Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (7 page)

She couldn't hold back the smile as he stepped under the ropes and Marianne was beside him in an instant. First to give him a kiss on the cheek, then to walk with him to a corner to inspect his knee. Her friend was as protective of her athletes as any mama hen . . . but that one particular Marine certainly got special attention.

“He's next.”

“Hmm?” Kara glanced down at her son, then at the program. “No, he's two from now.”

“Didn't you hear?” He pointed up at the ceiling, which she took to mean he was referring to the announcement system. The gym's PA system was so old and outdated, it was difficult to make out anything said. She'd tuned it out from the start. “Things got shuffled around. A few people are hurt or whatever and they couldn't change the programs fast enough. He's next. Please say we can stay! Please.”

Kara debated. Watching up to now had been difficult, but not impossible. She enjoyed teaching yoga to the young Marines, and had found real satisfaction in working with a bunch of testosterone-driven athletes who had initially scorned the practice and now gladly joined her sessions. But watching Graham get punched . . . her heart clenched a little at the thought. “I'm not sure I can stay, Zach. It's getting late, too.”

“It would mean a lot to him.” That had her blinking and looking back down at her son. “Graham told me he wanted me to see the match. He's good, too. I mean, I heard . . .” he muttered when her eyes narrowed. He broke eye contact and then sat up straight, staring across the gym.

She followed his eye line and found Graham entering the gym from the locker rooms, looking . . . different. There was no other word for it. Purely male, dominant, aggressive, a little mean.

If this had been the Graham from the other night, she never would have crawled in his lap for a kiss. He would have forced her on her back and taken it without asking, and damn the consequence.

The realization that he had this in him, this domineering, alpha aggressiveness built into his person, and tempered it enough to make her comfortable, to let her lead . . .

She shivered, and Zach gave her a peculiar look. “You can't be cold, Mom. It's like, a hundred degrees in here.”

“Just a tickle. We can stay.” That had her son's eyes lighting up. He had a bad case of hero worship all right.

Graham stepped into the ring, looking a little silly in silky shorts and shoes that looked soft enough to bend laced up to his ankles. His hands were encased in the thick boxing gloves, and in his mouth was a black mouth guard that should have looked ridiculous but only turned his face from a handsome work of art into a menacing gargoyle, uniquely beautiful in its ferocity. She shivered again, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees, to watch.

He met the referee in the middle, alongside his opponent, listened for a moment, nodded, then touched gloves carefully with the man he would be attempting to punch in the face in another minute. They both grimaced at each other, but she assumed it was more of a friendly grin, hampered by mouth guards.

Competitive sports had never made a lot of sense to Kara.

They separated, and Kara took the moment to soak in the sight of Graham's body before it would be pummeled. His skin was bronzed evenly, unlike many of the Marines before him with their cute, comical farmer's tans. His back faced her, and she could appreciate how the silk bottoms cupped and molded his very fine ass with each step, riding up as he did a few toe jumps to show impressively muscled thighs. As his arms stretched in front of him for a few practice punches, the muscles of his back moved and morphed in a way that had her salivating.

Probably not just her, either. A woman would have to be both blind and in a coma to not sense the presence of the very hot, very alpha, very desirable male in the ring. His maleness was just . . . overwhelming, really.

The sound of the bell made her shriek a little, and her hand flew over her mouth. Several people turned to give her odd stares, and a few evil eyes. Zach scooted a few inches away, as if he was embarrassed to be seen sitting next to the crazy shrieking lady.

Unlike several others, Graham didn't come from the corner swinging. He edged in, watching his opponent, circling with him, hands up. The first few punches all came from the other man, and Graham dodged them easily, without swinging back. His eyes were fierce, his dark brows furrowed in concentration. How the other Marine didn't collapse with fear beneath that intense gaze was beyond Kara.

The other man swung again, and this time Graham retaliated, throwing several punches in some amazing choreographed sequence that seemed to flow without thought through his arms. The other man's head snapped back, then to the right, then back again as he stumbled a few feet and hit the ropes. Graham then backed off, when she thought he'd pounce.

When the Marine came out swinging from the rope, Graham took one to the chin, and smiled. He actually smiled,
though it was a sort of scary, threatening smile that had Kara wanting to look away.

His opponent landed another punch, and Kara covered her eyes with both hands. No more. No more of this. She couldn't watch him get kicked around. And the worst part was, he was allowing it happen. Even without understanding the sport as a whole, she could tell he was simply playing around, letting the other man get in a few shots of his own. He could stop it, and chose not to.

“Mom, what are you doing? You're missing all the good stuff!”

She resisted Zach's tugging on her arm, even after the bell ending round one rang out. “Just watch, and if anything looks too violent, close your eyes. Honor system.”

