Against the Ropes

by Jeanette Murray

  “I need something, Greg. Please.”

  He debated throwing out something pithy, just to answer the question. But he had a feeling “I secretly like lima beans” wasn’t what she wanted. He ran fingertips up her bare back, tracing her spine until he reached the soft, baby-fine hairs of the nape of her neck.

  “I’m jealous of your family.”

  He felt her eyelashes blink several times against his shoulder. He’d surprised her. “You’ve never met them. And I . . . they’re . . . I don’t know.”

  He knew. Despite the fact that she felt like they held her back, wanted less for her, he understood. They didn’t know any more than what they knew. And they wanted the best for her of what they knew. He could see her side, and didn’t blame her for her feelings of guilt and embarrassment. She was entitled to them. But at the end of the day, even if they were horrendous at showing it, they loved her. She had brothers who would show her how to use a power tool, a mom who called to check in on her and make sure she had a place to land if she stumbled.

  It wasn’t conventional, and it wasn’t what Reagan had hoped for, but it was a family Greg would have killed for as a child.

  She was quiet so long, and her breathing evened out enough he knew she’d thought herself to sleep. He’d have to answer more questions later, there was no avoiding it. He’d opened a can of worms, and they weren’t going to be stuffed back in again.

  He just prayed when she finally got a good look at what she’d been after, she still wanted him.

  * * *

  “HEY.”

  Reagan batted at the thing—whatever it was—that was attempting to shake her awake. “No,” she mumbled.

  “Reagan,” the intolerable thing whispered again.

  “Go away,” she whimpered and rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face into her pillow.

  “I just wanted to let you know I was taking off.”

  That had her raising her head. It was still pitch black in the bedroom, and she had to blink several times before the bleariness cleared enough to see her bedside clock. “It’s not even three in the morning yet.”

  “I know, but I didn’t bring anything over, and I’ve got a hella early workout with Coach Cartwright this morning.”

  She rolled onto her back, draping one arm over her eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to wake up and wonder why I’d split in the middle of the night.” Greg kissed her lips, and she let him because biting him in retaliation would have taken too much effort. “Now go back to sleep, and I’ll see your sexy ass in the gym.”

  She grumbled, but he just chuckled and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  She woke several hours later, not feeling nearly as refreshed as usual, and cool. Though the temperature wasn’t all that chilly in her apartment, she knew it was because she’d grown used to a furnace lying beside her in bed. When her feet grew cold, she’d been able to slide them under his legs, relish his momentary gasp of breath, and warm right up.

  “Men,” she said, sitting up. “And now I’m talking to myself. I should get a cat so this is less weird.”

  She thought about that a moment.

  “Nope, it would still be weird.”

  There were still benefits to waking without a man, she realized as she trudged to the bathroom to heed nature’s morning call. She wouldn’t be sharing the bathroom with anyone who had to have the world’s closest shave. Wouldn’t find his stuff lying around everywhere and trip over his ginormous shoes. Wouldn’t be making a breakfast for two—one of which was a nasty protein shake that smelled like dirt and tasted worse. And she could take her time this morning, since she wasn’t in a rush to get to the gym with him. There was time to really read the newspaper, not just skim, with a cup of coffee. Maybe even do some Internet surfing before getting ready for work.

  Throwing on her bath robe, she started the coffee, pulled a bagel out of the fridge to toast, and went to her front door to grab the paper. She really should just pay for the subscription online, but she wasn’t prepared to give up the actual physical words just yet.

  She flipped through the first section—crime, death and taxes, as usual—and set it aside to get to the sports section. Now there was a shocker. A year ago, she would have bet a quarter of her shoe collection she would never hustle to get to the sports pages first. Now, it was all she could think of. If they didn’t mention her team or any other base teams, she still read, because she wanted to see what the media was focusing on these days.

  Same with blogs. Her blog roll used to be nothing but fashion blogs that featured the Look For Less and other ways to spiff up her wardrobe on the cheap. Now she had more sports newscasts than anything.

  She was on her second cup of coffee when her phone rang. She sighed, seeing Marianne’s number. She answered the call, crossing one leg over the other. “If you’re calling to wake me up, you’re late. If you’re calling to demand I bring you breakfast, you’re early.”

  “I’m calling to demand you get here now.”

  Reagan froze on her stool. “What happened?”

  “Stuff’s missing. Remember the video equipment the coaches had last week?”

  “Sure,” she said slowly, getting up and moving to the bedroom. Her leisurely morning before work had been cut short.

  “Missing. All of it. It had been locked in the storage cage, but it’s gone now. Along with some other training equipment, but only the more expensive stuff. They left the grimy, daily use junk alone.”

  Coach Ace had told her about some missing gear, but the video equipment was news to her. “Have they called the MPs yet?”

  “No. They asked me to call you. I think the coaches are fed up with the lack of progress.” She lowered her voice, to the point Reagan could barely hear her. “Something else is going on. I can feel it. But nobody will say anything. Get here fast.”

  “Sure, right.” She hesitated as she picked out a cami top from her dresser. “Why are you there so early? Practice doesn’t start for another hour.”

  “Brad wanted to get in a quick workout with the bags. I wanted to get some paperwork done. We came in early, and found the coaches setting up, except for Cartwright, who’s running Greg ragged. They realized the equipment was gone when they went to watch some practice tape and asked me to call you.” She sighed. “Sorry for the crappy morning.”

  “It is what it is. Let me call my supervisor and then I’ll be over. Tell them not to mention anything to the team. Just keep going with the day. Kara’s running yoga this morning, so focus on that.”

  “You got it, dude.”

  “Uh-huh,” Reagan said, and hung up. Two minutes later, she had her supervisor on the phone.

  “Robilard, you need to come in.”

  “Yes, sir, but first I’d like to run by the gym and—”

  “This is about that . . . sort of.” Her supervisor made a gruff sound that she couldn’t decipher over the phone. “Just come in to the offices first.”

  “Sure thing.” She hung up the phone, dread creeping through her veins, along with the feeling that everything was about to change, and not for the better.

  * * *

  SITTING in her supervisor’s office, waiting for him to come in, Reagan thought back to her final interview. She’d been down to her last fifteen dollars, and ready to promise the world to land the job. It hadn’t come to that . . . just close enough.

  “Robilard.” Andrew Calvant, her supervisor, a trim man in his late forties, came in and tossed a file folder on his desk. The papers beneath fluttered, then lay still, as if they didn’t dare fly off for fear of his wrath. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “We’ve had a problem for several weeks now, sir.” She saw his eyebrow wing up in silent question. That’s right. I have the job now. I’m going to act like I’m here to stay, even if you’re seconds away from firing my ass. Fake it. “I’m not sure what changed today that you needed me in here. I understand this is an expensive hit
to take, but—”

  “It’s more than that. We might have a suspect.”

  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.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Kara 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.”