Against the Ropes (17 page)

She slapped a hand into his gut and walked by. “Clearly, I forgot something when I went to the bathroom.” She took the jacket off, slipped her tank back on and righted herself . . . dammit. After a few tugs, she pulled her hair into a haphazard ponytail. Minus the shoes, she passed for normal again. Not quite as starched up as she normally would be, but anyone giving her a passing glance wouldn't see a problem.

After he got one leg through his jeans, she bent down to kiss his forehead. “I'm going now.”

“No, wait.” He hopped, trying to catch his balance to slip the second leg into his jeans, but fell back on his ass. “Stop. I said I'd walk you.”

“And I said I was going alone.” She grinned as she opened his door just enough to slip through. “I win. Good night, Greg.”

He narrowed his eyes at her retreating back just before she closed the door behind her. It was oh-two hundred, and he had about four more hours before he had to be up.

That meant he needed to get some sleep. So for tonight, he'd let her go. They'd hash out her hasty exit in the daylight.

17

T
he next morning, Reagan began her true education on the sport of boxing. And while she'd paid attention during practices, what she'd witnessed paled in comparison to watching the real deal.

Though she had watched a few boxing matches online to prepare for the job, the actual match—unofficial though it was—took her breath away.

Tressler waited for his opponent to touch gloves before the bell rang. But the moment they had, it was on. Tressler came out swinging, which didn't shock Reagan. The young Marine had more cockiness than he could back up, from what she'd seen. His opponent, who she guessed to be closer to twenty-five or so, let him take a few swings at air before coming at him with several punches on his torso and shoulder. Tressler stumbled back, looking dazed and maybe a little shocked.

But training won out, and he pulled his head out of his butt enough to refocus and strategize on the fly. Reagan could almost see the wheels turning in his head while he ducked
and dodged his opponent's attacks. After a few moments, he managed a more complex bob-slash-weave thing, then threw an upper cut while still half-ducked over that took the Paris Island Marine totally by surprise. Blood flew as the bell rang to signal the end of the first round.

Marianne, along with Coach Willis, assisted in the corner while the Paris Island Marine stumbled over to his own corner to be looked at by his coach. Sixty seconds sped by as the coach fought to keep the blood in check, and right at the bell, he ducked back under the rope to let the Marine fight round two with the energized Tressler.

Reagan sat beside Nikki the athletic training intern as Tressler fought his second round. With each punch, Nikki blanched a little more. She was definitely not used to a more physical sport. Maybe she'd been lulled into complacency by watching the guys fight in the practice gym, where they mostly tagged instead of threw hard punches.

No tagging here. It was full-out boxing, with flying fists and crunching knocks. The sounds alone made Reagan's stomach turn. But she swallowed it down, forced a smile on her face, and cheered their team on.

It helped, maybe, that they were winning. It wasn't a blowout—because Greg'd explained it, Reagan watched for signs of backing off, and saw them—but it was definitely a solid win.

But next up was Greg's round, and she wasn't at all sure she could swallow down the feelings that was going to evoke.

The crowd mixed and mingled while the referee and the maintenance switched things out for the next matchup. Coach Cartwright, the corner man for Greg, took his spot next to his boxer.

When Greg let his robe fall, Reagan nearly swallowed her tongue. Completely naked, the man was a specimen of all that was right and good in the world. But there was something special about seeing him in a pair of boxing shorts,
with his hands stuffed in boxing gloves. Those little bits were hidden from the view of the normal public, and only she knew what they covered.

Nikki leaned over. “He's so hot, isn't he?”

“Hmm.” Reagan wrote down a few notes—work-related, of course—about how the event was running to distract her from the sight in front of her.

“Nervous?”

She glanced at Nikki a moment. “No, why?”

“Your leg.” Nikki bumped her knee against Reagan's, which was jingling rapidly. “I thought maybe you were nervous for the team. Or maybe you don't like the violence.” She leaned in closer. “It sort of makes me feel sick to my stomach, honestly. The guys are all so freaking hot, but the blood . . .” She shuddered, then mimed gagging.

Lovely.

“No, I'm good. Just . . . anxious, I guess.”
Anxious about watching my boyfriend get punched in the face.
He was a damn good boxer, she knew that. Faster than greased lightning, but even the fast ones got a few knocks from time to time.

