Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  “You’re staring,” her mother murmured.

  Marianne snapped her gaze back. “Am not.”

  With a small smile, her mother traced the rim of her wineglass with a fingertip. “You know the reason I find it fun to flirt with men? Men I have no intentions of being with, and whom I know have no intentions of being with me? When I’m happily married to your father, and have been for almost thirty years?”

  “I’m not sure I want to,” she muttered, and killed the bottle with one last gulp.

  “It’s because it makes me feel feminine and pretty. A little alive. Your father pays compliments, but it’s nice to be . . . seen by other people. It’s fun, and harmless. And it makes me happy. What makes you happy?”

  “Work.” The answer was easy enough, on the tip of her tongue before she could even think. “I love my job.”

  “Of course you do. But I don’t see you looking at athletic tape and Icy Hot the way you just looked at that young man’s ass just now.”

  “Things you never want to hear your mother say,” Marianne said to the ceiling.

  Her mother raised a light brow. “Am I wrong?”

  She was saved from having to answer when the server sat down another light beer and glass of wine. Marianne waved her hand to catch the woman’s attention before she made herself scarce again. “We didn’t order these.”

  “Sent over from the bar. Guy says he’s sorry for the trouble and hopes you weren’t offended by his friend’s intrusion.”

  “Oh, that sweet boy.” Mary gulped the last of her first wine and pushed the empty glass to the server before reaching for the fresh one. “He shouldn’t have.”

  “No, he shouldn’t have. We don’t need drinks,” Marianne said quickly, stalling her mother’s arm. “Can you tell him we appreciate the gesture but—”

  “Nope. He’s already gone. And that was definitely no boy. They’re paid for, so enjoy.” The server winked and headed back to the bar.

  So the other one—the one not using horrible pickup lines—had sent them. As an apology for his friend? Or more? She found herself searching the thinning crowd around the bar, just in case. But the server was right, both he and his younger companion—along with most of the crowd they’d come with—were gone.

  “Looking for our mystery Marine, are we?”

  She threw a crumpled up cocktail napkin at her mother. “Don’t start. And I can’t drink this. I’m driving home. My boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves. I’ve got a to-do list a mile long, and I want to have some pamphlets ready to print for—”

  “Oh, relax.” Mary leaned back in the booth. “Sip slowly, drink water, and slow down for five minutes. You’re having a drink with your mother; it can’t be that sinful.”

  She debated for a good twenty seconds before grabbing the bottle and having a fresh sip of cool, refreshing beer. Fine. Five minutes, then back to real life.

  Mystery Marine, thanks for the drinks, but no thank you.

  ***

  Tressler eyed Brad with childish mutiny from a corner of the wrestling mat. “You didn’t have to fuck up my night, man.”

  Not even minute one of training camp, and already Brad was making lifelong friends. He closed his eyes and stretched his back on the mat. Tuck right knee to chest, rotate back until crossing body, and feel the stretch. Stare up at ceiling and not at idiot.

  They were in some semblance of a semicircle, waiting for the coaches to begin day one. There were several sleepy eyes in the crowd, and a few who looked like they’d been pushed out of bed with a bulldozer. And of course Tressler, who would have been worse off if Brad hadn’t stepped in and “encouraged” him to make an early night of it.

  But did he get thanks for being the mature, levelheaded one and keeping him from making an ass of himself? No. Of course not. Maybe he should have let the kid keep talking to the mother-daughter combo. He would have gotten a healthy slap eventually.

  Brad had almost done just that. Walked on by, hit the head, and gone home alone to get a solid night’s rest. But something in the way Tressler’s younger blonde-haired prey had looked—an interesting mixture of boredom and concern—had stopped him in his tracks. And though she probably hadn’t meant it, the gratitude and relief when he’d taken Tressler in hand had shone in her eyes, making him feel eight feet tall.

  “You’re not my commanding officer here.”

  “Nope,” he agreed easily. And thank God for that. He stared at the exposed beams that criss-crossed over the high ceiling of the arena. Dropping the leg, he let it fall a bit more, allowing the pull to stretch his muscles.

