Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (10 page)

“And next time, bring Zach.” With that parting shot, not having a clue how much his simple, unrehearsed acceptance of Zach in her life meant from a man she was interested in, he gently closed her car door and stepped back so she could reverse out of the driveway and head home.

Where she had a couple of babysitters to break apart, and an empty bed to sleep in.

Later sucked. Now was better.

*   *   *

KARA
arrived home, parked, and hustled up to her second floor apartment. She debated, just for a moment, getting her phone ready to record, then thought better of it. If she had a cutie boyfriend like Greg, she'd make out with him on any couch she could. No judgment from her.

But when she opened the door, the only one on the couch was Reagan. Her friend's face illuminated in the yellow-blue glow of the TV turned to her. “Hey, stranger. I was about to text Graham to make sure everything was going okay.”

“I'm so sorry, I'm way later than I thought.”

“I'm not punching a clock. Greg took off a while ago. He was hungry. Again.” Reagan rolled her eyes and stood as Kara flipped the lights. Her friend started to take the DVD out of the player. “How'd dinner go?”

“Dinner was nice. Spectacular.” That made her grin, though she tried to hide it by turning her back to Reagan. Working to keep her voice neutral, Kara set her purse on the hook by the door. “He's a decent cook. Pasta and homemade garlic bread.”

“Hmm. Something cool for dessert?”

Kara cocked her head as she went to the kitchen to toss the empty water bottle in the recycling container. “What?”

“The sweatshirt.”

She jolted, realizing she was still wearing his sweatshirt.
Again. She was actually starting a collection of Graham Sweeney sweatshirts. “No, I was just . . .” Shivering with lust. “Cold. No dessert.”

“Hmm.” Reagan followed her into the kitchen, waited until Kara opened the fridge to get another bottle of water out—despite claiming to be cold, she was suddenly flushed—then slapped her hand over Kara's butt. “You liar! You totally had dessert. You had a Graham Sweeney sundae!”

Kara straightened, face red, eyes wide. “How did you . . . Greg. Did Graham text him? Oh my God, I'm going to kill him!”

“You've got sexy eyes.” When Kara leaned back, blinking, Reagan shook her hands at that. “No, not like, ‘Hey, sexy eyes, come here often?' You've got that dreamy look in your eyes, like you've had sex. Sexy eyes.”

“You failed optometry school, didn't you?”

“Don't deflect. You got some, you hot mama.” Reagan hip-checked her, then walked back to the living room to grab her cute clutch. “Zach was fine, which I know you were dying to ask but didn't because you trust me. He kicked Greg's ass in a video game—nice job there, by the way—and chowed down on some snacks. There was some grappling with Greg in there, in which Zach is now sure he is the kung fu master of the universe. We watched a movie, and he basically made it through the opening credits before he was out cold.”

Kara's heart swelled at the other woman's rundown of events. She truly had the world's greatest friends. Hugging Reagan tight, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“Thank me by giving that man a chance. Don't take the orgasm and run.” Tugging gently in a teasing manner on Kara's ponytail, Reagan winked and headed for the door, closing it behind her quietly.

Kara checked on Zach—she was a mom, it was just what she had to do—and was satisfied to find him in nearly the
same position as he'd been when Graham had shown her the photo. Still so much a little boy, she thought as she went in to smooth down his hair and kiss his forehead. But growing up fast. Growing up to be a man. She prayed he would be the kind of man who cooked good pasta for a woman, and asked about her own son, who believed in honor instead of taking what he could get and running like
hell.

10

M
onday night, Graham sat on the floor, stretching while he waited for the team to show up. They'd passed word, and Marianne had let Brad into the gym before going to her office to work on paperwork. No coaches, no support staff. This was a team meeting, no distractions. He, Brad and Greg had come early, hammering out the meeting before everyone else came in.

“Still sore from practice today?” Brad asked, settling beside him and hissing out a breath as he extended his leg with the knee brace. Then he darted his eyes around the catwalk, as if looking to see if anyone else had witnessed his moment of vulnerability. Practice had ended nearly three hours earlier, but with his injury, he was pushing it to even still be on the team.

“Sore from last night's mattress gymnastics,” Greg quipped, then dodged out of range as Graham kicked at him. “Whatever, you gave me shit, too, when I was trying to date Reagan. Turnabout's fair play and all that junk.”

“‘And all that junk.'” Brad turned to him. “Wise man. Here comes the team. Showtime.”

It took a good ten minutes for the guys to all file in up on the catwalk. They'd chosen it because it was the first site of vandalism. The first time they'd sensed trouble. The team quieted down, almost all of them unconsciously standing at parade rest. Tressler, cocky shit that he was, smirked, but when nobody spoke, and the silence grew heavier, his attitude slowly shrank and he found himself mimicking everyone else's pose.

“We've got a problem,” Brad started. “It's become very clear to us that whatever this asshole vandal's problem is, it's with the team. And they have access, or have found a way to get access, to wherever we are. They know where we'll be, where we won't. It stands to reason, they're connected to us somehow.”

