Against the Ropes

by Jeanette Murray

  “Yes, it is.” She thought for a moment, then decided to go for it. “Security cameras would solve a majority of our problems.”

  He looked amused, as if catching on to her act. “I’m sure your supervisor already told you the reason why that’s not going to happen. No budget.” He said the last sentence as if it were a curse. “We’re lucky they didn’t stop hosting teams, period. The entire Corps—entire military—is cutting back. And if we keep making a nuisance of ourselves with vandalism and crime, we’re very likely going to be next. We already have a target on our backs thanks to the violence of the sport.”

  It was the exact thing Reagan feared. “That’s not going to happen,” she said through stiff lips. “I won’t let it happen.”

  “Good luck then.” With a weary sigh, Coach Ace nodded and dismissed her.

  “Stubborn group of Marines.” She walked out to the practice area, and noticed most of the team attempting to give her a sidelong glance. Tressler, Greg’s opponent in their ill-advised bare-knuckles brawl, was nowhere to be seen. Probably in the weight room, then. But she noticed Greg almost immediately. He was running laps around the catwalk. His gray shirt was soaked through, and his face was screwed up in intense concentration.

  She hustled to Marianne’s training room to avoid catching his eye. She didn’t want to cause even a moment’s distraction. Walking in, she stopped when she found Marianne giving an impromptu lesson on something at her laptop. The two interns were hunched over her shoulders, watching. Taking a moment, she got herself a cup of water and sat. Being off her feet felt good, but in general, just being away from the gym was good for her. The tension was triple its normal level, and she knew it was due to the scuffle Tressler and Greg had had . . . though she still had no clue what it had been about.

  Marianne finished up and sent her interns on their way, then rolled over to a filing cabinet while still in her chair. “I bought you something.”

  Reagan smiled a little at that. “Is it chocolate?”

  “No, but it’s better for you, on several different fronts.” She pulled out what looked like a shoe box from the bottom drawer and shut it again. Then, wheeling over, Marianne handed the box to Reagan. “You recall that in my training room, I make the rules.”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded, but was paying more attention to the box than to her friend. Just because it was a shoe box didn’t meant it had shoes in it. She shook lightly, but the weight and movement gave nothing away.

  “And so what I say goes?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ll wear these, then, when you come in here.” Looking pleased with herself, Marianne crossed her arms and nodded. “Open up.”

  Suddenly wary, Reagan lifted the lid and found herself staring at a very fuzzy pair of slippers in a vibrant blue. She pulled one out. “What the . . .”

  “They’re better for you than heels. Plus,” her friend added, taking the slipper from her and turning it upside down, “look. Grips. Good for walking on the tile. Now you won’t be risking your neck in my training room with those icepick heels you insist on wearing.”

  “Oh, but I can’t . . .” She glanced at Marianne, and the very firm line her mouth formed. “You’re serious.”

  “Serious as a broken ankle. Put them on.”

  Reagan watched her friend for another moment, praying to see a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  Nada.

  With a sigh, she slid her heels off—being careful not to sigh in relief in front of the traitorous trainer—and slid the slippers on. She extended one foot, then the other, then tapped the toes together and watched the fuzzy shoes quiver. They were actually kind of cute, if you ignored all normal fashion sense and just went with what made you smile. They looked ridiculous, though, with her suit.

  “I guess they’re better than borrowing your Stewie-and-Brian slippers.”

  “Keep them by the door, slip into them when you get in here, and back out when you leave. You know I’d rather you wear flats all the time in the gym, but it’s better than nothing. It’s something I can control.” Nodding in approval, she took the box, placed Reagan’s heels in it and slid it by the door. “So how goes it?”

  Reagan lifted a brow at that. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  Marianne sighed. “How can I keep on top of the gossip if my own friend won’t give it to me? What were they fighting over?”

  “No clue.”

  “Who took the first punch?”

  “Didn’t see.”