  “I don’t have to do what you say.”

  “Okay then.” Switch sides, stretch away, ignore moron.

  “I could have had her,” Tressler continued, almost to himself.

  Brad snorted. And he wasn’t the only one.

  “Knock it off, you two.” Higgs, who looked a little rough himself, slapped a palm on the mat. The smack of flesh echoed off the high rafters of the gym. “I’m not listening to a bunch of whiny pussies for months.”

  Brad took the insult the way it was intended, with equal parts camaraderie and respect, and a little warning tossed in for good measure.

  Sadly, Tressler didn’t seem to have the maturity to do the same. “Who are you calling a pussy, pussy?”

  “Jesus,” Brad muttered, closing his eyes again when Higgs stood. “Knock it off, both of you.”

  “I agree.”

  The low growl took them all by surprise. Every Marine was on his feet, at attention where he stood, as the coach approached. He was a mountain of a man, solidly built but still huge. His dark skin only made the contrast of his white teeth, bared in a grimace, and his shocking white hair stand out that much more.

  “Bunch of ladies, bickering and moaning. ‘She stole my boyfriend. She wore my favorite shirt. I saw her texting Tommy and I like Tommy so she can’t do that,’” he mocked in a high-pitched faux teen girl voice.

  A few chuckled before coughing.

  “Yeah, it’s humorous.” He let his clipboard fall to the mat with a rattle. “Funny, when men can’t be five seconds in each other’s presence without acting like a bunch of middle school girls who got snubbed for the big dance.”

  Brad bit the side of his cheek to keep from smiling.

  The man walked between the Marines, through them, weaving in and out on silent feet. Brad kept his eyes forward, the only warning of the coach’s presence the change in atmosphere when he passed by. For a man who must have weighed two-fifty, he moved like a ghost. “I’m sent the few, the proud, the—what? What was that delicate term you used?” He paused by Tressler and Higgs, who both stared straight ahead. “‘Pussies,’ was it?”

  Tressler said nothing. Kid had caught on, finally.

  “Well, if that’s true, then we’ve got our work ahead of us, don’t we?” He made his way back to the front of the mat, where they could all see him. “At ease, boys. This isn’t formation; this is practice. I don’t expect you to salute and stand at attention around me. I’m your coach, not your commanding officer. And I’ll tell you what—I want you to all check your rank at the door. I make the leaders in this gym, not some brass on your collar when you’re back with your units.”

  He rubbed his hands together. They were the size of dinner plates. “I’m Coach Ace, and these are my assistants.” He pointed a thumb over his left shoulder, toward a tall, lanky man with almost no hair and glasses. “Coach Cartwright.” Thumb jerked to the right, to the short man with a shocking orange-red moustache that would make the Lorax proud. “Coach Willis.”

  He spread his arms out wide. “Coaches, this is what we have to work with. Let’s see what we’ve been given. Men? Are you pussies, or are you Marines?”

  As one, for the first time, the entire squad gave a loud “Oo-rah!”

  Keep reading for a special preview of

  AGAINST THE ROPES

  Available October 2015 from Berkley

  And now, he was o
fficially one of the team.

  Gregory Higgs turned from the list on the door of Coach Ace’s office and scrubbed a hand over his face. That was that. He was officially on the Marine Corps boxing team.

  Oo-rah and all that.

  “Hey, is it up yet?” Graham Sweeney jogged over, beating the crowd. “The list, it’s up?”

  “Yeah.” Greg stepped aside to let Graham by. “I forgot to check for your name. Sorry.”

  “No problem. You were checking for your crew. I totally get it.” His friend’s finger slowly scanned down the list, pausing every so often as he noted a member of his own unit. “Damn, Monticino didn’t make it.”

  Greg wasn’t sure who that was, exactly, so he said nothing.

  “And . . . there.” He breathed deeply. “There we go. I’m in.”

  Because he knew it mattered greatly to his friend, Greg slapped his shoulder. “Well, look at it this way, even if you’d have been cut, the commute home would have been simple.”

