Against the Ropes (12 page)

“Sweeney? Yeah, I need a favor . . .”

12

“T
he article reads well.” Marianne settled in her chair, Kara and Reagan in their by-now assigned positions on two of the training tables in the AT room. “I'm sorry about the protestors, though.”

Reagan played with the homemade breakfast sandwich Kara had brought over. Zach, her son, was playing imaginary basketball in the gym while they talked in relative privacy.

Early that morning, Reagan had passed the small but determined group of protestors on her trek through the main gates. They couldn't step on base, but they huddled together just outside on the main road that led to the main gate, where a majority of the Marines would drive through. Holding up hastily created signs that ranged from generic military hatred—“Damn those who hide behind the uniform”—to ones that were more specific to the current kerfuffle—“Violent sports + violent men = more violence.”

That one, she had thought with a private snicker, had been a truly moronic one. If you were going to take the time
and energy to make a sign, at least create one that was original.

The smile died as she remembered children, no older than Zach, standing with their parents in the weak morning sun with their parents, holding hateful signs.

“I knew it would happen eventually. I just didn't think it would be so soon, and after just one article.” Reagan let her sandwich fall back to the paper plate. Her appetite had taken a nosedive.

“It was a doozy of an article.” Kara reached over and stroked a soft hand once down Reagan's arm. “They'll move on shortly. We've seen this dozens of times, right, Marianne?”

“She's right. It's not uncommon around here. We've seen it all.”

“And when they're tired, or just bored, they'll move—” Kara paused, then yelled, “Zachary, get in here!” in a voice so fierce, Reagan jumped a little. That was, without a doubt, the Mom Voice.

Zach peeked his sweet face in the doorway. “Yeah, Mom?”

“Were you on the other side of the gym?”

He flushed, and even Reagan squirmed a little being witness to the Mom Stare. Kara had all the weapons of motherhood in her arsenal, and she was loaded for bear this morning.

The sweet woman with the elfin face and soft voice crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “And remind me, one more time, why you aren't allowed to cross the halfway mark of the gym?”

Zach sighed, the heavy sigh of the beleaguered. “Because the coach's office is on that side of the gym.” When Kara only waited, he added, “And I'm not supposed to bother him, even if his door is closed.”

“That's right. So you stay on this side, or I'll make you sit in here and listen to us gossip.”

The horrified look on Zach's face had Reagan covering a snicker with a cough. “Fine, Mom.” He sprinted away, and
they could hear his sneakers echoing in the hollow, empty gym as he darted around invisible defenders on his way to make the game-winning basket.

“Stinker,” Kara muttered, but she was fighting off a smile.

“He's awesome,” Reagan said. “Reminds me of my brothers. They all turned out decent, for the most part.”

“For the most part?” Marianne leaned in. “Which one didn't?”

“The ax murderer,” Reagan said easily, appetite returning enough to pop another bite of sandwich in her mouth and chew before she added, “Kidding.”

Kara and Marianne's twin frozen faces of terror made her snort.

“You guys are too easy. He's just a good kid, that's all I mean. Listens to his mom, pushes boundaries a little—but what kid doesn't?—and respects you enough to not argue when you rein him back in.”

“He is pretty awesome, isn't he?” Kara's smile grew a little misty, and Reagan wanted very much to avoid waterworks.

“Yup. If only he weren't so ugly . . .”

“Reagan!” Marianne threw her napkin at her while simultaneously laughing.

The sound of men's voices drifted to their room, and all three women sat up a little straighter. Marianne checked the clock. “Must be an early group wanting to get some exercise in before practice.”

“Zach!” Kara hopped off the table and rushed to the door of the training room. “Zach, come back in here now.”

Zach rushed back, red-faced. The unmistakable sound of a basketball bouncing caught Reagan's ear. “Mom! Mom, they said I could play with them. They've got a basketball with them and they said they were going to get a game in before practice. Can I play?
Pleeeeeeeeeeeease?
”

The amount of pathos a child could pack into a single word was unbelievable.

