Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  No, not really. “It’s fascinating, I assure you.” Putting on her best I’m-an-adult voice, she added, “You know fighting outside the ring isn’t a wise decision, right?”

  “A fighter’s a fighter. And anywhere can be a ring.” He grinned. “Back alley, barroom, living room . . . gym. All it takes is two sets of fists and a reason.”

  “That right there will be our second problem to tackle with this team.”

  “What’s the first?”

  She grimaced. “These acts of vandalism. The last one was threatening. It’s a concern, especially as we don’t know the motive.”

  “I’d say motive isn’t really the problem when the message is ‘Eat shit and die’ written on the walls of our practice area.” Greg leaned forward a little, as if imparting a secret. “But it wasn’t really the most creative threat, nor was it the most violent. Probably kids.”

  “Maybe, but nonetheless, Mr. Higgs, I—”

  “Greg.”

  She blinked. “No, I really—”

  “Normally I’d say Lieutenant Higgs, no mister about it. But we’re not really playing the rank card here. So Greg’s good enough.”

  She had to admit calling him mister, or by his rank, didn’t seem to fit the situation. “Fine. Gregory, first I would like to—”

  “Greg.”

  Her ears flushed with annoyance and she puffed out an exasperated breath. The man was impossibly stubborn. But bonus, her hands had stopped shaking enough to grab her notes and leaf through them. “Greg,” she bit off. “I’m compiling a list of the current roster along with any potentially interesting snippets I can give to media outlets that might come calling or could be used in the future. Any experience you have with boxing outside of the Marines, for example. Anyone famous you trained with, any little personal anecdote you might have to add to the more factual bio I have. Any fun stories about why you joined the Marines. The media loves a human interest piece.”

  He snorted at that. “Nobody gives a crap about the Marine boxing team but Marines . . . and maybe the other branches’ boxing teams. We’re not exactly professional athletes here, Mrs. Robilard.”

  “It’s miss,” she corrected absently, glancing through the biography the program director had given her. Like the others, it was mostly details. Important dates, FITREPs, any awards given, and a list of the numerous deployments and TDYs. Unlike the other bios, though, where he’d had the option to fill in personal information himself—hometown, family, interests outside of boxing—he’d left it blank.

  “I’ll need you to fill this out all the way.” She slid the paper toward him, doing her best to avoid touching him at all. “You left the bottom blank.”

  He glanced at it, then passed it back. “I filled out all the necessary stuff. Nothing more to say.”

  “There’s always something more to say. If you could just—”

  “Look, Miss Robilard,” he said, standing abruptly, “I didn’t sign on to be a talking figurehead. I came here to box and have some fun with my new teammates. That’s all. If that’s not enough for the Corps, then I can just as easily head back to my home base and be done with it. It’s no skin off mine.” With that, he slipped out of the office like smoke.

  “Well,” she muttered, noticing her hand had begun trembling again. “That just about sucked.”

  ***

  An hour later, Reagan’s heart rate had returned to normal and her hands had calmed down enough to sort through all the Marines who had been cut and the ones who had made the team. Those Marines who had stayed for the impromptu, off-the-books workout had been called in one by one to evaluate potential PR gold mines, and there was a list of the few she hadn’t seen yet. She was in control. A force of organizing nature. A professional, competent, capable woman. She was a cool cucumber who—

  “Hey.”

  “Oh my Jesus!” Rocking back in the springy chair, Reagan grabbed the edge of the desk, praying it would keep her from being thrown to the floor. A few seconds of bronco-riding later and she was right side up. When she heard a snickering from the doorway, she shot a glare at Marianne Cook. “Why is that so funny?”

  “You’d have to see it from my angle to understand the humor.” Marianne grinned and shut the door behind her, flopping into the seat across the desk. Normally, the short, spritely athletic trainer wore a Marine Corps boxing team polo and khaki bottoms of some kind, combining the practicality of being able to move with the professionalism expected of her. Today, however, she wore simple sweatpants and a large man’s T-shirt.

  Feeling testy, Reagan gathered the piles she’d scattered and started stacking them back together. “Where’s the work uniform?”

  “My day off equals my day to slop it up. No point in getting all dressy to watch them go at quarter speed. They’re barely breaking a sweat out there.” She tilted her head to indicate the gym beyond the office door. “Most of them are so thankful they made the team their legs are still like jelly.”