  “Did Tressler deserve the beat down?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  Marianne blew at a strand of hair that fell over her forehead. “You suck, you know that? Your boyfriend is in a fight—”

  “They always fight. It’s what they’re doing now,” Reagan pointed out, mostly to annoy her friend. It worked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Was Tressler okay?” Reagan asked quietly after a moment. “I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .” She winced. “I couldn’t look.”

  “He’s fine. His left eye’s going to be swollen, but he’ll survive. The real problem with that one is his ego, followed swiftly by his pride. They’re both oversized, with the ego leading the pack at three times too large.”

  “They’re Marines. Aren’t they all egotistical, prideful patriots?”

  Marianne laughed at that. “Probably. Add some crazy in there and you’ve got your basic definition. God bless them, every one.”

  That made Reagan smile, just a little. “I hate that I can’t solve any of the problems around here. I feel like they’re only getting worse.”

  “What if someone donated some surveillance equipment? You know, like got a sponsorship for the team?” Working up steam now, Marianne went on, “If the equipment was free, then there’s no cost. If there’s no cost, then why would they say no?”

  “Liability.” Reagan shook her head, sorry to see the excitement in her friend dampen. “Sorry, already tried that with my supervisor.” And about a dozen other ideas.

  “Oh. Right. Of course you did.” She scooted her chair back to her desk and closed her laptop. “Make sure Greg puts ice on his knuckles tonight. And the way he’s working . . .” Marianne leaned forward to peek out of the door from her seat. Reagan followed her eye line and noticed Greg running past on the catwalk above the gym. “He might need an ice bath. You got a bathtub at your place?”

  “No.” She barely had what constituted as a shower, with the water pressure that was somewhere between someone squeezing a sponge over your head and someone shooting an old Super Soaker at you. “Maybe he’s got access to one there.”

  “Just bring him back to the gym tonight. You’ve got keys, right?”

  Reagan lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, but why . . . oh, right. You’ve got the tubs and the ice machine. Of course.”

  “I’m here almost every other night, but not tonight, so you’ll have to let him in.” Marianne stood, grabbing the fanny pack she kept her supplies in when she was out in the gym or on location. “Bring him back by, let him soak, then help him heat back up again.” She ended with a wink and headed for the door.

  “Will do.” Reagan followed her friend out of the temperature-controlled athletic training room and into the sweltering gym. “Nice fanny pack, by the way. Really brings out the color of your eyes.”

  Marianne smirked as they walked toward the middle of the gym to where the water jug sat on a rolling cart. “Nice slippers.”

  Reagan gasped, looked down, then shuffled back to change her shoes.

  * * *

  “YOU got the okay to do this, right?” Greg held open the door for Reagan to walk through, then let it close behind them. He’d never been in the gym when it was so empty and lifeless before. Shadows tossed around the walls via the emergency lights and the echo of their own footsteps created an otherworldly atmosphere that had the hairs on his arms rising up.

  “Marianne said it was fine. She mentioned she’s opened the gym sever
al times before for Marines to work out. Besides,” she added, holding up her own key ring, “it’s my keys, and I work here, too. So I can’t see why not. Now.” She opened Marianne’s training room door, swinging it wide and flipping the lights on. “Let’s get you into some ice.”

  “You sound way too sadistic and happy when you say that.” But it was cute how concerned she was about him after the hellacious day he’d had. Greg was fast—probably the fastest one on the team. But it was Brad who had the endurance to keep going for hours like he’d been forced to. Brad who could have made the whole workout without puking in the trash can.

  But he’d have done it again, just to see the look on Tressler’s face when he’d walked beside him on the way out of the gym that night. The kid had wisely kept his eyes down and his mouth shut. For the first time, showing a little sense. Maybe it’d stick this time. He’d have a shiner tomorrow as a reminder, in case he forgot at some point.

  That shouldn’t have pleased him. It was too animalistic, too rough. He’d smoothed down those edges years ago. Hadn’t he?

  Maybe not.