  “Back gate, five minutes into Hubert.” Graham grinned and punched Greg’s shoulder. “Congrats, man. We did it.”

  “No shocker you two managed to pull through.” Walking carefully, Brad Costa ambled toward them. From one hand, a black knee brace dangled.

  Just to mess with his roommate, Greg stepped in front of the list. “Pull through what?”

  Brad made a face and stopped in front of him. “Move.”

  “Why?” He glanced at Graham. “What’s he want?”

  “He,” Brad said sarcastically, “wants to see the list. Move.”

  “It’s like he cares,” Greg added, eyes wide. “Grandpa, are you ready for your nap yet?”

  Brad bent over as if he were ready to charge and Greg sidestepped, laughing. “You’re too easy, man. You’ve really got to tone it down or I’m going to have way too much fun poking at you while we’re traveling.”

  “So . . .” Suddenly serious, Brad stepped up and scanned down the list. Much like Graham, he sighed when he caught his name, then went back to find the rest of his team. “Damn.”

  “Missing one?”

  “Two. Or maybe one and a half.”

  Greg glanced at Graham. “Half?”

  “Chalfent’s listed as an alternate.” Brad turned, face grim. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I think it means they send them home, but ask them to keep training while they’re there. If someone on the team gets hurt or can’t compete, they’ll bring them back.”

  Brad gave a tight nod, then headed toward the mats the team used to warm up. A few younger Marines walked into the gym and jogged toward Coach Ace’s door.

  “Who else did you lose?” Greg asked, catching up.

  “Tibbs. But I already knew that. There was no way they’d keep him after that debacle with the motorcycle last weekend.” Sitting down carefully, Brad began to stretch out his legs. The brace lay next to his hip, unused.

  “Forgive me for my lack of a medical degree, but aren’t you supposed to be, I dunno, wearing that?” Graham pointed to the brace. Brad kicked it at him. Graham kicked it back.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  At the sound of their pint-sized drill sergeant of an athletic trainer, all three men froze. The sounds of groans and cheers from across the gym—Marines who were checking the list—echoed. As one, the three Marines turned to see Marianne Cook standing just off the mat, looking surprisingly adorable in an oversized T-shirt he could easily guess was from Brad’s collection, and some sweatpants that bunched at the ankles and were clearly about five inches too long. The toe of one running shoe tapped, and her arms were crossed. The scowl she sent Brad could have frozen the nuts off a bull.

  And all at once, Greg was very glad Brad had been the one to catch the cute AT’s eye early in training camp, and not him.

  “Bradley Costa, you put that brace on right now.”

  Graham snickered and bent over his knees, hiding his grin.

  She turned on him in a snap. “Don’t feel superior, Marine. You’re on my shit list, too. You didn’t come in so I could look at those two fingers yesterday like I asked.”

  He held his left hand high, keeping his chin tucked to his chest. His voice was muffled as he said, “Here they are. Still attached.”

  “Everyone’s a tough guy,” she muttered as she marched over to look at the fingers on display. “Put it on,” she demanded of Brad without even sparing him a glance. Gingerly, she probed Graham’s hand. It was only because Greg sat next to him that he heard his friend’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Falling apart, both of you,” Greg said cheerfully as he pulled his heels in toward his crotch and bent over.

  “Figures the guy who wasn’t even sure he wanted to make the team remains suspiciously healthy,” Brad muttered as he struggled to get the brace on over his shoe. After a minute, he gave up and took the shoe off before slipping the brace on.

  More Marines joined them, spacing themselves out across the mat. Greg’s unit—teammates now—came over as they filed in to tell him they’d made the team, except the one who had been cut. He stood to shake the man’s hand, wish him luck and give a reminder to add him on Facebook so they could keep in touch.

  Brad gave him a baffled look as he sat back down. “You just make friends everywhere, don’t you?”

  “Him?”

  The loud, booming shout stopped conversation cold as every Marine turned his head to look toward the door. Two men stood at the coach’s door, one clearly attempting to calm the other down. The enraged one shook his friend’s restraining hand off his shoulder and pointed toward the group stretching.

