Against the Ropes (7 page)

“Yes, we're unveiling the new banners for past wins at the
All Military games. The old ones were faded, and we wanted to move them in here so the guys could see them while they practiced.” With a grin, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Let them go, boys!”

She was in her element. Despite the reporter's lack of enthusiasm, he could see Reagan was enjoying herself. This was something she loved. The nerves from before were gone, and she could have been speaking to the president himself with the poise she showed.

Time in the gym stopped, everyone froze and they watched as one the unveiling of the banners. The ones that would list the previous years the Marine boxing team had taken top place in the All Military games. Their past, which would stay in the gym as a daily reminder of the legacy they had to live up to.

He heard a quiet countdown from the three Marines above, then, at one, they released the strings they'd been holding and the banners unfurled over the gym.

The first thing that came to mind was,
Wow, those are intense
.

The second thing that came to mind, Brad was already voicing behind him.

“Are those . . . aww, shit.”

7

S
PLAT!

Reagan shrieked, several Marines cursed or yelled, and the reporter gasped as the gym floor exploded in color. Greg barely covered his face before he felt the slick slime of thick, wet . . . whatever coating his skin.

“Shit,” he muttered, keeping his face covered until he knew it was over. After another few seconds, he risked looking.

The gym—and most of its inhabitants—were covered in paint. Red, yellow, blue and green for the most part. Greg looked up, and found three Marines standing frozen on the catwalk above, mouths gaping open like guppies. Something told him they were just as shocked as the rest of them down below.

Someone coughed, and he turned to find Reagan and the reporter. Her face was largely untouched, as it seemed she'd protected herself as best she could, but the rest of her was covered in green and yellow paint. From her hair to the shoes she worshipped so much, she looked like she'd been on the wrong end of a paintball war.

The reporter hadn't been as quick on the draw. He slowly reached up and removed his glasses. His eyes—the only part of his face not covered in paint—reminded him of a raccoon in reverse. And Greg did his damndest not to laugh, going so far as to turn around and wipe a hand over his mouth—in the pretext of removing paint—to keep from bursting out. Most of his reserve came from knowing Reagan would shove those paint-covered shoes straight up his ass if he did.

“I am . . . so . . .” Reagan's hands shook as she reached out for the reporter's glasses. “So sorry. I don't even know how that happened.”

“Marines!” barked Coach Ace. “Get your asses down here
now
!” He coughed and spit a little as some paint dripped into his mouth.

Coach Ace on a normal day was something to behold. Coach Ace, livid and covered in red paint?

Greg wouldn't have traded a million dollars to be in those three Marines' shoes.

The three young Marines scrambled toward the staircase, likely fighting each other to not be the last one down.

“Is this sort of . . .” The reporter coughed out a little paint as he took his glasses back from Reagan. “. . . spectacle how you welcome the press? Or is it just your idea of fun?”

“I can assure you, sir, this was not intentional.” She handed him his glasses back, looking around quickly before taking one of his arms. “Let's just head into the locker room—the ladies' locker room should be empty—and get some towels.”

“If it wasn't intentional, then what was it?” The man stood his ground, looking around.

The three Marines burst through the stairwell doors and immediately slipped on the paint. One landed flat on his ass; the other two slipped around a few feet before gaining purchase.

“Coach, that wasn't us!” one insisted before he managed to skid-slide his way to where Coach Ace stood.

“It was a booby trap!” the other insisted.

“Just like the slashed tires and the wrecked training room!” the third, still on his hands and knees attempting to get up like a man who'd fallen at an ice rink, put in. “Someone's out to get us!”

“Slashed tires?” Showing the first signs of life since he'd walked into the gym, the reporter's paint-coated eyebrows rose. “Booby traps? What's this all about?”

“Oh, just some young Marines with silly imaginations.” She laughed, though to Greg the sound was high-pitched enough to border on hysterical. “Let's go get cleaned up first, then we can see about finishing that last interview. In the meantime,” she added, talking over her shoulder, voice raised, “Coach Ace is going to get things under control out here!”

They all waited, frozen, until the outer door to the never-used women's locker room shut. Then it was as if someone had opened a box of drunk magpies. Everyone began walking around—or sliding, depending on the traction they could gain—chattering at once, accomplishing exactly nothing.