  Reagan, still dressed in her work outfit, pointed to the tub in the corner. “You know what to do? Where everything is?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a smart salute, turned on the cold water, and immediately felt his balls shrink up in anticipation. Nobody ever enjoyed an ice bath. If they did, they were just as sadistic as his girlfriend. But he knew he’d pay for it tomorrow if he didn’t. He’d rather pay tonight.

  Bonus, maybe Reagan would baby him a bit afterward.

  “Need help with the ice?”

  He dumped in the first shovelful. “Nah. Do you have stuff to keep you busy while I’m in there?”

  “You keep me busy.” When he glanced over his shoulder, she blushed. “I mean, talking to you. You know, keeping you entertained with . . . words,” she finished, color deepening. She turned away without a word when he laughed. The water was about right, so he added the last scoop of ice and shut off the valve. Then, stripping down to the board shorts he’d worn, he slid in and hissed through his teeth.

  When he turned back, he found Reagan shuffling from the entrance. Shuffling, because instead of the heels she’d worn in, she had fluffy blue slippers on her feet. He stared at them while she made her way over to sit in a chair beside the tub.

  “Did you skin the Cookie Monster to make those?”

  She pinched his shoulder. “They were a gift. Marianne hates when I wear heels in her training room, so I am abiding by her wishes.”

  He glanced at the four corners of the ceiling. “You know she can’t see you, right? The place isn’t bugged.”

  “I’m abiding by her wishes,” Reagan said firmly. Then she let her hand drift to his hair. Fingernails scratched lightly against his scalp, and he could almost—almost—forget he was submerged up to his nipples in ice-cold water. His head drifted back to the edge of the tub, he let his eyes close, and he sighed.

  Still scratching, she used her other hand to pick up one of his. Her thumb ran over the abrasions on his knuckles. “These need some ice time, too.”

  He let his fist drop into the water, though he’d already iced it once when he’d run back to the BOQ for his swim trunks.

  “What happened?” she asked quietly. “I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t want to talk about it but I had to at least try.”

  He sighed. She’d held off longer than he thought she would. “He pissed me off.”

  “I imagine a lot of people piss you off. You don’t often use your fists to solve it.”

  There had been a day when fists had been all he’d known. His, someone else’s . . .

  “He said some rude stuff, and I overreacted. I was in a bad mood, I made a bad choice . . .” Yadda yadda yadda “. . . and that’s it. It’s over. I served penance, I won’t be making the mistake again. I was stupid, but I’m not an idiot.”

  Her fingers paused then, but resumed their delicious path through his hair. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

  “You can always be stupid in the moment. But an idiot . . . that’s a permanent address. I’ll have stupid moments all the time. But I’m not an idiot.”

  “Never said you were. Far from.” She sat back, her fingers trailing down his neck, his shoulder, his arm until they fell away completely. He missed the touch. “I’ll let you soak now.”

  It was caught in his throat, to tell her what Tressler had said. It wouldn’t have changed anything between them. He knew she wouldn’t be offended. She might have even laughed. But for some reason, he couldn’t make the words come out.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Greg waited until Reagan unlocked her apartment door before giving her the truth. “I’m gonna leave it here tonight.”

  She turned, raising a brow at him in the weak light of the single exposed bulb that served as a security feature in this piece of shit building.

  “I’m tired, you know. Rough day.” When she said nothing, he felt an unexplained urge to fill the silence. “Because of all the running. Not my thing, the distance part.” When she just stared, he felt his irritation rise. “Say something.”

  “You done?” she asked quietly.

  “Done what?”

  “Making shitty excuses.”

  He blinked at that. “They weren’t excuses, they were—”

  “Excuses. If you don’t want to come in, then just say you don’t want to come in.” She walked through the door, but left it open. Talk about irresponsible. In an apartment complex like this, an unopened door was an invitation for serious trouble. He quickly followed her in.

  “You can’t leave your door open in this place. It’s like asking Satan in for tea.” He closed it firmly behind him, locking all three deadbolts.

