan. Just to see if she was okay, if she'd heard yet, if she even got the paper delivered.

Of course she got the paper delivered. Or had an online subscription, one of the two. She'd consider it part of her job, or something.

There was no hiding it from her. Not that she'd appreciate him sheltering her from it, or give him any credit for it. She was one hell of a puzzle for him. So independent, so focused on making things happen all by herself. Putting out that serious I-can-do-anything businesswoman front. But he sensed the fear, the worry, the absolute uncertainty lurking behind the four-inch heels and starched suits.

The time for mussing up those sexy suits and kicking off those mouth-watering heels was coming soon. He couldn't rush it and ruin their work up to it. She'd never take him seriously if he did. But God, waiting was a pain in his ass.

He'd rather be a pain in
her
ass.

But in the end, he knew without a doubt she had to deal with the article herself first. She'd need to absorb, let the hurt and the anger rage, and then let it all go before she stepped foot in the gym. It'd be her way; presenting the cool ice-princess act, as if nothing were different. He'd give her that. And later that night, when he got her alone, he'd let her crumble if she needed to. Let her stay strong if that was her choice. But he'd be there for her, either way.

9

R
eagan paced the narrow confines of Marianne's training room. “What the hell is wrong with journalism these days?” She shook the paper in her hands, wanting to rip it to shreds. Only then, she'd have to buy another one and no way was she doing that. “What kind of pompous asshole reporter uses the phrase ‘double helix' in a story about Marines and boxing?”

“Someone who is low on his word count?” Kara suggested not so helpfully. When Reagan glared at her, she stuffed a piece of apple muffin in her mouth.

“Don't get crumbs on my table,” Marianne warned as she sat at her desk with her own plate of muffins. Kara had baked them and met them early, as they'd planned. Since Kara was leading a yoga lesson that morning, it made sense to just head to the gym early and be there for work rather than head to a restaurant and wait.

Plus, bonus, Reagan didn't have to pay restaurant prices for a calorie-laden muffin. She could get one for free. Only half the guilt. Except there was no way she could choke
down anything right now. She was too upset to swallow anything.

“Calm yourself down. There are no crumbs.” Kara leaned over into a graceful stretch on the table, her nose touching the knees of her yoga pants.

“I hate that she can do that,” Reagan muttered and kept pacing. If nothing else, she was burning calories.

“You're going to kill yourself in those shoes. Stop wearing a hole in my floor and sit.” Marianne kicked over another rolling chair and Reagan sat, because her feet were killing her. “I've warned you about those heels in the gym.”

“I needed the armor.” She pulled down on the jacket of her most professional, starchy suit. She hated the thing—made her feel forty instead of twenty-four—but it also gave her an added boost of professionalism.

Neither woman asked for clarification. They understood what she meant by “armor.”

“I have to do some serious damage control. I've got to call my supervisor, then probably
his
supervisor. I've got to speak to the editor of the paper—aka the moron who let this article run as-is. And then I've got to find some more positive PR for the men.”

“And how will you fit all that in between dates with Greg?” Kara asked with a smile. “Come on, dish. I never got to hear how dinner was the other night.”

“Or yogurt last night.” When Reagan glanced at Marianne in surprise, she shrugged. “He told Brad. Brad told me.”

“Those gossips.” She blew out a breath, and realized a few stray hairs had escaped the tight, schoolmarm bun she'd pulled it into. Digging through her bag, she found her travel-sized hairspray and gave it a little spritz. “Greg is not my main concern right now. Avoiding getting fired is. Doing my job. Not failing at this career before I even get started.”

“I hardly think going out to dinner for an hour or two will cause anyone to get fired or fail. You're spinning this out of control.” Kara hopped down, a graceful act that barely caused
a ripple in the air. Reagan never even heard her soft tennis shoes land. “It's okay to be nervous, but you're letting it control you.” She arched her back and stretched some more. Reagan tilted her head to the side, watching her friend nearly bend in two.

“Why are you stretching now if you're just going to stretch again in an hour?”

“Muscle memory. Don't change the subject.”

“What's the point? He's just going to leave after this is all over. He isn't stationed here.” As soon as she said it, she winced and looked toward Marianne. She was in the same position, only deeper. She and Brad were a fixed, unquestionable couple. But Brad was stationed in California normally, and Marianne lived here, in North Carolina. “Sorry. That was insensitive.”