Reagan could see the worry in Kara's eyes. Would her son get hurt? Would his feelings be crushed if they rejected him? Would he just be in the way? “I don't know. I think maybe you should—”

“Hey, ladies.” Graham Sweeney walked over, a ripped T-shirt covering his torso—sort of—and a basketball under one arm. He slung the other arm around Zach's head, pressing the kid's ear into his rib cage. “We need someone younger and weaker to beat up on so we can feel manly before practice. Mind if we use this thing for a punching bag?”

Zach protested, fighting off the hold, but Reagan could see he was laughing. It was a totally guy thing to do, and Zach was loving it.

Kara looked unconvinced, but Marianne asked, “Do you promise to return him in nearly the same condition as you found him?”

“Which is pretty scrawny and not much to look at,” Reagan added, which had Graham throwing her a brilliant grin. The man was truly Greek god gorgeous. If she hadn't been sitting down already, she would have felt the full impact in the knees on that one.

Kara reached out to stroke a hand over Zach's hair—a move Reagan had seen her do a dozen times. But this time, Zach dodged. Kara snatched her hand back, aware she'd nearly embarrassed her son in front of men he wanted to impress. “If you're sure he won't interrupt anything . . .”

“Nah. He's all good. Come on, fresh meat. Let's go rough you up a bit.” He started to go, but then turned around. “Oh, and Reagan? You're all set for tonight. Have fun.”

Zach laughed and followed, and then the sounds of a basketball bouncing, male grunts, groans and—along with Kara's winces—some swearing filled the gym. Marianne walked over and closed the door. “‘Have fun'? All set for what?”

“Spill,” Kara added.

“I might be having dinner with a certain Marine tonight.”
Reagan took another bite, and forced herself to chew thoroughly before swallowing. The pained looks on her friends' faces told her she'd taken enough time with torture. “I'm going over to Graham's house tonight for dinner.”

“But I thought you were dating Greg,” Kara said, looking confused.

“Sorry, yes. We're borrowing Graham's house for the, uh, date.” She shrugged. “Greg wanted to cook and obviously he can't do that at his place.”

“Why not yours?”

Reagan swallowed another bite before answering, “My kitchen is horrible.” No lie there. “I survive off cold cereal and granola bars.” Also no lie.

“But you're not going to”—Kara checked the door before finishing—“do it there, right? Because in someone else's bed is just—”

“Ew. No!” Reagan recoiled at the thought. “We just wanted privacy for a meal and a movie.” The image Greg had painted the night before as he'd said good-bye at her car drifted through her mind. She couldn't stop her lips from curving. “That's all.”

“Privacy would be at your place, where you apparently don't want him to be.” Marianne watched her thoughtfully. “So you either meet him at his place, where there's no privacy, or at Kara's place, where there's no privacy, or at someone else's house, where there's no hopes of getting busy because of the ‘ew' factor. Sounds like you're cockblocking yourself.”

“Or we're just in a unique situation that requires some extra thought before taking the next step,” Reagan said primly.

“Bull,” both women said at once.

“We've got a few travel gigs coming up,” Marianne added. “Why don't you take advantage of them? Make sure your hotel room is right next to his or something. Sneak into his room after bed check.”

“Could you make this sound any more juvenile?” Reagan
grumbled, then popped down and brushed her hands off on the napkin. “Guess today's the day I give a ‘How to Handle Protestors' lecture.”

Marianne smiled. “Want me to make you a pamphlet?”

*   *   *

FOUR
hours later, Reagan sat at her laptop, trying to work in her apartment. She had two more hours before she needed to be at Graham's, and if she couldn't focus on something else, she'd go crazy with anticipation. But there was a problem . . .

The refrigerator was loud.

Not just loud . . . constant. The kind of constant noise that wormed its way into your mind so that long after the sound was gone, you still heard it because it had slowly driven you crazy.