  “Got you in here, didn’t it?” She walked in from the kitchen, holding two bottles of water. She handed him one with a smile, uncapped hers and drank. “Sucker. I also do card tricks and make balloon animals.” She took one last sip and put the bottle back in the fridge before walking into the bedroom.

  “You do?” He uncapped his water, downed half of it in one swallow, then put it in the fridge next to hers and followed her into the bedroom. She’d already removed her suit jacket and was kicking her heels off. He knew she’d put them away properly in a moment so they would stay nice. He loved watching her get undressed. It was about as economical as anything he’d seen before. So methodical, how she folded this, hung that, straightened everything perfectly on the hangers so she saved on dry cleaner bills. All her shoes lined up perfectly in little rows like good soldiers in the closet and along one wall because, well, she’d run out of room in the closet for them.

  And he loved that she didn’t give him crap about leaving his own clothing in a pile on the floor. Oh, he wasn’t an asshole. If it was dripping with sweat, he draped it over the shower rod to dry. But for the most part, he was a strip-and-dump kind of guy, and she never hassled him for it.

  He loved this part of the day, just decompressing with her. The little nuances of her personality and his meshing in their own private cocoon.

  And that was beyond mushy and there was no way he would ever admit to thinking it. God.

  When he’d changed into dry boxers, board shorts hung to dry, he found her already in bed, rubbing lotion on her hands. He slid in beside her, waited for her to turn the light off, and let her curl up beside him.

  “Your skin is still cold,” she said, running her hand from his shoulder down to his wrist, then back up and over his chest. Her fingers inadvertently—or maybe purposefully—flicked over his nipple, and it tightened in response.

  “Ever taken an ice bath before?”

  She shook her head, lips brushing against his arm.

  “Here’s a secret . . . it’s fucking cold. I might still be cold next week.”

  She chuckled quietly, pressing a kiss to his side. “Poor baby.” Her hand skimmed lower, until it dipped into the waistband of his boxers. �
�We should probably warm you up a bit.”

  He squirmed, giving her time to feel and explore his cock with her hands. Her fingers brushed over his balls—which were still indignant about their dunking earlier—and they twitched. She cupped them, rubbing her thumb over them, and the heat of her hand spoke a language they knew well. They grew heavy under her fondling.

  “Poor Greg,” she said in a whisper, kissing over his chest. “I bet your lower half wasn’t all that happy about the temperature of your bath tonight, was it?”

  “Hell no.” She worked her way down, pushing the covers to the side as she did. Her lips were warm, so warm, but they left a path of goosebumps in their wake.

  She pushed down his boxers, and then—before he could ask, because he was damn near close to begging—she wrapped her lips around him and pulled hard.

  One hand cupped his balls, the other wrapped tightly at the base of his shaft. And there was no longer an inch of his skin that felt the chill anymore. He was burning up, burning for her. She did a little sucky-swirl thing with her tongue, and his hips pumped up on instinct.

  He was on the brink, so close, when she pulled away completely.

  “Wait, no . . .” He bit back a moan. “Reagan, honey . . .”

  “Stop your whining.” She grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer, rolled it down him herself, then lifted up her simple cotton nightgown. It was like the curtains going up on a stage, and he had the most gorgeous, sexy seat in the house.

  “No jokes about riding this time,” she whispered. “Just make love to me.”

  He rolled her under him in one quick flash. “Not a problem, baby.”

  * * *

  GREG lay spent, Reagan’s body draped over his like a cloak. Her breathing had returned to normal, and his was nearing the same pace. Her breath was hot on his neck.

  “Tell me something.”

  He waited for her to finish the question. When she didn’t he thought she’d fallen asleep midsentence. “Hmm?” he prompted quietly.

  “Tell me something,” she repeated. “Anything about you. Just . . .” She fisted one hand over his heart, then spread it flat. He felt his heartbeat quicken again, as if it wanted to pound harder just for her. So she could feel the physical way she affected him. So she would know what she made him feel just by touch.