Against the Ropes (14 page)

Graham looked offended, his dark eyes flashing. “I'm not ordering a pizza to eat it in front of him when he can't have a slice. That's cruel. I'll have what he's having.”

“You might regret that. It's going to be sun butter and jelly on special, not-normal bread,” she warned. No matter what, she still couldn't get used to non-peanut butters. But she ate them for her son's sake. Too bad they were twice as expensive.

“I'll make the squirt make me a sandwich. If he can eat it, I can eat it. Guys can eat anything.” Walking back to the door, Graham opened it. She tried hard not to notice how the short sleeve of his polo shirt gripped around his biceps when he did that. “Off you go. The menfolk will be fine.”

“Yeah, Mom.” Zach, emerging from his cocoon, stood beside Graham. “We're good.” As if in agreement, Graham laid his other hand on Zach's shoulder, united in pushing the lone female out of their cave for the evening.

Her son's chest puffed out just standing next to the Marine. He looked so happy to be in the company of another male, even if he was being—ew, ick—babysat.

“Fine.” She debated for a half second, then left without trying a hug. It would only embarrass him. So she just added a thank-you for Graham, and closed the door.

Instinct had her pausing on the doorstep for a moment. She heard her son shout with joy as he yelled, “Come see what I've
got in my room! Mom just got me a new game,” and Graham's more deep-voiced answer, then nothing.

If his father were around more . . .
No, shake that one off, Kara.
His father chose to not be around, except in very limited doses. So these moments of male bonding were all she had to offer currently. As he grew, she'd have to intentionally find more opportunities like this.

But for now, it would be enough to hang out for a night with a sun butter–eating Marine and some unwise video games.

14

“H
ow have you not seen any of the Harry Potter movies?” Greg asked, rubbing her upper arm as she jerked against him, startled by the action on the screen.

“I'm a purist. How have you not read any of the—oh!” Reagan covered her eyes as something jumped out from the shadows. Her startle reflex was terrible. “Not read any of the Harry Potter books? They're classics.”

“Not much of a reader.”

She didn't hold it against him. Some might automatically make the leap into “stupid jock” territory, but that was shortsighted of them. Ten minutes with Greg and it was easy to see there was nothing dumb about him.

“Are you looking forward to your meet next week?”

“Shh,” he said, squeezing her closer to his side while they watched Harry and his friends battle through the dungeon looking for the Sorcerer's Stone.

“You've seen it, and I know how it turns out,” Reagan pointed out, which had Greg sighing and turning the volume down. Score one for female logic. “Are you excited?”

“To go beat up on a few guys in South Carolina?” He made a noise of disagreement, but she could feel his muscles tighten. Or at least the ones pressed against her. He rotated so that his back rested against the arm of the sofa, and her back leaned flat over his chest. She laid her head back and listened to his heartbeat while he thought. “I mean, Paris Island's team is probably pretty decent. It's not like us, but it'll be a good show for the crowd. Good practice for us.” He thought for a moment, then let his hand drift to the nape of her neck, let his fingers slide in just a little to her hairline and play there. “Maybe worried for some of the younger guys.”

“Worried they can't keep up?”

“A few. Others, worried they'll do too well and won't know when to pull back.”

“You're supposed to treat this like a real match. You're not meant to pull back.” Or at least, that's what her packet of information had told her. “Everyone goes in giving one hundred percent.”

“Yes . . . and no. A few don't know when to pull back. You give the full goods, until you know the other guy's done. Now, if it's a real rival, like during the All Military games, then hey, play on.” He chuckled. “I'm not gonna pull you off an Army guy. But when it's one of our own, you don't go for the throat like you would otherwise. When he's down, he's down. No need to keep at it so he stays that way.”

“I see.” She didn't fully, if she were being honest with herself. Sports weren't really her thing, ever. But she was doing her best to catch up. “Either way, are you excited to be traveling and seeing new competition?”

“Excited to get out of the BOQ. . . and into a new BOQ, sure. And ready to see some new blood. We'll stop there with ‘ready.'”

He seemed so blasé about the whole thing. So matter-of-fact. “I have to go with you. It's my first time traveling like this for work. Can I tell you a secret?”

He wrapped an arm around her, just under her breasts, and squeezed gently. “Shoot.”

Why did he have to make her feel so safe, so secure, so dainty when he did that? It scrambled her mind like an egg meant for an omelet. “I'm nervous.”