Reagan threw an accusatory glance at the appliance. It didn't respond. Instead, it hummed the same hum it had been making all evening. The same hum that had buried itself into Reagan's brain until she could no longer concentrate on the task at hand.

Or maybe that was just her inner procrastinator talking.

Probably the latter. Not that she'd accept defeat to the fridge.

She focused, squinted at the screen, closed both eyes and tried very hard to remember all the different types of punches one could use in a boxing match.

She ended up with one: a punch.

“This is impossible,” she growled, shooting one more glare at the kitchen before closing her laptop. How was she supposed to work with a bunch of boxers as their athlete liaison if she had no clue what they were doing half the time?

A small part of her mind reminded her this was exactly why she had misled her supervisor when she'd done the interview. That she'd done her best to sound as knowledgeable about boxing as she could without delving too deep into
the details. She'd memorized a few of the most famous boxers and what they were most famous for. But in reality . . . she'd just needed the damn job.

Call your brothers.

They liked boxing. They liked all sports. It was the only thing accessible for guys—that was legal, anyway—in their backward town. Hell, the only reason she'd been a cheerleader was because it was either that or 4H for girls. Her brothers had all played whatever sports they could get their hands on, and watched what sports they could on the few channels they had growing up. She'd been outnumbered four to one when it came time to pick channels.

Calling her brothers, though, meant calling home. And calling home was never something she could do lightly. Most people thought of home as a safety net, a soft place to fall, a nest one could be gently nudged out of, but always return to when times were hard.

Reagan considered her home quicksand. Put one foot in and it dragged you down until you couldn't breathe and lost the light of day.

A dramatic image, maybe, but accurate.

But there was no way she was getting anywhere on her own with this.

Call Greg.

She wasn't quite ready to admit her incompetence yet. She would rather he—all the Marines, really—saw her as an independent businesswoman who didn't need assistance. Plus, she was due to see him in a few hours. He'd consider her call a ploy to hear from him, like a lovesick puppy. No, thank you.

Which left her with her brothers. Again.

Reagan stared at her phone with the same sort of disdain she'd given the refrigerator. Finally, she picked it up and dialed home, praying it was her youngest brother who would answer and not her mother.

“Hello?”

No such luck. Reagan took a deep breath, then one more as her mother tersely repeated, “Hello?”

“Hey, Mom.”

There was a brief pause. “Reagan?”

“Yeah, Mom, it's me.” Swallowing, she tried to bypass what she knew would be a rough conversation. “I had a work question for Nick. Is he there?”

“And just what do you think an eighteen-year-old is gonna do for your fancy job?” her mother asked, voice tight with disapproval. “He doesn't have a college degree like you.”

Reagan closed her eyes and counted to five. “I had a question about boxing. I know Nick watches it.”

“They've got boxing here, if you wanted to work with a bunch of sweaty men. Remind me again why this job was so important you had to move halfway across the country? Away from your family?”

Because I couldn't breathe around you.

“Because that's where the job offer came from.” Doing her best to be reasonable against all odds, she added, “I do miss you all.”

“Not enough to call more often. Oh, I know,” her mother added with the sigh of a woman truly put upon. “You have so much to do, being important, that you can't spare the time.”

“Okay, so, I can call back later then.”

“Always were too good for your family.”

“No, Mom.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and cursed whatever stupid idea had led her to this conversation. “That's not it. I just wanted something different.”

“Which is code for better.” Her mother sniffed. “You'll come back. They always come back.”

If Reagan had had a nice, soft place to land, maybe. Sometimes people did need to come home to regroup. She could understand a home where you could move back when times were tough, get back on your feet quickly, and part with your parents once more on good terms.

She did not come from such a house.

“Hey, Mom? I actually have to run. The . . .” She fought for a good excuse. “Work is calling.”

“Well aren't they special, calling you at all hours. See what reaching for better gets you? You're never off work. Never relaxing. Get yourself a solid job, and you can clock in and out and wash your hands of the place when you leave. Your brother—”