“Quiet,” Coach Ace said, and the tone carried more than the sound. Everyone settled down, even the three moronic Marines who had blurted out that junk in front of the reporter. “You three, in my office now.” He watched as they made their way toward his door. “And don't sit on anything!”

“I'll go call maintenance,” Coach Cartwright said.

“Coach Willis!”

“Back here, Ace.” The short man, who resembled a bearded Danny DeVito, held up a hand in the back of the gym. He stood in front of a group of men who had been in the weight room, sheltered from the paint splatter.

“Avoid the paint, take those guys out back and have them wait outside while we get this figured out. Nobody leaves,” he said in a deadly voice. “The rest of you, do your best to track as little paint as possible outside. We're hosing off.”

*   *   *

REAGAN
sent the reporter on his way, after lying through her teeth, repeatedly, about sabotage in the gym. It was her worst nightmare. She'd expected questions about violence in athletics. About wasting taxpayers' money on sports when they should be training for combat or downsizing the budget. About a dozen other potentially negative-seeming stories any media might throw at her, to give it all a positive spin.

But no. She didn't get to do any of that. She got to wipe paint off a newspaperman's face and apologize profusely, then lie outright about not having a clue what had happened or why.

Well, not entirely a lie. More of a fib. She certainly had no clue why the boxing team was being targeted, or by whom. But when he'd asked about the slashed tires and the wrecked training room . . .

Oh, everyone has to deal with a flat tire now and then. I had one last month! Yes, yes, the training room was broken into, but nothing was stolen. Just some mischief. The MPs—that's military police—yes, of course you know that—are on it, but think it was just teenage pranks.

Okay, she'd evaded with creative storytelling. That sounded better, didn't it?

She stared at herself in the mirror of the locker room. Her eyebrows were crusty with dried paint, her hair was a crunchy mess around her shoulders, her suit was definitely ruined, and her shoes . . . Oh, her beautiful shoes. She rose on her toes, experimentally, and then settled her weight back down. The squish echoed through the empty bathroom. They were full of paint, despite having wiped them down with damp paper towels.

No, nothing about this sounded better, no matter how she spun it.

She took a deep breath, then stepped out into the gym. And realized the men had completely vacated the premises. She walked over to a maintenance worker who was on his
hands and knees, wiping up a trail of paint close to the exit. She didn't envy him his job. “Excuse me, did you see where the boxing team went?”

He looked up for a moment, then hooked a thumb toward the back exit of the gym. “Out back.”

Okay, they were still here. She still had time to ream three baby Marines and give the entire team a crash course in What Not to Say 101. She hustled toward the back, wincing as each step squished a bit. Ew.

And opened her door to what might be considered the single girl's paradise.

Marines, stripped down to their skivvies, were hosing each other down in the employee parking lot. The few who hadn't gotten paint-bombed were manning hoses while wearing their gym shorts, barefoot. Those they blasted with water stood on towels as the strength of the garden hose power washed the paint away. Nearby, others toweled down from a recent spritzing. Their clothes lay in heaps of color, soaked.

As she watched, the Marines rotated and still-paint colored men took their places on the towels while the others shuffled off to dry.

The door behind her opened and closed again, and she heard Marianne laugh. “Where's a girl's camera when she needs one?”

“It's like a freaking calendar out here. There's February,” Reagan said, nodding in the direction of one Marine who bent at the waist and tunneled his fingers through his hair to rinse it out.

“Looks like he's giving September a run for his money,” Marianne added, using her elbow to indicate a good-looking man whose dark skin gleamed while he toweled from the feet up.

Brad wandered over, walking carefully over the pavement in his bare feet. “Are they grabbing our bags from the gym?”

“Yup.” She patted his cheek—blessedly clean—once, then looked at Reagan. “My interns are gathering up everyone's
bags, which should have their street clothes and hopefully some shoes.

“Good idea.” Reagan fought to keep her eyes on the men's faces as they moved around her. Hard . . . so hard. “Whose idea was this to come back here instead of using the locker room?”

“Coach Ace's. Said he didn't want to cause more a mess than we had to.” Brad vigorously rubbed a towel over his short-cropped hair. It dried almost instantly. Not fair. “Cold, but effective. Plus, saved the drains in the locker room. They already suck. I can't imagine what putting this much paint down them would do.”