And when that first bell sounded, and Greg and his opponent knocked gloves then started throwing the punches, she did suddenly feel a little ill. Damn Nikki for putting that in her head . . . Greg threw a combination, and she nearly jumped out of her seat cheering. He took one to the shoulder, then the torso, then a few more to his stomach and she wanted to groan. He evaded, dodged, weaved, and threw a few more punches his opponent didn't see coming until the bell sounded for round one. Greg retreated to the corner to sit on the small, almost child-sized stool Coach Cartwright had placed there. His back was to her so she couldn't see his face, which was probably a good thing.

She looked down and found she'd crumpled the notebook paper in her hand. Smoothing it out, Reagan fought hard to keep her breathing in check. “I'm sorry, I have to . . .” She
stood and left a confused Nikki as she exited the gym and moved into the cool air of the hallway beyond.

Leaning against the tile wall, she hesitated, then took a few slow, deep breaths. How could she be so stupid? How could she think she could sleep with the man one minute, then watch him get punched the next and not let it affect her? She should have been more prepared. Should have readied herself for it.

How exactly did one ready oneself to watch one's boyfriend get beat up?

Must look that up online when she got home.

A tall, lanky man walked out of the gym and approached. “Feeling okay?”

She squinted, then barely took in the features of Levi, Marianne's other intern. He was quiet, usually, but a good student and followed directions well. And had a horrible crush on Nikki, bless his heart.

“I'm good, thanks.” She took another cleansing breath. “Shouldn't you be in there?”

“Taking a break. This one was Nikki's to assist.” He shrugged and leaned against the wall beside her. Not close enough to crowd, but there, nonetheless. A comforting presence. “Saw you come out here, thought I'd make sure you were okay.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated. “How do you like your internship?”

“Ms. Cook is a good teacher. She lets us get our hands dirty when we need to.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Not sure I would have chosen to work on a base, but it is what it is. I'm learning.”

She wanted to ask more, but he seemed content to be quiet, so she let him. After another few minutes, she heard what she thought was the final bell of the last round, and a round of heavy cheering.

“He won,” Levi murmured. “That's my guess, anyway. He was in the lead when I left.”

“The violence of the sport doesn't bother you like it does Nikki?”

He smiled a little. “Nah. Nikki's smart, but she lets her gut get in the way.”

More like her young heart. While Levi seemed content to quietly pine for Nikki, she flittered around the training room, offering her heart willingly to any Marine who would hold it for a moment.

Luckily for all involved, nobody had yet offered.

“Well, I guess that's my cue to get back in, then.” She pushed away from the wall, waiting a moment for him to join. When he shrugged and settled in with his cell phone, she nodded. “Have a good break.”

*   *   *

SHE
entered the arena again, thankful that the ropes were empty and Greg was somewhere other than having his face punched. She didn't doubt he'd won. That was, in her mind, indisputable. But seeing him get hit, get
hurt
, no matter what the scoreboard said, hurt her, too.

And yes, she was being such a weenie about it. But how the hell was she supposed to feel? Contact sports were not really her thing. She'd been clinical about the rest of the team, but watching someone she looooooo—liked a great deal be hit was too much.

Whew. Close one, there.

She settled down behind the Marines who had already boxed or still had time to kill before they started getting ready for their own date with destiny. A few gave her small smiles as she eased in, but most either didn't notice or didn't acknowledge her. Fine stuff. She was there as a support, not to garner attention.

Unlike . . . Nikki. Reagan watched with a grimace as the young woman pouted because apparently, her seat had been taken while she'd been up doing her job. She joked, then mimed sitting on the young Marine's lap as a solution. And
Reagan had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when the smart Marine popped up and out of the seat like a Jack sprung from the box. With a slight scowl, Nikki sat.

Sorry, sweetie, but we're here to work.

Another minute or so passed, and she saw Levi tap Nikki on the shoulder, apparently relieving her to take her own break.

Over the roar of the crowd, Nikki cupped her hands and called out, “Does anyone need anything?”

There were a few shakes of the head, but most ignored her, again.

She put her fists on her hips. “Does anyone want to get some air with me?”

Even fewer head shakes; most kept their eyes forward and ignored.

Wise, wise men.

With an eye roll and a glare, she stormed past the team and up and out of the arena.

“She's not happy.” Marianne sank down beside Reagan. “I'm not sure what to do with her.”