  Reagan could relate. She finished stacking and slapped the last pile down a little harder than necessary. “I spoke with Brad.”

  “Hmm.” Marianne picked up one of Coach Ace’s pens and started twirling it.

  “We talked a bit about you and the situation with your relationship.”

  “Uh-huh.” She doodled a bit on the edge of a piece of paper. Reagan shifted it slightly to the left, out of range. Marianne just settled back and watched her. Then, with a sigh, she added, “Am I supposed to be defensive about it? Reagan, you knew we were dating. He made the team on his own merit. I’m still here on my own merit. That’s really all.”

  “He said as much. And you don’t have to feel defensive. I’m not the one in charge of hiring or firing anyone.” Reagan blew at the hair that threatened to fall over her eyes. Why didn’t her hair stay in its nice, professional chignon like it was supposed to? The women in the Harvard Business Review made their hair look effortlessly professional and grown-up. “But I still had to ask. I can’t just stop doing my job. If there’s a PR disaster or treasure trove, it’s my job to find it and use it.”

  “Well, there’s neither. No treasure troves or disasters. We just want to date in peace.” Marianne propped one running shoe–clad foot on the corner of the coach’s desk. “As long as that’s clear.”

  “It is.” Reagan debated it a moment, but then decided to try. “Wanna get drinks later?”

  Marianne blinked in surprise. “I just gave you a snotty warning and you invite me to drinks? You have very weird responses.”

  “I’m desperate,” Reagan said honestly.

  “Well, in that case, sign me up!” Marianne said with a laugh.

  Reagan’s mouth dropped open when she realized what she’d said. “No! Oh, God no. That’s not what I meant.” She let her forehead drop to the desk, lifted it and dropped it once more. “I’m awful at this.”

  “If you’re asking me out on a date, then I have to tell you, it’s not going very well.”

  Reagan tilted her head so she could look up with one eye. Marianne’s amused face told her the trainer was kidding. “You’re not my type.”

  “Shame. Now why are you desperate?”

  “I’m desperate for female company. Legit, intelligent female company. I still don’t know my way around this town, I get lost on base anytime I have to go somewhere besides here, and I’m about eight states away from anyone I know.” She sighed and settled back, smoothing down her jacket. “Desperate.”

  “Sounds like it.” With a gentle smile, Marianne stood and held out a hand. “Phone.”

  Reagan handed it over without protest, knowing what the other woman was up to. “Call yourself or text yourself or something so you have my number, too.”

  A few seconds later, a pocket low on Marianne’s thigh began to sing. She pressed a button through the fabric of the sweats and shut the music off. “Got it. I already promised I’d go out with my friend Kara tonight—”

  “Oh. Right, of course. Plans. You’ve got plans.” A
nd here she was, horning in like a lost puppy, desperate for a belly scratch and a single word of praise. Would she ever get it right?

  “But,” Marianne added, “we’d love to have you join us. Normally it’s just us chilling at her place because she’s got a son, but she sprung for a babysitter tonight. We’re painting the town red.”

  “Isn’t it already red and gold everywhere around here?” Reagan asked, looking around Coach Ace’s office. The predominant pair of colors was splashed all over. The Marine Corps colors were deeply embedded everywhere.

  “Good point. Nevertheless, I officially invite you to join us out. I know what it’s like being the new kid, and it’s not always easy. So it’s time to join the in crowd.”

  “The in crowd, huh?” Reagan took her phone back from Marianne, feeling like she was being handed a lifeline. “That’s you and your friend?”

  Marianne pfffted. “Who the hell knows? I’ll text you the location, but be ready for questions. Kara and I are going to demand to know your life story from beginning to end.”

  “Right. Life story. So that will take up five minutes. What will we do with the rest of the night?” She laughed when Marianne did, feeling more relaxed since the trainer had come into the room. “Thank you.”

  “No prob. I’ll see you later on tonight.” With a wave, the short woman disappeared into the gym. Not five seconds later, Reagan could hear her voice shouting, “No, Carmichael! You’re going to blow out your elbow like that! I gave you a pamphlet on that last week!”

  Jeanette Murray is the author of the Santa Fe Bobcats series, including Loving Him Off the Field and One Night with a Quarterback. She spends her days surrounded by hunky alpha men . . . at least in her imagination. In real life, she’s a wife and a mother, keeping tabs on her husband, her daughter, and the family dog on the outskirts of St. Louis.

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