Zach snorted, which she took to mean,
Yeah, okay sure, whatever you say.
Except the sarcastic version.

“He's letting the other guy get him,” Zach said quietly, as if puzzling it out himself. “You can tell, he's dropping his guard a little sometimes.”

“How do you even know what . . . never mind.” The more she talked, the more she was tempted to look up again. And the bell rang for round two, leaving Zach preoccupied and her wanting to crawl in a hole until it was over.

How did Marianne and Reagan do this every day? How did they listen to the boxing gloves hitting flesh, the grunts and groans and the blood, and not go home with scars on their hearts? She'd cry daily if she had to witness such a violent sport on repeat.

When the third round's bell rang, there was a blessed moment of relief from both the crowd's noise and the sound of the male aggression while the winner was tallied.

Peeking from between her fingers, she found Graham kneeling in his corner, swishing water in his mouth before—
ick
—spitting it into a bucket held up by Coach Cartwright.

After conferring for a moment with the judges—three men
who sat at a folding table off to the side—the referee called both men back to the center, paused for a moment, then lifted Graham's still-gloved hand in the air victoriously.

Well, of course he won
, Kara thought as she surged to her feet and clapped like a wild woman. Of course. There was never a doubt in her mind

Except when she'd covered her face for two out of three rounds.

Zach hopped onto the bleacher beside her and screamed out loud, waving his arm and jumping so much her shoulder felt like it was going to fall off when he grabbed onto her for balance.

“Zach, there's no way he can see you. Stop, or you'll fall!”

The jumping ceased, but the yelling and waving didn't. Kara rolled her eyes, but then when she looked back at the ring, she found herself looking directly into Graham's eyes. Against the odds, he'd found her in the crowd, and was staring intently at her, as if she were his next opponent. And he wouldn't go so easy on her.

Except the battle wouldn't be a violent one. Graham's war would be a sexual one. A fight of the body and heart.

At this point, Kara figured her odds of winning the battle were about as high as Graham's boxing opponent's.

That was to say,
nil.

7

G
raham sank down on the bench in the locker room, letting Brad and Greg yank off his gloves and unwrap the tape from his knuckles and wrists. “Anything besides water around here?”

“What, like a flask? Save it for after the match,” Greg suggested.

“I mean like a sports drink, you idiot,” he growled.

“Water,” Brad encouraged, grabbing a bottle from the table against the wall and plunking it down on the bench beside him. “Fill 'er up. It's best right now. You can grab something later, after you've rehydrated.”

“Sweating bullets thanks to the shitty A/C in this place.” He settled against the locker and wiped a hand over his brow. “It's affecting my sense of smell, too. Everything smells like something burning.”

Greg looked at Brad, and he could sense they were silently wondering if he'd gotten hit in the head more than normal. When Brad leaned down to inspect his pupils, he shoved at
his friend's shoulder. “Get out of my face. If anyone's giving me a checkup, it's gonna be your hot girlfriend.”

Brad kicked him in the calf. “The asshole's fine.”

“No, I think smelling burning stuff is a sign of a concussion.” Looking uncommonly serious, Greg looked toward the door that led to the outer gym. “I'm not trying to be an ass, but if you're smelling something burning, I'm worried.”

“You guys don't smell it? I thought it was the A/C working overboard to keep up with the number of bodies in there.” Two of which had been Kara and Zach. Spotting them in the crowd had made the moment of victory a thousand times sweeter. Though Kara had appeared a bit pale, Zach looked like he'd never been happier. That she'd given him the chance to come watch, even when he should have been grounded, made Graham's day.

“Actually, I sort of smell it now, too.” Sitting up straighter, Brad scrunched his brown and turned a full circle on the bench. “It smells . . . okay, yeah, he's not concussed. Something smells like it's burning. Coming from the vent?”

Greg shrugged his shoulders. “Can't smell anything.”

“Maybe we should call maintenance. Something might have blown a fuse, or some motor burned out in the HVAC.” Graham stood, shaking his legs out a little. “I'm gonna get dressed, watch the last match and then head straight home. I need some—No.” He froze as the odor grew stronger. “It's in here. Start looking in lockers.”

They didn't question him, only began flinging lockers open. Graham started in the back corner, where the smell of something burning was the strongest, though still not overpowering.

“Found it—Jesus H. Who does this shit?” Brad stood back as he opened a locker and thin, white smoke billowed out. There, at the bottom of the locker, sat a candle, flame flickering. The hem of a t-shirt hanging on a hook, dangling over the open flame, smoked, but there was no active fire yet. A pair of
workout shorts dangled from the other hook, high enough that it wasn't in danger. Yet. From the look of it, the clothes were too damp with sweat to make a fire likely, for now. Brad grabbed the damp T-shirt from the hook and tossed it to the tiled floor, stomping on it a little just to be sure there was no live flame. Greg reached around him and blew out the candle.