“Give her a talk.” Reagan was over the childishness. She wasn't even sure how Marianne put up with it daily. “It's sort of pathetic.”

“No kidding.” Her friend sighed and rubbed at her temples. Now here, Reagan thought, was a woman she could look up to. She dated a member of the team, but managed to hold herself together without running out the door at the first sign of contact. The team respected her—truly liked her—and nobody had a problem with them dating. And they could be in the same room together without doing that sick touchy-feely thing some couples resorted to.

Brad sat in a clump of younger Marines . . . his own little mini-platoon, Marianne had called them earlier. He doled out advice and encouragement when warranted. Greg did the same thing, as did Graham Sweeney.

It was nice, seeing them all get along. Reminded her of her brothers.

A momentary homesickness pinged against her heart, working its way like a pinball through her ribs until it embedded in her stomach to sink like a cold iceberg. She rubbed discretely at her stomach, hoping in vain to dislodge it. God, she missed her family. And wasn't that a joke . . . She'd all but run away from them, from home, to make a point to everyone she could do it alone. That she wouldn't get sucked into the poverty trap of her hometown. That she'd be better. She'd be more.

And yet, she missed them.

“You okay?” Marianne nudged her a little. “You look a little sick.”

“Let's just say, boxing isn't my thing.” She sent Marianne a wobbly smile. “How was Greg?”

“You didn't stay?” Marianne widened her eyes, then nodded slowly. “Okay, I can see that. Well, he did good. He won, obviously. Though I think the coach was pissed at him for dragging it out as long as he did.”

“The rounds are timed. How could he drag it out?”

Marianne smiled a little and bumped her shoulder. “You need to watch more fights. He was unmatched, basically. Could have put the guy down at the end of round one, but he played with him instead. There was no point to it, he just wanted to get some extra swings in, I guess. More practice. It would have been over way faster if he'd wanted it to be.”

“Oh.” Reagan let that sink in. “Maybe he wanted to give the other guy a fighting chance.”

“Nice pun,” Marianne said, but shook her head. “Nah. He just wanted to stay in the ring as long as possible. It's not surprising. I think these guys are all pulling their punches a little, without trying to make it look obvious.”

Reagan nodded, trying to look like it made sense. Past what Greg had told her about not making things a blowout, she just didn't know.

But then the lights dimmed for a moment, and the crowd started to pick up in intensity and she knew another match
was coming. Picking up her camera from her bag, she scooted out to the aisle along with Marianne.

Here goes nothing.

*   *   *

GREG
started to knock, then held off and pressed his ear to the door instead. He heard nothing. And judging by the lack of light under the door, she either wasn't in the room, or she was already asleep.

If it was the first, there was nothing he could do. If the second . . . he'd fix that.

He knocked, then waited. Nothing. He tried once more, waited, then sighed and leaned his back against her door. So she was out. It wasn't like they'd made plans or anything. He didn't have the right to feel left behind, just because he'd said no to plans with the guys to spend time with her.

One minute he was upright, and then the next, he wasn't.

Greg blinked and stared up at Reagan's shocked face, only upside down. Her mouth gaped open, and she slapped a hand over it to hide a laugh. “Sorry, I wanted to finish my sentence before I answered the door. Didn't realize you were using it to prop yourself up.”

“I think this is the time,” he said with a groan, “where I say something witty and Bond-like about how you knocked me off my feet. But I'm coming up empty.”

“How about, ‘I was hanging around, thought I'd
drop by
?'” She grinned when he moaned.

“Very punny.” He rolled onto his stomach, kicking the door closed as he did. As he opened his eyes, he realized he was eye level with the sexiest pair of heels he'd seen yet. “Did you wear those to the matchup today?”

She tapped one peep-toed shoe at his nose while she flipped on the lights. “I did, though I'm not sure why my footwear has anything to do with it.”

He wasn't sure he could take his eyes away from that little sexy peep of her toes, the way the leather hugged her
instep, or how it crossed over her ankle. But he did a push up and stood anyway. She was still fully dressed, in another of her starched-up business suits. A skirt, this time, with matching jacket or blazer or whatever it was called. The hint of lace showed to cover her cleavage in what he thought she considered modesty, but he chose to see as her own wild side fighting for a turn. All in all, there was nothing about the outfit that screamed “Do me now!”