“Last time, someone attempted to set fire to our locker room. It didn't work,” Graham added quickly when a few guys shifted and looked enraged. “But Tressler's shorts were in a prime spot to be the fuse for a big ass burn, and it was only luck that we managed to find it when we did and put it out without a problem . . . except for his ruined shirt.”

“Someone set my clothes on fire? No shit. That's why I couldn't find them after the match.” His face set in stone, Tressler's jaw worked hard as he stared off into a dark corner.

“This building has shitty security.” Greg walked a little in a circle around the team, his voice carrying. “And the MPs are shrugging their shoulders. They've got bigger problems to worry about, to their way of thinking. We're on our own. We just get left holding the bag, looking like idiots.”

“It stops now.” Picking up where they left off, Graham stood. “We close ranks. We watch everyone. We don't turn our backs. It's going to be exhausting. It's going to suck balls. We've got enough shit to worry about, just keeping up with
practices, with your life outside the gym. Now we have to add a constant vigilance to our plates. It won't be easy.”

Greg grinned over their heads. “Aw, hell, Sweeney. If we wanted it the easy way, we'd have joined the army. Right boys?”

One from the back let out an enthusiastic “Oo-rah!”

Brad snorted. “Pathetic. I'm sorry, I thought this was the Marine Corps boxing team.”

“Oo-rah!” three or four responded.

“Son of a bitch. What a weak response. It's like we caught the air force at practice.” Graham threw his head back and yelled,
“Who the fuck are we?”

“OO-RAH!”

The collective war cry echoed off the rafters of the old, dusty gym, settling around them like a comfortable blanket. From the corner of his eye, Graham could see Marianne standing just outside her training room door, looking up at the catwalk and rubbing her arms as if she'd gotten the chills.

He knew the feeling. Knew it well. It was pride, damn it.

Brad nodded once, decisively. “Okay. Bring it in, Marines. Here's how we're going to play it out from here.”

*   *   *

“FINAL
yoga lesson,” Coach Ace said as he greeted Kara at the door. “It's been a pleasure working with you, and watching you work with the Marines.”

She smiled at the large man, hoisting her yoga mat beneath her arm as she walked through the door he held open for her. “Playing doorman today, Coach? I didn't see a valet out front for my car.”

He barked out a laugh and walked alongside her toward the gym. “I'm not much of one for the stretching and bending myself. But it's been a good time watching the guys twist themselves around. I know it's helped stave off injuries, and improved their flexibility. And I think most of them have
enjoyed it, to be honest . . . though I doubt you'd catch them on camera admitting the same.”

“I'm glad it's been a benefit to the team. I've had a good time teaching them and getting to know the guys.” They entered the gym, where a few early birds were dropping their bags and trading street shoes for their boxing gear. Her eyes immediately found Graham, without even trying.

Yes, she'd definitely enjoyed getting to know them. Including one very special Marine.

“I hope, if you like how things have worked out, you'll consider repeating the experience with next year's team. Maybe mentioning the benefits of weekly yoga to some of the other coaches you know?” Her bank account could use the boost, that was for sure.

“Absolutely. Much as these bones don't like to bend, I know it's a big help. I'll pass your name along.”

“I really appreciate it, Coach.”

Graham jogged over without another word, waiting patiently while Coach Ace asked how long today's session would run, if she'd make up a few stretching routines for them to use on the road, and gave a few more instructions, including the fact that she would be a welcome guest at the All Military games.

If only she could actually go.

After Coach left—with a curious look at Graham—she smiled shyly. He'd called the night before, as promised, and they'd talked for nearly an hour after Zach's bedtime. He'd had no problem answering questions about his childhood and family, and hadn't pressed when she'd hedged about her own. Most of all, he'd called when he said he would, which was shocking enough as it was, and had let her dictate the conversation.

“Hey.” He gave her a big smile, but didn't reach out to touch. In the gym, they were sort of like colleagues. Having seen how Brad and Marianne managed their relationship,
she knew he would respect her professional standards the same way. “I liked our conversation last night.”

“Me, too.” Walking over to the usual corner she led yoga from, she noticed the table where she set up her small speakers for her phone was already set up. They had been for the last several weeks now. “I never think to ask . . . does Marianne have the interns set up my station here? I should thank them. Maybe a gift card.”

“It was me.” He shrugged when she looked at him. “You struggled setting it up the first day. I saw you while we were being yelled at, so I couldn't help that first time. I figured it would be easier to just get here early on yoga days and do it for you.”

She fought back a smile, setting her bag down and pulling out the small travel speakers that would play the soothing mix she'd put together that morning. “Are you a naturally thoughtful man, Graham? Or is this just because you've wanted to get in my yoga pants?”

He snorted a little at that. “I hope I'm a thoughtful person. My mom would be disappointed otherwise.”

“Then you can tell her good job from me.” She toed off her slides, unrolled her mat and walked across it to flatten it a bit. “I was thinking we could do dinner at my place tonight.”

She'd said it casually, hoping he didn't read too much into the gesture. She had ulterior motives, and they had nothing to do with sex. At least, not tonight.

“Yeah, sure. What can I bring?”