“Considerate,” Marianne added. “Oh, look, November's getting started.”

“Huh?” Brad turned—well, they
all
turned—to watch the Marine Reagan thought was named Tribalt step into the spray. “Oh, Jesus H. You've got to be kidding me.”

“Don't worry. You're the only calendar I want, January through December,” Marianne said with an amused gleam in her eyes.

“Better be,” Brad muttered.

“But I have to help Reagan build her own calendar. Just because I'm a one-man planner doesn't mean she can't diversify her months.” Marianne laughed as Brad growled, dancing out of the way as he threatened to toss his sopping wet towel at her.

“I'm good being a one-man planner, myself,” Reagan said absentmindedly, watching Greg take his turn under the water. It was like he didn't even feel the icy blast, the way he turned around, his movements economical and efficient. He was a get-in-get-out shower taker, she guessed.

But that didn't mean, for the short time he doused himself off, she couldn't marvel at the scenery.

The way his biceps bulged as he stretched to wash off all the paint, how his fingers disturbed his almost too-long hair, spiking it up as he scrubbed through, the way his butt tightened under the black boxer briefs when he turned to wash his front . . .

“Uh-huh.” Marianne snorted. “I think you found your calendar already.”

Reagan chose to say nothing, lest she incriminate herself. She patted her flaming hot cheeks. “It's so warm out here.”

“Right. I often think fifty-nine and partly cloudy is so warm, too.” With a dry voice, Marianne added, “It's not the weather that's got you all hot and bothered.”

Coach Ace walked over, his own tennis shoes squishing a little as he came by. He was dripping wet but still wore all his clothes, as if he'd chosen to keep them on while hosing off. “How pissed was the reporter?”

“Not too much,” she started, then shrugged when he lifted one brow. “Okay, very. I have a feeling our byline at this point will be less than complimentary.”

“Don't care about that too much, as long as it doesn't affect the team.”

“But it might,” she pointed out. “If the boxing team is considered a liability, they could always shut it down without warning.” And that would be the worst-case scenario for Reagan. Her first adult job, and she'd managed to run the entire program straight into the ground. “Or they could change up coaching staff, or make you start all over with new Marines, or—”

“I get the point. We need to remain in the good graces of the reporting population.” With a heavy sigh, the coach crossed his arms. Arms that were, in Reagan's opinion, more like tree trunks than limbs. “What next, PR expert?”

She almost argued at the “expert” label, then decided not to. “Before they leave, I need to speak with all of them. Very quick, just a short spurt on how to handle this little”—she looked at the colorful pile of abandoned clothes—“snafu, shall we say.”

“We shall.” His voice said he caught her sarcasm.

“From there, I'll meet with everyone individually this week and do a quick coaching session one-on-one. I'd only planned to do that with the guys who were getting the most
airtime, but thanks to a few somebodies,” she added, staring daggers at the three idiots with big mouths who stood off to the side, handing out towels, “we need to be more proactive. I'll try not to disrupt your practices too much.”

“I think we're past that.” With another heavy sigh, he pushed away from the wall and walked toward the center of the drying Marines. “Gather round, everyone. You, too, once you're finished rinsing him off,” he added to the last pair using a hose.

After another three minutes, they all waited. “Ms. Robilard has some stuff she needs to share with you. You're going to listen, you're going to absorb and you're not going to make another mistake on sharing the inner workings of this team with an outsider again. Understand?”

The group gave a combined “Oo-rah!” in answer, and Reagan felt the hairs on her arms stand. She loved it when they did that.

Coach Ace stepped to the side and motioned for her to take his spot. She did, cleared her throat, then realized she was now speaking to a group of mostly naked, dripping-wet Marines.

This was so not covered in her public speaking courses.

“You know,” she began, going on instinct, “when people say to picture your audience in their underwear, I don't think this is what they had in mind. If they did, we'd never get through our speeches.”

The group laughed, and she caught Greg watching her with an approving gaze. He winked at her, and she knew she'd made the right call to start with humor.

If he kept looking at her like that, she might think she could do just about anything.

*   *   *

GREG
set down his laundry basket and groaned. That paint had been a bitch to get out of his clothes. Three rounds in the washer—not including the prerinse in the bathroom sink—before he'd been able to dry them.