They all stared into the locker, watching the swinging shorts and the black smoke tendril coming off the charred, extinguished wick.

“Whose locker is this? What asshole lights a fucking candle
in
their locker and then just shuts it? God.” Greg ran a hand through his hair, which really needed a trim if he wanted to be within uniform regs. “How stupid could someone be?”

“They're babies,” Graham reminded him. “They can't think straight with all the testosterone flowing through their veins, combined with the competition. It's someone's locker, so let's find out whose, give them the ass chewing of a lifetime, and make anything that could start a fire off limits from here on out. No more prematch ritual candle or incense.”

“Guys,” Brad said quietly, looking at the name written on the waistband of the shorts. “This wasn't an accident. These were Tressler's. He's not the candle-lighting type.”

“Tressler?” Greg's jaw ticked. “That little pencil dick . . .”

“No.” Brad shook his head and slapped a hand down on Greg's shoulder to contain him. Greg and Tressler had had an . . . altercation a few weeks ago after the younger man had made some inadvisable comments about Reagan. It wouldn't take much to have Greg's anger running loose where the young Marine was involved. “This wasn't him. Think. Is Greg the kind of guy who would light a freaking Bath & Body Works candle in his locker?”

Graham and Greg both blinked at each other, then stared more closely at the candle still cooling in the bottom of the locker. Sure enough, it wasn't the plain grocery store candle
most guys would have picked out. It was a pink confection of a candle, with a gingham-style bow for a label and a froufrou name. No guy would have selected it and intended to burn it in public.

“So . . . what? How the hell did it get there?” Graham thought for a moment. “Did someone else . . . shit.”

“Yeah,” Brad said quietly. Greg's eyes narrowed as he caught on. “I think our vandal has just upgraded to arson.”

“And with something that smells like a perfume counter,” Greg added with a sneer. “Could the guy not even pick a manly candle to try to burn the locker room with?”

“Who said it's a guy?” Graham waited while they both turned to look at him, stunned expressions on their faces. “What? So far, nothing that's happened has been anything a female couldn't have pulled off. I'm not saying it
is
a woman, but we can't discount it.”

“Whoever it is can't be all that brilliant. I mean, I'm no genius, and even I know you can't light wet shit on fire, and those clothes are obviously soaked.” Greg scoffed as he toed the shirt, still on the ground.

“There's an entire building full of people. I wonder if they hoped the clothes would dry, and later on, they would catch more fully. After everyone was out of the building. A poor man's long fuse.”

Brad's idea made sense. “God. Just . . . God. We have to do something.”

“What, check every guy's locker for the matching lotion scent?” Greg rolled his eyes.

“No.” With the finality and calmness that made him the team's captain, Brad straightened and shut the locker door. “We handle this as a team. In-house. We don't tell anyone about this. The MPs will get this program shut down. Or we'll lose our practice space. Either way, it's no good for anyone. We all meet here, Monday night, ten o'clock. Tell your squads. Nobody else.”

He didn't have to specify the squads were the guys they'd been assigned to watch over during tryouts. Though the squads were no longer in play, it worked as an efficient sort of phone tree. Each younger Marine would trust them, and subsequently would show up when asked.

“I just want to get out of here. I'm done with this shit.” Graham slammed his own locker shut, rubbing a towel over his head before chucking it into the laundry bin in the corner by the door.

“And to think, a certain hot yogi and her son came to see you. Guess you won't be finding them after the match, huh?” Greg laughed when Graham growled. “Get over your bad mood. You won. The woman you want came to see you. Her kid's basically president of your fan club. Other than almost getting burned out of the gym, it's been a pretty good night.”

“Yeah.” Locker room candle aside, it hadn't been a bad day. Maybe he could even convince Kara to let him take them out for a celebratory ice cream . . . if Zach could have any. He'd have to check with Kara on that.

The rest would level itself out. Brad was right. It was time to stop dicking around with the MPs and handle their business in-house.

*   *   *

KARA
let Zach greet a few of the boxers, knowing he'd be safe with them while she spoke to Marianne. She didn't know the whole team as well as she did Brad, Greg and Graham, but they were all a decent bunch of guys and didn't mind playing up the superhero card for Zach. Having a young boy idolize them was right up their alley.

“This is insane,” Kara said as she hugged Marianne. They were bumped from behind by another hugging duo, and scooted over a bit. “Like high school graduation or something. The crowd is all over the place.”

