Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (20 page)

No, this was ridiculous. Nobody would just up and take a ten-year-old boy who wasn't their own flesh and blood for several days. Watching grandkids was one thing, and most normal grandparents leapt at the chance to have their grandchildren come visit. Watching your daughter's friend's son who came with a host of allergy needs was another thing entirely. They wouldn't . . .

Her phone beeped, and she looked at the incoming text.

Mom said yes, and not to dare think about backing out after this. She is thrilled about the idea of having Zach over. You don't argue with Mary Cook. Pack a bag, drop it off at Mom's tomorrow morning after Zach is in school, and she will get him from school in the afternoon.

She rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow tight to her chest. God, her friends were amazing. “Zach? Zach! Come get this duffle bag. We've got a few clothes to
pack.”

20

W
hen Marianne ran at her, nearly plowing her over at the airport, Kara knew she'd made the right decision.

“Oh my God, I can't believe you did it! You came! This is insane!” Jumping a little, she looked like a loon, with her bright blond hair fluttering around her face like feathers. “You're here!”

“Yes, I'm here. Now, how the heck did you manage to get out to come get me?”

“I stole Reagan's car and came over.” She grinned. “Reagan gets a rental, thanks to the travel work order, but I didn't. So I took it. She's busy all day, anyway. First matches are tonight. Baggage?”

“No, just this.” She held up her small bag—her gym bag, because she didn't have luggage—and smiled weakly. “I haven't really had a need for luggage, and it seemed like an impractical purchase for this one trip, so . . .”

“Who cares? If it holds your stuff, then it's good enough. Whoops, rhymed. I'm just so jazzed!”

“No kidding,” Kara said dryly as they walked arm in arm toward the parking lot. “It's like talking to a five-year-old before their ADHD meds kick in in the morning.”

Marianne's steps bounced as she walked along, keeping up with Kara's longer strides. “Maybe. The competition is getting to me. I can't help it. The scrimmages were fun and exciting, but nothing compared to this. The teams are all looking good, and we're ready, but once you get in the ring it's anyone's match. It's an intense atmosphere in practices, with everyone sort of side-eying each other, and—”

“Okay, you have to stop.” Kara pulled up short, pulling Marianne to a stop beside her. “You're making me nervous along with you. I can't do what I need to do if I'm nervous.”

“What are you doing? What's there to be nervous about? Oh, Zach? He's totally fine. My mom texted me to say she'd picked him up and they were making cookies using that recipe on your blog. I sent her the link,” Marianne added.

“Yes, I know. Mary texted me the same thing. I mean you're making me nervous about seeing Graham.”

“Oh, that.” Marianne waved it off and started walking once more toward temporary parking. “Don't worry about it. He's golden. The man has strategy like nobody's business. Probably why he's so good at his normal job. You know, that whole ‘knowing your opponent's next move' bit has to work well in court. Here we are!” She stopped by a midsized sedan in a light tan color, unlocking it with the key fob. “Just toss your stuff in the back.”

“I meant seeing him and dealing with the fact that he proposed to me.”

“He . . .” Marianne opened the driver side door and stared at her over the top of the car. “He proposed? You're kidding me.”

“Right, because I find marriage humor to be the best sort.” Sliding in, Kara hissed as the backs of her thighs hit scorching hot plastic. “Jesus!” she yelled, hopping back out
again. Her legs were on fire. Actually melting. She was melting from her ass down to the backs of her knees.

“Yeah . . . I was going to warn you, but you sort of stupefied me with that whole proposal thing.” Without getting in, Marianne reached in and started the car, then closed the door again. “It has to cool down for about five minutes before it's safe to get in. Texas is no joke with the heat, man.”

They stood in silence a minute. “So, we just stand here and wait?”

“Yeah. It'll be okay, just give it a minute.” Her best friend watched her speculatively. “Are you going to say yes? Did you already say yes?”

“I said nothing yet.”

“And what are you going to say?”

“I'm going to say it to him first, Marianne. Whatever
it
is.”

“You don't know?” Marianne's eyes widened. “How do you not know? Isn't that one of those instinctive gut things?”

“Not when you've got a kid to worry about. Jumping with your gut isn't usually a good choice.”