“Nervous about what?”

“About messing up. About making the wrong step. I've already made mistakes with this whole prank-war thing going on. And now there are protestors, and that stupid article that seems like it's going viral . . .” She sighed and snuggled tighter against him. He pressed his lips to her temple, and she was ready to tell him her entire life story, even the embarrassing parts. “I'm worried I'm failing, and I won't know how badly until I walk into work one day and there's a pink slip in my mailbox.”

“That's not gonna happen.”

“Oh, really?” She smiled at the fierceness in his voice. The absolutely certainty he could stop it from happening by sheer will and determination alone. “Who's going to stop it? I was going to ask ‘you and what army?' but since the answer would clearly be ‘the Marines,' I'll let that one stand.”

“You're not going anywhere. I'm just getting started with you.” He slid her down just a little, then did some fancy leg work so that she rested on her side, her back to the back of the sofa, their faces an inch apart. He blocked her from rolling off the couch with his own body. “I'm not letting you get away that easily.”

“You look at me the way you do,” she said, tracing a finger over one of his brows, then the other, “and you say the things you say, and you make me feel not so much . . .”

“What?” he asked, his voice all but a rumble in his chest.

“Not so alone out here.”

As if that were the answer he'd looked for himself, his eyes glowed hot an instant before his mouth came down over hers. He rotated them once more, so she lay flat on her back, and all that kept his weight from pressing into her
were his elbows and one knee. The man was a master at the ground work. He should have been an MMA fighter instead.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him more firmly to her. “I want to feel you,” she whispered. He shook his head and tried to prop himself back up, but she nipped his lip. “I'm not a flower, I won't get crushed. Please. I need to feel you.”

Tentatively, he rested his body more fully on hers. Oh, God, she needed that. Needed to feel the full weight of him across every inch of her. The hard, thick length of his every pound of muscle pushing at her softness was so delicious she moaned into his mouth. He returned the sound with a groan of his own, pressing his thick erection into the cleft between her legs before letting his tongue sweep in.

He tasted like the ice cream they'd had after dinner, and his hands rasped over her skin as he pushed her tank top up to sit right below her breasts. It took everything she had not to suck in her stomach, to flex, try to make it feel flatter as his fingers traced over her torso.

But if he noticed she wasn't exactly a thin lady, he didn't seem to mind. With every stroke of his fingers, calloused tips rasping over her skin, he seemed to thicken against her thigh more. One thumb brushed just under the wire edge of her bra, but no more. It was as if he were teasing them both, holding out until they were nearly burning with the urge to touch everywhere.

She was thirty seconds away from unhooking her own damn bra when he sat back, relieving her of his weight entirely. She blinked up at the ceiling, jarred from the quick movement. “What . . .”

Greg stood, on what looked like not-so-sturdy legs, and did a quick once around the living room. She noticed while his back was turned, he shook out his right leg more than once . . . to relieve the pressure against his erection, she assumed.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, back still turned to her.

“Then get back here. You changed the channel right when it was getting good.”

“I want to, but I won't.” He said it through strained vocals, like he was talking around a lump in his throat. He cleared it, then faced her. The massive bulge in front was impossible not to stare at. “Eyes up here, Robilard.”

Without even a blush, she met his gaze. “You're not going to tell me you don't want me, right?”

“No. And from the way your high beams are flashing, I know you're feeling the same way.”

She instinctively reached down to cover her breasts, then realized there was no point. So she brushed her tank top down and hoped to look nonchalant about the whole thing as she sat up. “Is there something the matter?”

“I'm just thinking,” he said, and started to pace, “that maybe we're not ready for this step yet.”

“Second base,” she said dryly. “We're not ready for second base.”

“You don't have to say it like that.” His voice, like his gaze, was dark and not altogether friendly.

“Greg,” she said with a sigh, “there are high schoolers who move on to second base faster. I know you've got your training schedule, and that keeps you busy. And I've got work, and all the weirdness that goes with that. But I thought . . .” She held up her hands, then let them fall again. “I thought we were past that. Aren't we past that?”

“It's not you . . .” he started, and she stiffened. He rushed over to kneel in front of her just before she could stand. “Stop. Don't move.”

“If you finish that sentence with, ‘. . . it's me,' I will punch you,” she warned. “I've been watching you guys practice. I could put some heat behind it.”

He snorted, but did his best to keep his face straight. Other than a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, he managed it. “I wasn't. Hear me out?”