“Welcome to the world of boxing, where first you throw
a punch, and then afterward you grab a beer with the guy you just punched.” Her friend grinned, face flushed with excitement, baby-fine blonde hairs sticking to her sweat-dampened temples. “I'm going to need Brad to give me a two-hour-long hand massage, after wrapping so many wrists, fingers and ankles, but this was great.”

Marianne was in her element, that was for sure. Caring for athletes, and being a part of the team, had always been her dream. She was living it. “Well, go you.”

“Reagan's around here somewhere. The guys will have a team meeting after this dies down a bit. Do you want to grab a drink? Oh wait, you've got Zach.”

“Yes, and while I lifted his grounding to attend tonight, he's got to serve the rest of it out, no questions asked.” Why was it that nobody told you when you became a mother, your child's punishment was just as much your punishment?

“Understood. We'll do a rain check.” Marianne rubbed Kara's arms briefly. “I'm glad you came, though. I saw you cover your face a few times—”

“More than a few,” Kara admitted.

“—but you stayed, so that was big. Reagan still battles back nausea half the time.”

“Speaking of our professional lady, where is she?”

“I don't know. Somewhere talking to a media person, maybe. Or taking photos to tweet out. Who knows?” Marianne grinned as Brad walked up behind, wrapped his arms around her waist and yanked her back against his chest. “Hey, handsome.”

Sensing the couple would want some privacy, she congratulated Brad on his win, then asked if he'd seen Zach.

“I think I saw him with Graham. They were walking toward the parking lot. Probably wanted some fresh air.”

“Thanks. Great job,” she told them both, then hurried off to catch her son before he conned Graham, or someone else, into helping him extend his day off from grounding.

As she rounded the corner that would lead her to the parking lot, she heard her son's voice. She slowed, wanting to catch him in the act of deception before accusing him.

“But you totally could have kicked his ass,” Zach said, deep confusion in his voice. Kara winced at the use of the word “ass,” but held her tongue and listened.

“Sometimes, winning early isn't the right choice.” There was a pause, then, “There's not always honor in kicking someone who can't keep up. It's a fine line between patronizing the guy—you know what patronizing means, right?”

Zach scoffed, and she could almost see his eyes rolling in the back of his head. “Yeah. I'm ten, not two.”

“A wise guy.” The amused tone of Graham's deep voice made her smile. “You can't patronize him, 'cause then it's almost worse. But there's no point in coming out and aiming for the knock out. Not when he's got family here to watch him, and he's working his as— sorry, butt off to compete. There's no honor in that. So you use the chance to learn something new. Try out a new technique. Improve your footwork. It's a chance to learn, not to kick someone whose skills aren't up to your level and think that'll make you feel good.”

They were both quiet, and she sensed Zach was absorbing the information. Her heart swelled a little at Graham taking the opportunity to give her son an important lesson, and in an age-appropriate way. She rounded the corner and found them both leaning against the wall across from the doors. Graham's back was against the brick, with one knee bent and the foot flat against the wall. Zach's posture mimicked the older man's, and she struggled to not run up and hug him and beg him to not grow up too fast.

“Mom.” Straightening, Zach bounced over to her. Still a boy in so many ways. Just not for much longer. “Graham says we can get ice cream, and he'll even drive all the way across town to that place we can eat at.” Meaning the one
ice cream place locally that managed to cater to all his allergy requirements.

“That's a very sweet offer,” she said to both Zach and Graham, resisting the urge to run a hand over his hair. “But you're still grounded, and it's getting late anyway.”

It was hard to watch her son's eyes darken as he realized he wouldn't get his way. So she added, “Maybe another day.”

“Hey, I'll do ice cream anytime.” Graham walked up to them, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “I'll walk out with you.”

Zach filled the three minute walk to Kara's car with enthusiastic retellings of his favorite moments of the night. Up to and including cartoon-esque sound effects as he thrust his fists into thin air. “Bam! Pow!”

As they reached her car, she unlocked it and gave Zach the silent stare that meant,
Get in and don't argue. You're on shaky ground.
He understood at once and got in without another word. Finally.

Then there were two. She rocked back on her heels, clutching her tote as a lifeline. Otherwise, she might embarrass herself by clawing at his chest and trying to rip his T-shirt off. The man shouldn't be allowed to wear clothing. It was criminal to cover up that much perfection. “You, uh . . . you did really . . . good.”

Brilliant, Kara. And next, you can make a lackluster comment about the weather.

He grinned slowly, those sinful lips curving to reveal bright white teeth. “Thanks. The competition felt pretty great. Hope we're ready for the All Military games.”

“You look ready. You looked amazing.” She blinked as his eyes darkened. “I mean, your boxing. You know, your . . . bam. Pow.”