Against the Ropes (24 page)

She blinked at that, and had to remind herself to breathe. “Thank God.”

Andrew opened the folder, let out a deep breath and passed it over to her. It took her a full ten seconds to understand what she was looking at. Greg, but a younger version, staring at her from a mug shot.

A mug shot.

She looked up, saw her supervisor's grim face, and held up the file. “What is this?”

“I thought you would be telling me.” Andrew swiveled in his chair, as if giving her a moment to answer. When she just stared, dumbfounded, he continued. “A couple of days ago, you were in here signing a form disclosing your relationship. You're telling me you had no clue about this?”

“I . . .” She looked down again, reading the text that came with the heartbreaking photo. Words jumped out at her, like popcorn from the oil. Foster homes. Fighting. Petty theft. Criminal mischief. Juvenile detention.

“Where did you get this?” When he didn't answer, she held it up. “Where? Where did this come from? If these are juvenile records, they should be sealed. This isn't stuff you can just search online for.”

She would know. She'd searched all her Marines' names, most especially Greg's. She'd uncovered none of this.

“It was dropped off anonymously.” Andrew lifted a hand, let it fall heavily to the desk. “Someone is concerned that he's our man. Our vandal. The thief,” he added with a grimace. Then he motioned for the file folder back. “Can't say I don't blame them, with this history.”

Her head hurt, which was nothing to say of her heart. He'd kept this from her. Made her look like a fool in front of her boss, probably in front of more than just him. And yet, she knew in the heart that was breaking, he had nothing to do with the vandalism and theft.

“He was a kid. He's not our guy.” She fought for
something—anything—to make this go away. “He couldn't have done some of those pranks. I was with him for some.”

“See, there's the problem. You're connected emotionally. I have to take everything you say with a grain of salt. Plus, he had access to your keys. Can you tell me, without a doubt, he never made a copy of your key?”

She couldn't, not when put like that. But she wouldn't have ever assumed it possible.

“People will be breathing down my neck, saying you're lying for your boyfriend.” He muttered something into his hand then unbuttoned the top collar button of his polo shirt. “Why are all my Marines just falling ass over boots for my employees? Why am I cursed with this? Couldn't have been the women's volleyball team. No . . . gotta be the boxers with a stalker.”

She took a few deep breaths. “You realize whoever sent this to you is probably our guy, right? I mean, who would send this besides someone trying to cause trouble and focus your attention elsewhere?”

“I'm not an idiot,” Andrew said with a sneer. “I understand that's very likely. But what do you think will happen when this hits the newspapers?” When she sucked in a breath, he nodded. “You think David Cruise is going to bypass the chance to say something about the ‘thugs' we have on our boxing team?”

“He's not a thug.” She stood, realizing her knees were shaking but doing it anyway. “Don't ever say that. Whatever this is, it's not him.” She snatched the folder off his desk. “I'll handle it.”

“Robilard, I don't think—”

“I'll handle it,” she snapped. “It's my job.”

Or it was, for now.

24

K
ara led the team through a series of stretches she swore were a great prematch ritual. Something about loosening certain muscles while keeping the tension necessary to box. Greg didn't listen, just followed along. When she moved, he moved. When she stopped, he stopped. He figured she was the expert for a reason.

Beside him, Graham panted. Greg looked over to see his friend's head in the wrong position for what they were doing, making it more difficult for him to breathe. “Head down, Sweeney.”

Graham tore his eyes away from Kara, narrowed them at Greg, then resumed watching his crush as she flowed to the next position.

“So bad,” Greg sighed as he adjusted. “You've got it so damn bad.”

“Bite me.”

“We're not to that position yet.”

“Gentlemen,” Kara said softly, her voice carrying over
the sound of ocean waves on the CD she'd brought. “Focus, please.”

He did his best to clear his mind, find his chi, locate his center, levitate his spirit, whatever. But his center was probably still in bed, warm and sleepy and a little mad at him for waking her so early to say good-bye.

His balance . . . that he'd lost an hour ago when Coach Cartwright had finally let him finish his sprint drills. His penance for the fight with Tressler was complete, as long as there were no repeats. Since Tressler had walked in that morning and immediately picked a spot as far away from Greg as possible, he doubted it would be a problem.

He finally felt his heart rate slow, and started to feel some of that peace Kara was always harping on, when he heard the click of Reagan's heels approaching. His body tightened in response, undoing all the hard work Kara had put into their relaxation breathing before their yoga class. He could barely see her legs as she approached Coach Ace, doing paperwork on the side by the folded-in bleachers. Heels, of course, in royal blue this time, with a skirt he assumed, as her legs were bare to the knees. That's where his peripheral vision cut off.

“Higgs!” Coach Ace bellowed.

He snapped up straight. “Yes, Coach.”

“Ms. Robilard needs to speak with you privately.” He paused. “For professional reasons.”