She waited a moment, just to make him sweat. But then she settled back into the couch cushions and put her hands in his when he held his out. “It better be good. I dried my hair for this, you know.”

“I know, and it looks beautiful.” He started to speak again, then just leaned in and kissed her once more, on the lips. “I needed that.”

It amused her that he took the kiss like another man might take a shot of bourbon just before doing something unpleasant. For courage, or for encouragement, maybe.

“I'm not great at this whole . . . thing. This slow build to a relationship.”

Neither was she, clearly, but she let that pass.

He ran one hand over his short hair in a gesture so obviously self-frustrated, she wanted to tell him it would be okay. But that would be helping, and he didn't want help, so she waited.

“I don't want to mess this up. I wasn't sure if I even wanted to be on the team, but now I am. And I wasn't sure I wanted to tangle with a woman, but I do. And I wasn't sure I wanted that woman to be you, but she is, and I'm glad, but it's fucking terrifying.”

Maybe some women wouldn't be impressed with a speech that included the word
fucking
but for her, for Greg, for that moment, it was raw and real and it was the exact right thing she needed to soothe her nerves. She cupped his face in hers and kissed him, long and hard, so he knew where her head was. “I get it . . . I think. You want to make sure that we don't move so fast that we burn out physically before we reach the next step emotionally.”

“No,” he breathed. Then, “I mean, yes.”

“Poor guy,” she murmured, rubbing her lips over his. “This has you all twisted up, doesn't it?”

He grumbled something adorably grouchy.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded, their noses bumping.

“It has me pretty twisted up, too.”

When his shoulders dropped, just a fraction of an inch, she knew she'd worked her way into that soft spot she'd been searching for the whole time. Not sure how much longer he'd keep it exposed, she added, “I'm not all that brave at this. Combination of reasons, I guess. But I'm willing to open myself up more, if you are, too.”

He nodded an agreement, kissed her again.

“So, are we the real deal?”

“Hell yeah, we are.” Greg kissed her, pulling her against him so that her knees were spread wide and her crotch pressed to his stomach. “But we're still not going to second base tonight.”

“Maybe before the homecoming dance,” she teased, and let him kiss her again.

*   *   *

REAGAN
inched forward in line to pass through the front gates, doing her best not to glare at the steadily growing number of protestors. The first day, it had been maybe four or five families plus a few more single people. No more than a dozen, total. Today, the head count was probably closer to fifty.

She snail-crawled past a mother with three kids, the youngest in a stroller. The youngest held up a sign written on what looked like construction paper. Clearly, he hadn't written it himself, as he was probably no more than two. But the sight of that child holding up a sign saying “Fighters go to hell,” made her stomach drop.

Apparently her article in the paper, doing her best to debunk the myths surrounding the Marine Corps boxing team, either hadn't worked, or had induced the opposite result.

Gasoline on the fire.

At least they were peaceful, she reasoned as she inched forward another few feet. Cardboard signs with pithy sayings and half-hearted jargon wouldn't make anyone driving
through these gates do anything but roll their eyes and take another drink of their morning coffee. But it still felt like a physical reminder of her failure.

Ten minutes later, she walked into the gym and headed straight for Coach Ace's office. She had calls to make, confirming their bus down to Paris Island for their matchup with the Marine drill instructors. And she had a text message on her phone to call her supervisor ASAP.

The moment she closed Coach Ace's doors, she dialed her supervisor.

“Robilard!” Andrew Calvant barked.

“Yes, sir?” She sat down, instantly regretting the choice. Even if he wasn't there, he might feel her intimidation. She stood, ready for the offense.

“What the hell kind of article is this?”

She blinked. Hadn't he read it yesterday when she'd emailed him? “I'm sorry, I thought you read it already. It was my response to the first article about—”

“Not yesterday's thing,” he snarled. “Today's paper. Did you read it?”

Did she admit she hadn't read that morning's paper, and look lazy? Or did she act like she had, and fly blind for the rest of the conversation?

He made the choice for her. “Front page, above the fold this time. Lovely title, though I'll let you read that for yourself. I especially like the alliteration. But the article is a true gem. It talks about how we're attempting to make a bunch of killing machines—that would be our athletes, if you aren't keeping up—look like, and I quote, ‘pansy-ass candy sticks' and trying to pass them off as ‘an enlightened bunch of kangaroos.'”