Against the Ropes

Book 2: First to Fight

by Jeanette Murray

Genres: Sports; Contemporary Romance; Military Romance

Synopsis

The author of Below the Belt continues her First to Fight series with a novel of one Marine’s battle to come out on top—in life and love…

As a troubled teen, Gregory Higgs channeled his energy into boxing instead of breaking the law. The ring gave him purpose and something to strive for. So did the Marines. Combining the two seemed like a natural fit.

Another natural fit? Reagan Robilard, the sweet athlete liaison who keeps all the fighters out of trouble and manages their PR—a job that gets more challenging when someone digs up the truth about Greg’s not-so-shiny past after equipment is vandalized at the gym.

Even if it wasn’t her job, Reagan can’t let Greg take the fall. Because passion doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to matters of the heart…

Release date: October 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

CHAPTER

1

And now, he was officially one of the team.

Gregory Higgs turned from the list on the door of Coach Ace’s office and scrubbed a hand over his face. That was that. He was officially on the Marine Corps boxing team.

Oo-rah and all that.

“Hey, is it up yet?” Graham Sweeney jogged over, beating the crowd. “The list, it’s up?”

“Yeah.” Greg stepped aside to let Graham by. “I forgot to check for your name. Sorry.”

“No problem. You were checking for your crew. I totally get it.” His friend’s finger slowly scanned down the list, pausing every so often as he noted a member of his own unit. “Damn, Monticino didn’t make it.”

Greg wasn’t sure who that was, exactly, so he said nothing.

“And . . . there.” He breathed deeply. “There we go. I’m in.”

Because he knew it mattered greatly to his friend, Greg slapped his shoulder. “Well, look at it this way, even if you’d have been cut, the commute home would have been simple.”

“Back gate, five minutes into Hubert.” Graham grinned and punched Greg’s shoulder. “Congrats, man. We did it.”

“No shocker you two managed to pull through.” Walking carefully, Brad Costa ambled toward them. From one hand, a black knee brace dangled.

Just to mess with his roommate, Greg stepped in front of the list. “Pull through what?”

Brad made a face and stopped in front of him. “Move.”

“Why?” He glanced at Graham. “What’s he want?”

“He,” Brad said sarcastically, “wants to see the list. Move.”

“It’s like he cares,” Greg added, eyes wide. “Grandpa, are you ready for your nap yet?”

Brad bent over as if he were ready to charge and Greg sidestepped, laughing. “You’re too easy, man. You’ve really got to tone it down or I’m going to have way too much fun poking at you while we’re traveling.”

“So . . .” Suddenly serious, Brad stepped up and scanned down the list. Much like Graham, he sighed when he caught his name, then went back to find the rest of his team. “Damn.”

“Missing one?”

“Two. Or maybe one and a half.”

Greg glanced at Graham. “Half?”

“Chalfent’s listed as an alternate.” Brad turned, face grim. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I think it means they send them home, but ask them to keep training while they’re there. If someone on the team gets hurt or can’t compete, they’ll bring them back.”

Brad gave a tight nod, then headed toward the mats the team used to warm up. A few younger Marines walked in to the gym and jogged toward Coach Ace’s door.

“Who else did you lose?” Greg asked, catching up.

“Tibbs. But I already knew that. There was no way they’d keep him after that debacle with the motorcycle last weekend.” Sitting down carefully, Brad began to stretch out his legs. The brace lay next to his hip, unused.

“Forgive me for my lack of a medical degree, but aren’t you supposed to be, I dunno, wearing that?” Graham pointed to the brace. Brad kicked it at him. Graham kicked it back.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

At the sound of their pint-sized drill sergeant of an athletic trainer, all three men froze. The sounds of groans and cheers from across the gym—Marines who were checking the list—echoed. As one, the three Marines turned to see Marianne Cook standing just off the mat, looking surprisingly adorable in an oversized T-shirt he could easily guess was from Brad’s collection, and some sweatpants that bunched at the ankles and were clearly about five inches too long. The toe of one running shoe tapped, and her arms were crossed. The scowl she sent Brad could have frozen the nuts off a bull.

And all at once, Greg was very glad Brad had been the one to catch the cute AT’s eye early in training camp, and not him.

“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.”

He snorted at that. “Nobody gives a crap about the Marine boxing team but Marines . . . and maybe the other branches’ boxing teams. We’re not exactly professional athletes here, Mrs. Robilard.”

“It’s miss,” she corrected absently, glancing through the biography the program director had given her. Like the others, it was mostly details. Important dates, FITREPs, any awards given, and a list of the numerous deployments and TDYs. Unlike the other bios, though, where he’d had the option to fill in personal information himself—hometown, family, interests outside of boxing—he’d left it blank.

“I’ll need you to fill this out all the way.” She slid the paper toward him, doing her best to avoid touching him at all. “You left the bottom blank.”

He glanced at it, then passed it back. “I filled out all the necessary stuff. Nothing more to say.”

“There’s always something more to say. If you could just—”

“Look, Miss Robilard,” he said, standing abruptly, “I didn’t sign on to be a talking figurehead. I came here to box and have some fun with my new teammates. That’s all. If that’s not enough for the Corps, then I can just as easily head back to my home base and be done with it. It’s no skin off mine.” With that, he slipped out of the office like smoke.

“Well,” she muttered, noticing her hand had begun trembling again. “That just about sucked.”

*   *   *

AN hour later, Reagan’s heart rate had returned to normal and her hands had calmed down enough to sort through all the Marines who had been cut and the ones who had made the team. Those Marines who had stayed for the impromptu, off-the-books workout had been called in one by one to evaluate potential PR gold mines, and there was a list of the few she hadn’t seen yet. She was in control. A force of organizing nature. A professional, competent, capable woman. She was a cool cucumber who—

“Hey.”