“Right. Forgot.” She waited another few seconds. “He'd make a good dad.”

“Yes, he would. That's not reason enough, though. I've known the man two months. We've only been together, like that, for two weeks. It's so fast . . .” Kara nibbled on her lip. “How soon did you know with Brad?”

“That I loved him? Couple weeks . . . we sort of jumped into bed a little faster than you and Graham though.” She opened her door and laid a palm on the seat. “We're safe.”

“The fact that you have to feel a car's interior before you get in is scary. Texas is scary.”

“Kara, you haven't seen anything yet. Just wait.”

*   *   *

GRAHAM
flexed his hands once more before sliding his boxing gloves on. After they were secured, he wouldn't be
able to move them freely until after the match. He savored the last minute of flexibility before he lost it.

“How you feeling?” Brad sat down beside him in the locker room. By Graham's estimation, they had another five minutes or so.

“Good. I'm good. Really good.”

Brad glanced around the locker room. “We're alone. Nobody else here.”

“Fucked up. I'm fucked up.” He held out his hand, which shook, glove and all. “I'm almost thirty years old. What am I doing this for?”

“Because getting punched is fun?” Brad smiled and bumped his shoulder gently. “Calm down. You've got this.”

Graham said nothing.

After another minute, Brad asked slowly, “Did it help, when you had Kara and Zach in the stands at the scrimmage?”

“Marianne's here, so you don't have to worry about that.”

“I know. I'm just asking you. Were your nerves better or worse then?”

“I wasn't nearly as nervous for that match from the start. It was just a scrimmage. But,” he added with a sigh, “yeah. Them being there . . . I don't know. It grounded me. Made me remember at the end of it, I would walk away and leave it behind, and have something more important to focus on.”

Brad nodded in agreement, staring at the wall ahead. “She's here.”

Graham assumed he meant Marianne, so said nothing.

“Kara. She's here.”

Every electric synapse in his body zapped at once. “Here? In Texas?
Here
here? In the crowd? I need to see her.”

“Sit down, you idiot.” Brad shoved him back down on the bench. “I didn't tell you so you could go hopping off to see her like an antelope frolicking in the meadow. I told you so you'd have something out there to ground you.”

“You lied.”

“No, I didn't. She came. Marianne picked her up at the airport nearly three hours ago.”

She'd been nearby, within touching distance, for hours. Why hadn't she come to see him?

Because she'd think she was a distraction. Of course.

“I told you because you know that's going to help you get in there and do your job. You've got something to look forward to when you climb out of the ring. So when you're inside, you get in, you get out. You kick that Army boy's ass, and go hug your woman. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Coach Willis poked his head in. “Sweeney, you're on deck. Let's go.”

Graham picked up his mouth guard and stood with Brad. “If I'd said having Kara here would have distracted me, would you still have told me she was here?”

Brad's face was nearly comical. “Hell no, you idiot. I came here to win. You can kiss the girl later. Beat someone up first.”

He laughed, then walked out ready for his first match.

*   *   *

KARA
sat in the stands, wishing she had someone beside her to talk to. Even Zach had been a good boxing buddy, for the sake of company. But Marianne and Reagan both had work to do. Important work. So she would sit down and be quiet and watch in amazement. The last few fights had been interesting. Some were men she knew from the team, and others pitted Army against Air Force, meaning both competitors were strangers to her. She couldn't help but become excited every time one of the Marines took to the mat, though she had no clue what was going on. During Tressler's match, she'd actually found herself on her feet, screaming along with everyone else, for him to kick some ass.

It was exhausting just to watch. She also had no clue how the scoring worked, but was relieved when the referee—judge? in-charge person?—held up Tressler's gloved hand as the victor. Maybe to an experienced spectator, that would have been obvious. To her, it was thrilling.

She watched as Brad walked beside Graham, wearing a silky red robe trimmed with gold. Marine Corps colors. Brad took the robe as he walked to the corner where Coach Willis and Cartwright stood, then settled down in a seat on the front row with the rest of the team.

God, Graham was gorgeous to look at. A Greek god come to life. She wanted to touch him now. Give him a hug, whisper something encouraging in his ear. Stroke her hand down his back, feeling every ripple of muscle under her fingertips as she did so . . .