A naturally thoughtful man. “Allergies. Don't worry about it, I'll have it all. Just bring yourself.”

“Can do.” He leaned forward just a little as she scrolled down her phone to bring up the playlist. “Can't wait,” he said quietly by her ear, then jogged back toward where his teammates were gathering.

While they stretched and jogged a few laps in miniformation, she did her best to get her body under control before
she spent an entire class leading with hard nipples and shaking hands.

*   *   *

KARA
held up two different earrings and judged each one in the mirror. She'd worn black tonight, the better to hide small splatters if she made a last minute mess in the kitchen. Not that she'd made a fancy dinner. Her budget didn't run to steak and lobster, nor did her schedule run to three-hour prep time. Chicken, vegetables, and potatoes. But good chicken, veggies and potatoes. It was something. And men liked simple home-cooked meals, didn't they?

Her phone rang, and she glanced down to see Marianne's face grinning up at her. She swiped a finger over the screen and immediately pressed the speaker button. “I'm telling him tonight.”

“Telling who what? Oh, wait, is this a guessing game? I'm going with Mr. Plum, in the solarium, with the secret baby.”

“No. Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the long-lost twin brother. Now focus.”

Marianne snickered. Kara went with the less dangly earrings. Too dangly looked like she was trying to be fancy. And she was anything
but
fancy. The exact opposite.

“I'm telling him tonight about Henry, and the whole mess I'm in with that. He needs to know that despite the fact that we . . . you know,” she added after a moment. Zach was still in his room—or so he should be—cleaning up so he could show Graham a new video on his used laptop, but little ears had a way of popping up just when things got interesting. “Despite that, we still have no actual future.”

“Yeah. Okay. And when he ignores you and acts like it's not a big deal, then what?”

“Then . . . I don't know.” In exasperation, Kara sighed, laid her palms on the dresser and let her head fall. “I obviously don't know much of anything in this arena. I got
pregnant at eighteen. I've had, like, three potential contenders for relationships that never even got off the ground. I'm not built for this sort of dramatic adult relationship.”

“It doesn't have to be drama, and you absolutely are built for a relationship. You are the most loving person I know. You should be giving that love to someone else. Besides Zach,” she added, reading Kara's mind with the frightening accuracy of a long-time best friend.

She'd have given her parents love. She wanted to, desperately. Hated that her son didn't have grandparents he could spend the night with, grandparents he could call when he thought his mom was being unfair, grandparents who could give him wise advice from well beyond his own mother's years.

Stop that. You can't change their attitude, you can't change their way of thinking. Move on.

“Kara?”

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “We will figure it out. I don't have a lot of time to devote to a relationship anyway, thanks to Henry threatening to drag me to mediation again.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

She grinned, and could only imagine the wide range of ideas that Marianne could come up with. “I won't promise to kick him in the balls for you if and when I see him next. Much as I'd love to.”

“That's a close second to my real favor. Lean on Graham. Don't just tell him about the big picture. Ask for his advice on this situation. Don't say you don't want to dump on him. Or burden him. Just do it.”

She bit her lip, studying her reflection. Minimal makeup, hair half-braided, then swooped up for a bun, nice black top and a simple pair of capris. She'd be barefoot, because she always was at home. “Maybe.”

“Do it.”

“Stop pushing, Marianne.”

“If you don't want a best friend to push you when you need to be pushed, what the hell good am I to you?”

She thought about that for a moment. “You know how to tape Zach's ankle if he sprains it playing soccer.”

Her friend let out a half chuckle, half sigh. “I worry about you. Have fun tonight, regardless. And get yourself a decent good night kiss. Zach won't die if you send him to his room for a few minutes.”

“Go get your own good night kiss,” Kara instructed. She could have sworn her friend muttered, “I'll get better than that,” before hanging up.

After another quick glance in the mirror, she closed her eyes. Pep talk time.

But a knock on the door, and her son's enthusiastic whoop and, “I'll get it!” shout stalled any pep talk she'd hoped for. Time to figure it out on the fly.

No problem there. She had about ten years' worth of practice.

*   *   *

“HEY,
kid.” Graham held out the small bouquet of flowers. “These are for you.”

Zach scrunched up his nose and shook his head. “Why would I want those?”

“Oh, right.” Kara rounded the corner, and Graham let out a long breath while Zach shut the door behind him. “Then they must be for you.”

She smiled, walking slowly to him on bare feet. She took the flowers, then rose up on her toes and pressed a friendly kiss to his cheek. The skin beneath her lips tingled, and it had nothing to do with his fresh shave. “Thank you. I'll get them in water. Dinner's almost ready.”

“Plain chicken,” Zach muttered, glancing at Graham in a plea of understanding. “I told her since we were having company, we shoulda had something good, like wings, or
pizza . . . or pizza and wings. But instead we just get plain chicken.”

“I love plain chicken,” he said simply. “I like wings and pizza, too. Okay, no, that's a lie. I love wings and pizza.” Zach nodded, as if proving his point. “But I have a feeling if your mom made the chicken, it's going to be good, too.”