  “Him? They kept the old guy with a jacked-up knee and let me go? Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Uh-oh,” Graham muttered under his breath. Brad groaned and got to his feet. Greg stood beside him. His fists instinctively curled; his heart raced in anticipation of a fight. He forced his hands to relax, shaking them a bit. Calm down. Calm down. After a moment, Graham stood as well, forming a three-strong wall.

  The pissed-off Marine stormed toward them, and Greg had a momentary vision of a bull charging a red cape. Right before he would have slammed into Brad, Greg dove for him. Catching the man by surprise at a diagonal, he sent the two of them sprawling over the mat. He first went for restraint, but anger lent the dude too much strength.

  The other man’s anger fueled his own, and despite his earlier attempt to remain calm, Greg felt his own temper snapping at the leash.

  Oh, well. Practice came a bit early today.

  Dodging several clumsy, if strong, blows, Greg ducked and shouldered the man back a few steps. The other Marine had strength, but if memory served, the guy was never fast enough to keep up. His jabs were like swinging tree trunks. Potentially dangerous when he could land one, but inaccurate as hell. And Greg was too fast to get hit.

  Another swing and Greg tossed the man to the ground. Arms wrapped around his waist, keeping him from going back for seconds. Graham sat on the downed man’s chest, tsking his tongue.

  “That was pathetic. No wonder you got cut instead of the old guy.”

  “Shut up,” Brad said easily.

  The man squirmed, but Graham found a pressure point in his shoulder that had the man moaning and subsiding quickly.

  “Ease it down, Higgs,” Brad said quietly as Greg fisted his hands again, breathing heavily, and not from exertion. “That was my fight, anyway.”

  “I needed the exercise. Not that he gave me much.” Greg forced his fingers to relax, mentally willing the adrenaline to die down. Knowing the way his body and mind worked together, he could do too much damage in two minutes with an amped-up system. He had to calm down.

  “Oh, lovely.”

  They all turned as a clicking sound echoed over the hardwood floor. And the business-suit-hottie they’d all seen lurking around the gym the last week or so headed toward them on curvy legs, hips swaying in her dark skirt.

  “Testosterone for breakfast. Move over, Wheatie
s.” The woman paused by Marianne, who had a disgusted look on her face. “Are they done now or will there be another round?”

  “They’re done,” Marianne said with finality.

  “Since today was an informal practice anyway, Coach Ace said I could use his office.” She pointed at Greg, or more specifically, at his still-heaving chest. “You, come with me.”

  Greg—and probably every other Marine—watched as she spun on pinprick heels and sashayed across the floor toward the office.

  “Anytime,” he breathed, shaking Brad’s grip off before following.

  ***

  Reagan sat down in Coach Ace’s chair, grateful to be alone for a moment while her hands were still shaking a little. “Stop that,” she ordered, but they didn’t quite hear the order. There was no way she’d be able to take notes like this, let alone type on a computer in the borrowed office. And let’s not even mention appearing to be a professional in front of a bunch of hardened warriors.

  Because nothing said I’m a professional who has it all under control like limbs quaking like a tree branch in a wind storm.

  A quick rap on the door made her jolt. She glanced over to see the dark blond with moves like lightning looking in. “You rang?”

  “I did, yes. Please come in.” She motioned toward the only other chair in the small, cramped office that smelled like six-day-old sweat socks and must. Lovely. To hide her trembling hands, she smoothed her skirt down, then folded them in her lap. “Your name, please?”

  “Higgs. Gregory Higgs.” He settled his body down into the chair and smiled easily. “Yours?”

  “Reagan—sorry, Miss Robilard,” she corrected quickly. Keep it together, Reagan. “I’m the athlete liaison for the team, and will be handling all PR, travel, and outreach efforts for you gentlemen.”

  He relaxed back a bit, as if knowing her name made the entire thing less formal. One ankle crossed over his knee, and his hands rested comfortably in his lap. No tremble, she noticed with a little resentment. “That sounds like a fun job.”