“Bradley Costa, you put that brace on right now.”

Graham snickered and bent over his knees, hiding his grin.

She turned on him in a snap. “Don’t feel superior, Marine. You’re on my shit list, too. You didn’t come in so I could look at those two fingers yesterday like I asked.”

He held his left hand high, keeping his chin tucked to his chest. His voice was muffled as he said, “Here they are. Still attached.”

“Everyone’s a tough guy,” she muttered as she marched over to look at the fingers on display. “Put it on,” she demanded of Brad without even sparing him a glance. Gingerly, she probed Graham’s hand. It was only because Greg sat next to him that he heard his friend’s sharp intake of breath.

“Falling apart, both of you,” Greg said cheerfully as he pulled his heels in toward his crotch and bent over.

“Figures the guy who wasn’t even sure he wanted to make the team remains suspiciously healthy,” Brad muttered as he struggled to get the brace on over his shoe. After a minute, he gave up and took the shoe off before slipping the brace on.

More Marines joined them, spacing themselves out across the mat. Greg’s unit—teammates now—came over as they filed in to tell him they’d made the team, except the one who had been cut. He stood to shake the man’s hand, wish him luck and a reminder to add him on Facebook so they could keep in touch.

Brad gave him a baffled look as he sat back down. “You just make friends everywhere, don’t you?”

“Him?”

The loud, booming shout stopped conversation cold as every Marine turned his head to look toward the door. Two men stood at the coach’s door, one clearly attempting to calm the other down. The enraged one shook his friend’s restraining hand off his shoulder and pointed toward the group stretching.

“Him? They kept the old guy with a jacked-up knee and let me go? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Uh-oh,” Graham muttered under his breath. Brad groaned and got to his feet. Greg stood beside him. His fists instinctively curled; his heart raced in anticipation of a fight. He forced his hands to relax, shaking them a bit. Calm down. Calm down. After a moment, Graham stood as well, forming a three-strong wall.

The pissed-off Marine stormed toward them, and Greg had a momentary vision of a bull charging a red cape. Right before he would have slammed into Brad, Greg dove for him. Catching the man by surprise at a diagonal, he sent the two of them sprawling over the mat. He first went for restraint, but anger lent the dude too much strength.

The other man’s anger fueled his own, and despite his earlier attempt to remain calm, Greg felt his own temper snapping at the leash.

Oh, well. Practice came a bit early today.

Dodging several clumsy, if strong, blows, Greg ducked and shouldered the man back a few steps. The other Marine had strength, but if memory served, the guy was never fast enough to keep up. His jabs were like swinging tree trunks. Potentially dangerous when he could land one, but inaccurate as hell. And Greg was too fast to get hit.

Another swing and Greg tossed the man to the ground. Arms wrapped around his waist, keeping him from going back for seconds. Graham sat on the downed man’s chest, tsking his tongue.

“That was pathetic. No wonder you got cut instead of the old guy.”

“Shut up,” Brad said easily.

The man squirmed, but Graham found a pressure point in his shoulder that had the man moaning and subsiding quickly.

“Ease it down, Higgs,” Brad said quietly as Greg fisted his hands again, breathing heavily, and not from exertion. “That was my fight, anyway.”

“I needed the exercise. Not that he gave me much.” Greg forced his fingers to relax, mentally willing the adrenaline to die down. Knowing the way his body and mind worked together, he could do too much damage in two minutes with an amped-up system. He had to calm down.

“Oh, lovely.”

They all turned as a clicking sound echoed over the hardwood floor. And the business-suit-hottie they’d all seen lurking around the gym the last week or so headed toward them on curvy legs, hips swaying in her dark skirt.

“Testosterone for breakfast. Move over, Wheaties.” The woman paused by Marianne, who had a disgusted look on her face. “Are they done now or will there be another round?”

“They’re done,” Marianne said with finality.

“Since today was an informal practice anyway, Coach Ace said I could use his office.” She pointed at Greg, or more specifically, at his still-heaving chest. “You, come with me.”

Greg—and probably every other Marine—watched as she spun on pinprick heels and sashayed across the floor toward the office.

“Anytime,” he breathed, shaking Brad’s grip off before following.

*   *   *

REAGAN sat down in Coach Ace’s chair, grateful to be alone for a moment while her hands were still shaking a little. “Stop that,” she ordered, but they didn’t quite hear the order. There was no way she’d be able to take notes like this, let alone type on a computer in the borrowed office. And let’s not even mention appearing to be a professional in front of a bunch of hardened warriors.

Because nothing said I’m a professional who has it all under control like limbs quaking like a tree branch in a wind storm.

A quick rap on the door made her jolt. She glanced over to see the dark blond with moves like lightning looking in. “You rang?”

“I did, yes. Please come in.” She motioned toward the only other chair in the small, cramped office that smelled like six-day-old sweat socks and must. Lovely. To hide her trembling hands, she smoothed her skirt down, then folded them in her lap. “Your name, please?”

“Higgs. Gregory Higgs.” He settled his body down into the chair and smiled easily. “Yours?”

“Reagan—sorry, Ms. Robilard,” she corrected quickly. Keep it together, Reagan. “I’m the athlete liaison for the team, and will be handling all PR, travel, and outreach efforts for you gentlemen.”

He relaxed back a bit, as if knowing her name made the entire thing less formal. One ankle crossed over his knee, and his hands rested comfortably in his lap. No tremble, she noticed with a little resentment. “That sounds like a fun job.”

No, not really. “It’s fascinating, I assure you.” Putting on her best I’m-an-adult voice, she added, “You know fighting outside the ring isn’t a wise decision, right?”

“A fighter’s a fighter. And anywhere can be a ring.” He grinned. “Back alley, barroom, living room . . . gym. All it takes is two sets of fists and a reason.”

“That right there will be our second problem to tackle with this team.”

“What’s the first?”

She grimaced. “These acts of vandalism. The last one was threatening. It’s a concern, especially as we don’t know the motive.”

“I’d say motive isn’t really the problem when the message is ‘Eat shit and die’ written on the walls of our practice area.” Greg leaned forward a little, as if imparting a secret. “But it wasn’t really the most creative threat, nor was it the most violent. Probably kids.”

“Maybe, but nonetheless, Mr. Higgs, I—”

“Greg.”

She blinked. “No, I really—”

“Normally I’d say Lieutenant Higgs, no mister about it. But we’re not really playing the rank card here. So Greg’s good enough.”

She had to admit calling him mister, or by his rank, didn’t seem to fit the situation. “Fine. Gregory, first I would like to—”

“Greg.”

Her ears flushed with annoyance and she puffed out an exasperated breath. The man was impossibly stubborn. But bonus, her hands had stopped shaking enough to grab her notes and leaf through them. “Greg,” she bit off. “I’m compiling a list of the current roster along with any potentially interesting snippets I can give to media outlets that might come calling or could be used in the future. Any experience you have with boxing outside of the Marines, for example. Anyone famous you trained with, any little personal anecdote you might have to add to the more factual bio I have. Any fun stories about why you joined the Marines. The media loves a human interest piece.”