“No, it wasn't. It's a reasonable logistical consideration. However, I'm only here temporarily, too. Once the team is done, my job is done. I can look for a job out there in California just as well as I could here.”

Reagan thought about that for a moment. “You'd move around with him?”

“His job isn't flexible on travel. Mine is, at least for now.” She shrugged, as if it didn't bother her one bit. “I don't look at it as following him . . . too passive for my taste. I look at it more as choosing my relocation based on the needs of my heart.”

“That was really lovely, Marianne.” Kara smiled approvingly and moved into some sort of lunge thing.

It was nice, Reagan admitted to herself. Marianne was a strong woman. But she didn't seem to be bothered by the idea of her career being dictated by the needs of her lover's career. She didn't see it as a secondary place. It was encouraging.

“Well, it's not like it matters anyway.” Reagan tugged at the hem of her pant leg, folding it around once, then letting it fall again to drape over her shoe. “I don't think he's interested, anyway. He hasn't even kissed me. He keeps putting it off, even when I've given him every signal that I'm good with it.”

She glanced up in time to catch Marianne and Kara throwing a look at each other. “What? Seriously, what? What am I missing?”

“Well . . .” Marianne tossed her plate in the trash and brushed the crumbs off her red team polo. “I'm just thinking that if he weren't all that serious about you, he likely would have already made a move.”

“Several,” Kara confirmed. “He would have pushed, prodded, and forced the issue. If he didn't care about you in a more serious way, then he wouldn't care about making a better impression.”

“But he didn't do that, which tells me he's fine taking his time, because he wants more than just a quick”—Marianne paused, peeking at the doorway before finishing—“. . . fuck.”

“Heard that.” Brad walked in from around the corner, grinning. When Marianne scowled at him, he grabbed a bag of prepacked ice from the ice maker, bent down to brush a kiss across her forehead before leaving.

“Good riddance,” Marianne muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

“Back to boys,” Kara said, then snickered. “We're seriously in high school. I just said ‘boys.'”

“Sounds about right to me.” Reagan paced another minute, then stopped and sat down. She had to force her legs to not jiggle. “I've got calls to make. I have damage control to get started on. I've got to triple-check that the gym is good to use before the guys start practicing—”

Their conversation was once again interrupted, this time by Marianne's two training interns. The girl—and though Reagan was probably only a few years older, she couldn't help but think of her as a girl—wore her polo a little too tight, in her opinion. It strained across moderate breasts, and rode up to show about an inch of skin above the waistband of her short khaki shorts.

As the girl—Nikki, Reagan was nearly positive her name was—turned to toss her bag in a locker in the corner of the
training room, Reagan saw the cause for the tight fit. She'd knotted it in the back and secured it with a rubber band. When she caught Marianne's eye, she nodded discreetly at the intern's back.

Marianne sighed. “Nikki, we've talked about the shirt situation.”

Nikki turned, hands on her hips. “I don't work in a nunnery, Marianne. What's the point of being here if I have to wear baggy clothes all the time?”

The male intern—a skinny, tall guy with shaggy hair and a very quiet demeanor—stepped around her to put his own belongings in the locker, ignoring the scene unfolding.

“The point of you being here is to learn, for college credit. Or am I filling out those weekly reports for your advisor just for my own personal enjoyment?” Looking annoyed, Marianne stood and crossed her arms. “Pull the shirt out, Nikki.”

Apparently willing to die on that particular hill, Nikki dug in her heels. “Baggy clothes make for an unsafe work environment. I could get caught on something, or—”

“Or distract a Marine from what he's doing and watch him get hurt,” Marianne filled in.

“This isn't distracting.” Eyes wide with practiced innocence, Nikki spun to look at the male intern. The poor guy was cornered by the locker, unsure of where to look. “Levi, is this distracting to you? Are you having trouble concentrating with my breasts like this?”

“I . . . uh . . .” He looked anywhere but at her, letting his shaggy hair drape over his eyes as some sort of modesty curtain.
Oh,
Reagan thought,
you poor, lovesick boy.
“I don't . . . I mean, it's not . . . I can't . . .”

“Levi, take the first jug of water to the catwalk upstairs.” In a calm, very serious voice, Marianne added, “Nikki, stay and have a chat.”

“But I have to help set up,” she protested, starting after Levi.