Greg heard Graham snicker, but he ignored it. “Yes, sir.” After rolling up his mat, he weaved his way through the Marines in downward dog, grabbed his shoes and socks, and followed her to Coach Ace's office across the gym.

“Good timing,” he said as she opened the door and gestured him in. He sat and pulled on his socks, already tying one shoe when she sat in the coach's chair behind the desk. “I like Kara and all, but I'm really not sure about this yoga stuff. It's a nice break from practice, but—”

“Greg.” Her tone firm but soft, Reagan cut him off. He
glanced up and realized her face wasn't one of contentment or happiness, or even morning grouchiness, but one of frustration and hurt.

“What? What happened?” He leaned forward, reaching for her hand across the desk. She moved it out of the way. His heart skipped. They'd been fine when he'd left. Was she pissed about his leaving in the middle of the night? “What's wrong?”

She blinked a few times, staring over his shoulder, then sighed. “My supervisor called me in this morning, before I could head here.” Reaching in her bag, she pulled out a manila file folder. “He said this was sent to his office anonymously.”

She handed it over with trembling fingers.

Greg stared at the folder, a feeling of dull knowing creeping through his body. After a minute of thick silence, he opened the folder and found his past staring up at him. He couldn't meet her eyes, just stared at the word “delinquent” and wanted to throw up.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

At that, he met her gaze. Why was she apologizing?

“I don't know why . . .” She swallowed hard, and he saw tears swimming in her eyes. “I don't know why they fixated on you, but someone seems to think you make a great fall guy for the vandalism and theft.”

“Of course they do,” he said, voice hollow.

“I need to know if all this is true.” Her voice was wobbly, but her face was set in stone. Cold. So cold. And he deserved it. “If there are any mistakes in there, if there are any errors, if this was another kid with the exact same name who looks eerily similar to you . . .”

She was grasping at straws, and he couldn't blame her. But unfortunately . . . “It's me.” He scanned the list of acts once more. “It's true.”

Her breath sighed out, uneven. She held out a hand for the folder. “Thank you for your time.”

He blinked, but she'd already bent her head over the desk, writing, as if she'd dismissed him.
From the meeting, or from her life?
“That's all?”

“For now. Go practice.” She shooed him, like an annoying fly, without looking up.

It should have pissed him off. Would have, if he hadn't figured out she was upset, hurting, in a bad place. He deserved to be shoved out the door, and he couldn't blame her.

“So I'll see you later?”

“I have work to do.” She laughed, and it sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “Understatement. Just be available by phone please, in case I have further questions.”

He opened the coach's door, ready to escape the frigid temperatures of the office, but he had to know . . . “I didn't do it, you know. The pranks on the gym, the stolen equipment, all that.”

“I know.” Her tone was firm, no question to it. And though she refused to look at him, that unwavering belief in him had him leaving a few degrees warmer than he had been.

*   *   *

“SO
you were in juvie.”

Greg watched Graham flip a steak on the grill. “Yup.”

“What was it like?”

“Better than some of the foster homes I'd been in up to that point. Worse than others.”

Brad set his own bottle of water on the patio table in Sweeney's backyard. “How the hell are you just now sharing this with us? We've been a team for months now.”

“Why did you keep your relationship with the hottie athletic trainer a secret for so long? Or that your knee was hurt?” Greg watched the tips of his roommate's ears turn beet red. “Yeah. Sometimes, we just want to keep stuff to ourselves.” He rotated his beer, but didn't pick it up. “And that guy isn't me. I'm not that guy. He was a shit-for-brains heading nowhere faster than anyone could catch him.”

“Well, you are fast,” Sweeney said, grabbing a plate and pulling the steaks off the grill. When Brad made a noise, he sighed and put one back on. “Forgot, you like yours completely dead and burned to a crisp.”

“Just so that it's not still looking at me when you put it on my plate.”

“For those of us who like them the way God and all fine dining establishments meant them, we eat.” He set the plate down, tossed a steak on Greg's plate, and one on his own. “Potatoes should be done in a minute.”

“So what happened?” Brad waited while Greg chewed. “I mean, clearly you cleaned yourself up, but why? Nobody could catch you, you said so yourself.”

“Nobody could catch me. But I ran into a brick wall. A kid I couldn't beat in a fight. We'd been friends, before.” If one could call a partner in crime a friend. Now, he wouldn't. Back then, it was the closest thing he'd had to anything resembling friendship. “He stole a stereo, I hid it until we could hock it. He decided he wanted to sell it in secret for all the profits, we fought, he kicked my ass.” Greg grimaced, taking a sip of beer while Sweeney grabbed the potatoes and Brad's fully cooked steak. “He left me with the merchandise, so I got hit for that, too. When I came to, I was cuffed to a hospital bed.”

“How old?” Graham asked quietly.

“Almost seventeen. I could have been tried as an adult.”

Graham nodded. “I probably would have pushed for it.”

“Thanks.” Greg gave his friend a slap on the back. “Helps to know who you can count on.”

“He's consistent,” Brad said in a helpful tone. “Back to the story.”