Okay, so maybe that last one was more for her pleasure than his. Who cared? The man was magnificent.

Unlike his teammates before him, he looked to be scanning the crowd. Had Brad told him she was here? She'd had enough time before his match to find him and tell him good luck. But in her mind, that would have distracted him from the purpose. They had so much to talk about, so much to discuss. Too much to cram into one before-match conversation. Better he have his full attention on the task at hand so he could escape from this round unscathed, then talk later.

Those dark eyes seemed to take in the crowd in quick sections, even as Coach Willis started talking to him. He nearly missed her; she felt his eyes actually rake over her as they kept scanning, then they zeroed back in on her.

She was in a crowd of five hundred plus—on her side of the stands, anyway—and he'd still managed to find her. He must be a champion Where's Waldo? player.

Raising her hand a little, she smiled and gave a tiny wave.

His grin broke out, a little distorted from the mouth guard, but she knew that was what he meant. He didn't wave,
just sent her a wink—at least, she thought it was a wink, hard to tell from this distance—and nodded once. She understood it was an acknowledgment there would be more to come, but now, he had a job to do.

Go get 'em, baby.

The first bell rang to indicate the start of round one, and she covered her eyes. His Army opponent came out swinging, and Graham instantly went on the defense, using footwork and an innate understanding of where each punch would be thrown before it was to dodge and weave around the barrage of punches and jabs. If she knew more . . . she could have given him mental instructions. As if that would have helped . . . but it would have made her feel more productive than just watching him work his ass off to keep from being hit.

When a blow from Mr. Army connected, glancing off his jaw, she looked down and sat. As everyone around her stood, she had no view of the ring. And probably for the best. No wonder Reagan had said before she'd nearly thrown up at her first match. How did someone watch the man she loved intentionally step into the ring and get punched?

When the bell sounded for the end of round one, a few people sat, but not enough to see. She jumped back up and saw Graham walking to the corner and the tiny stool set there by Coach Cartwright. His back was to her, and he didn't look behind him. Good idea. Keep focused. There was no way to know how it had gone. No way to know if he'd been hit in the face, or the stomach . . . God, this stupid, violent sport! If Zach ever decided to take up boxing, she'd just have to kill him.

So instead, she focused on Graham's opponent. His chest heaved as he sucked in wind, and it was shiny with sweat, but he appeared untouched. As if they'd spent the entire first round doing nothing but practicing their Zumba moves around each other instead of trying to punch and jab each other's eyes out.

This sport made no sense to her at all.

When the bell for round two started, she sat back down. Wuss. Total wuss. This was just something they would have to come to grips with. He would have his boxing hobby, and she would encourage him from a distance. A long distance away. Like, from home.

After the last round, she stood and watched as Graham and his opponent came to stand in the middle, not looking at each other, an arm's length apart. Graham's head was bowed, as if he didn't want to look up. Or maybe because he was exhausted. Or possibly hurt? Kara's heart raced at the thought. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself down the bleachers and crowd surf to the floor, run to him and hold him until he recovered.

Overreaction much, Kara?

After conferring with the judges at their table on the main floor—who Kara knew based their scoring on connected punches—the referee climbed back into the ring. He stood between the two men, pausing for effect. The rumble of the gym grew quiet as they waited, like a classroom full of students whose teacher was about to hand out either a reward or a punishment, and they didn't know which . . . then grabbed Graham's hand and lifted it high.

She screamed. She screamed so loud the person in front of her covered her ears and turned to give her a bitchy look. Kara couldn't have cared less. He'd won. He'd
won!
Grabbing her purse, she made her way quickly out of the row—apologizing profusely along the way as she was sure she knocked into more than one set of knees in her haste—and worked her way through the people leaving during the break to hit the restrooms or concession stands to run at the main floor. But she couldn't get to it. The area for the team and staff was roped off this time, with security standing guard.

Graham had shrugged back into his robe and was heading back toward the exit that would lead him into the locker
rooms. She wanted him to turn around, to notice her. To come for her.

“Graham!” She jumped and waved like a lunatic, but he either didn't hear her, or wasn't ready yet to talk. He kept walking.