“Stay.” The word was said so calmly it wouldn't have
registered on anyone's radar who wasn't paying attention. But Reagan was paying attention, and heard the unspoken
Or else, you're fired.
Kara had, too. They met eyes, and by unanimous, unspoken agreement, grabbed their bags and headed out. Kara closed the door behind them.

“Oh, boy,” she said, whistling softly. “That one's in deep shit now.”

“She was rude” was all Reagan could think to say.

“Worse.” Kara found a spot against the wall to set her bags. She'd be leading an entire team of Marines in under an hour through a yoga routine with some serious stretching. But they had another few minutes to chat first, before she started setting up. “Marianne prides her professionalism above everything else on the job. Getting in the way of that—especially if you're making it appear like you're here only to pick up athletes—is the quickest way to get on her shit list.”

“So noted.” Reagan checked the gym, found herself impressed it didn't look any worse for the wear. The maintenance staff had worked miracles, it seemed. The scent of cleaner was still sharper than usual, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

“Sounds like it looked like a color run in here yesterday.” Kara smiled. “I know it's bad, but seriously, the image is pretty funny.”

“I'm sure with some distance—say fifteen or twenty years—I'll think the same.” As it was, she had some damage control to handle on that regard. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“No problem. And hey, anytime you need to use my apartment for a date pick-up site, just let me know.” Kara winked, but Reagan chose to ignore that and keep moving. Because otherwise Kara might ask why she couldn't just meet Greg—who was an all-around decent guy—at her own apartment.

She'd rather avoid that conversation as long as possible.

*   *   *

“SO,
I'll be staying with Marianne tonight.” Brad unlaced his second shoe, toed it off, pushed the pair off to the side and bent over to stretch out his quad. “Just in case you were wondering.”

Greg shot him a funny look, removing his own shoes and lining them up next to Brad's. “Gee, Bradley, I didn't know we had that kind of relationship, but thanks for letting me know. Should I mention my plans for tonight, too? First, I intend to hit up Taco Bell for some dinner, then—”

“God.” His roommate clutched at his belly. “God. Taco Bell . . . don't do that to yourself. You're in training, for God's sake. Jesus H.”

“Nothing you say can dissuade me from my love affair with the Bell. So wrong, but so good.” He made a delicious sound, just to watch Brad shudder. “Seriously, why are you telling me this? Do you want a bail out phone call or something?”

“He's telling you so you can bring back Hottie Hot Legs for alone time at your place if you want.” Graham sat down next to them on the mat and began to stretch himself. “You idiot.”

Greg felt his face burn, so he ducked down into a butterfly stretch to hide it. “How the hell was I supposed to know that? Can't you just say that?”

“And ruin how quiet you've been about the whole thing? Hell no. This is the first I've seen of you not being social and over-share-ish since we got here. I'm relishing.” Brad kicked out, barely missing Greg's foot. “Plus, making you twist in the wind is fun.”

“You got yours, so you can shut up now.”

“Jealous,” Brad said to Graham.

“Totally,” Graham agreed.

“I'm right here,” Greg offered.

“Don't care,” they both said at the same time, then grinned.

“Assholes,” he muttered.

“Okay, boys, time to stretch!” Kara, their graceful, beautiful yoga instructor, glided over. She really did glide everywhere, it seemed. If Greg checked the bottoms of her feet and found skates, it wouldn't have shocked him. She was simply born with an innate grace that seemed to carry through everywhere. “Grab a mat and some personal space. You know the drill by now.”

Graham took a spot next to him, toward the back. Though the coaches were around the gym, they generally gave Kara the run of the show when she was holding a yoga class. For one hour, they were fully hers to twist and turn into devil dog pretzels. Which meant, by hanging out in the back, he and Graham could chat between pose transitions.

Kara took her spot in the front, on her own personalized yoga mat—a must-have, Greg assumed, for full-time instructors—and tossed off the sweatshirt she wore over stretchy yoga pants. The top was a halter that presented a good bit of her toned stomach. She twisted her auburn braid over one shoulder, closed her eyes and directed them to their first pose.

Greg started to move, then realized Graham hadn't budged. “You gonna join us, or just stand there? Because I'm no yogi but I'm pretty sure that's not a pose.”

Graham blinked, taking his eyes off Kara—finally—and started to move, albeit without his normal athleticism. His motions were jerky, unsure, as if they hadn't been doing this three times a week for several weeks now.

“What's your deal?”