“Not much of one. Someone saw something in me. Not sure if it was the judge, or the attorney that pushed for it. All I know is, I'm standing there, wearing orange—”

“Not your color,” Graham added.

“Thanks, Fashion Police. I'm standing there with bracelets
that connect and this judge is reading me the riot act. I've got my tough guy face on, the one that says I don't care, doesn't matter, who gives a shit. And somehow, he just decides to cut straight through the BS. He notices I've got good grades . . . when I actually attend school. I guess he put two and two together on the foster-family round robin I'd been playing, and decided to give me an option.”

“Military or juvie,” Graham cut in.

Brad shushed him. “Let the man tell his story.”

“Yeah.” Greg sipped his beer, pushed a piece of steak around on his plate. Despite the fantastic cut of beef, he just wasn't in the mood to appreciate it. “Let the man relive the most embarrassing, horrifying time in his life.”

His friends sat in silence, waiting.

“Military or juvie. I guess he assumed there was enough time for real jail—or prison—later on if it came to that. The way I was heading, it would have been inevitable. So I picked the military. Figured it was just a different kind of jail, but at least the uniform impressed the ladies. Plus, after four years, my record would be expunged. So technically, I don't have a record. Someone had to do some serious digging to find that stuff.”

“Ah, a true patriot. In it for the chicks and the clean record.” Sweeney toasted him with his beer. Brad scowled, as if unimpressed.

“So you went into the military at seventeen?”

“I was just shy of my birthday when I got busted. I spent the last remaining weeks under my probation officer's thumb. That lady was on me like barnacles on a schooner. I didn't have the chance to screw it up. The day after I turned seventeen, the judge signed me over to the military, and emancipated me. Off I went like a good boy. Found out the military wasn't that bad after all. Got a degree, moved to the officer side of life, kept clicking the yes button when they'd ask if I wanted another few years. Why not? Decent
money, decent health care, and it wasn't the life I led before. Why fix what isn't broken?”

“You fixed it already.” Brad settled back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. He watched Greg with an intensity that would have had him squirming if he hadn't known that would satisfy his friend. “You straightened your shit out yourself. The military gave you the opportunity, but you made the choice. So, good work.”

“Aw, thanks, Dad.”

Brad held up a middle finger.

“Not to be a sap, but he's not wrong.” With a mouth full of potato, Graham grinned. “Nice work, asshole.”

“Aw, my adoring fans.” He fell silent, pondering the next step from here. His friends seemed to accept the reason for his sketchy past without much trouble. But his friends weren't the woman he loved and lied to for weeks. “I didn't steal anything from the gym.”

Both friends made disgusted noises, with Graham throwing a piece of potato skin at him.

“Shut up,” he said, annoyance clear in his tone.

“Just stop,” Brad encouraged. “Nobody who has three brain cells to juggle thinks you did jack shit. Obviously, it was a setup. You just happened to have a pretty decent backstory to make people think twice.”

“But you probably have an alibi for most of it. I mean, you were with Reagan, right? Either at practice, or with one of us hanging out, or with her. That's pretty solid.”

Greg gave the JAG officer a raised brow. “This isn't a court case. There's no trial, so I don't need an alibi. She knows I didn't do it. Pretty sure almost everyone does. My past getting out would be embarrassing, but I doubt it will really move the needle on people assuming I'm guilty.”

His friends looked at each other for so long, Greg growled, “What?”

“What's the problem then?” Brad asked.

“Reagan's pissed, that's the problem.”

“Pissed at whoever dug that junk up? Hell yeah, she should be pissed. We're all pissed.” Sweeney gave him a confused look. “So?”

“She's pissed because I never told her. Now she's playing clean up when she's already behind on the story.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sort of fucked that one up.”

“Ya think?” Graham asked.

“Ho, boy,” Brad muttered. “Word of advice from someone who just went through this shit . . . get your ass over there now and talk to her. Put your foot in the door and don't let her shut it until you've said what you need to. She's smart, and she can make up her own mind from there.”

Greg picked at a corner of the label of his beer with a thumbnail. “And if she closes her door for good?”

Neither of his friends spoke for a while. He started to feel sweat gather down his spine, along his upper lip and at his temples. “You're not going to tell me to walk away quietly, are you? Do the noble thing or whatever and give her up for her own good?”

“Hell no,” Graham said, looking offended. “I'm sorry, are we or are we not Marines? When was the last time you heard a CO say, ‘Men, sit here and let everything we worked for walk away. Don't fight. Don't bother being proactive. Just sit here and piss and whine your life away. 'Murica.'”

Greg gave a watery laugh, then swallowed hard. “Very inspiring.”

“What our theatrical brother over there is saying,” Brad added quietly, “is if she closes the door, you wait until she moves off to the side, kick it down and keep fighting.”

“And if she gives me a hard slap for it?”

“Marine,” Brad reminded him. “You're not in the Air Force. You can take a slap and keep on moving.”