“Oh my Jesus!” Rocking back in the springy chair, Reagan grabbed the edge of the desk, praying it would keep her from being thrown to the floor. A few seconds of bronco-riding later and she was right side up. When she heard a snickering from the doorway, she shot a glare at Marianne Cook. “Why is that so funny?”

“You’d have to see it from my angle to understand the humor.” Marianne grinned and shut the door behind her, flopping into the seat across the desk. Normally, the short, spritely athletic trainer wore a Marine Corps boxing team polo and khaki bottoms of some kind, combining the practicality of being able to move with the professionalism expected of her. Today, however, she wore simple sweatpants and a large man’s T-shirt.

Feeling testy, Reagan gathered the piles she’d scattered and started stacking them back together. “Where’s the work uniform?”

“My day off equals my day to slop it up. No point in getting all dressy to watch them go at quarter speed. They’re barely breaking a sweat out there.” She tilted her head to indicate the gym beyond the office door. “Most of them are so thankful they made the team their legs are still like jelly.”

Reagan could relate. She finished stacking and slapped the last pile down a little harder than necessary. “I spoke with Brad.”

“Hmm.” Marianne picked up one of Coach Ace’s pens and started twirling it.

“We talked a bit about you and the situation with your relationship.”

“Uh-huh.” She doodled a bit on the edge of a piece of paper. Reagan shifted it slightly to the left, out of range. Marianne just settled back and watched her. Then, with a sigh, she added, “Am I supposed to be defensive about it? Reagan, you knew we were dating. He made the team on his own merit. I’m still here on my own merit. That’s really all.”

“He said as much. And you don’t have to feel defensive. I’m not the one in charge of hiring or firing anyone.” Reagan blew at the hair that threatened to fall over her eyes. Why didn’t her hair stay in its nice, professional chignon like it was supposed to? The women in the Harvard Business Review made their hair look effortlessly professional and grown-up. “But I still had to ask. I can’t just stop doing my job. If there’s a PR disaster or treasure trove, it’s my job to find it and use it.”

“Well, there’s neither. No treasure troves or disasters. We just want to date in peace.” Marianne propped one running shoe–clad foot on the corner of the coach’s desk. “As long as that’s clear.”

“It is.” Reagan debated it a moment, but then decided to try. “Wanna get drinks later?”

Marianne blinked in surprise. “I just gave you a snotty warning and you invite me to drinks? You have very weird responses.”

“I’m desperate,” Reagan said honestly.

“Well, in that case, sign me up!” Marianne said with a laugh.

Reagan’s mouth dropped open when she realized what she’d said. “No! Oh, God no. That’s not what I meant.” She let her forehead drop to the desk, lifted it and dropped it once more. “I’m awful at this.”

“If you’re asking me out on a date, then I have to tell you, it’s not going very well.”

Reagan tilted her head so she could look up with one eye. Marianne’s amused face told her the trainer was kidding. “You’re not my type.”

“Shame. Now why are you desperate?”

“I’m desperate for female company. Legit, intelligent female company. I still don’t know my way around this town, I get lost on base anytime I have to go somewhere besides here, and I’m about eight states away from anyone I know.” She sighed and settled back, smoothing down her jacket. “Desperate.”

“Sounds like it.” With a gentle smile, Marianne stood and held out a hand. “Phone.”

Reagan handed it over without protest, knowing what the other woman was up to. “Call yourself or text yourself or something so you have my number, too.”

A few seconds later, a pocket low on Marianne’s thigh began to sing. She pressed a button through the fabric of the sweats and shut the music off. “Got it. I already promised I’d go out with my friend Kara tonight—”

“Oh. Right, of course. Plans. You’ve got plans.” And here she was, horning in like a lost puppy, desperate for a belly scratch and a single word of praise. Would she ever get it right?

“But,” Marianne added, “we’d love to have you join us. Normally it’s just us chilling at her place because she’s got a son, but she sprung for a babysitter tonight. We’re painting the town red.”

“Isn’t it already red and gold everywhere around here?” Reagan asked, looking around Coach Ace’s office. The predominant pair of colors were splashed all over. The Marine Corps colors were deeply embedded everywhere.

“Good point. Nevertheless, I officially invite you to join us out. I know what it’s like being the new kid, and it’s not always easy. So it’s time to join the in crowd.”

“The in crowd, huh?” Reagan took her phone back from Marianne, feeling like she was being handed a lifeline. “That’s you and your friend?”

Marianne pfffted. “Who the hell knows? I’ll text you the location, but be ready for questions. Kara and I are going to demand to know your life story from beginning to end.”

“Right. Life story. So that will take up five minutes. What will we do with the rest of the night?” She laughed when Marianne did, feeling more relaxed since the trainer had come into the room. “Thank you.”

“No prob. I’ll see you later on tonight.” With a wave, the short woman disappeared into the gym. Not five seconds later, Reagan could hear her voice shouting, “No, Carmichael! You’re going to blow out your elbow like that! I gave you a pamphlet on that last week!”

CHAPTER

2

Greg settled into what he officially referred to as his spot on Sweeney’s couch. He’d just about broken in the end cushion to his liking. Lifting his beer, he saluted his two teammates. “Well done, men.”

Sweeney lifted his own bottle in return. Costa acknowledged it with a small tip of the water bottle.

“One beer, for crying out loud. Just one.” Greg took a sip of his own and gestured toward the kitchen. “Go get one. I’m begging you.”

Brad simply shook his head and capped his bottle. “I have my reasons.”

“If you reach for your phone to check it again, I’ll sit on you and let Higgs toss it out in the front yard,” Sweeney warned as Costa reached into his pocket.

Costa’s hand froze. “You know, I’m not sure why I agreed to be dragged out here tonight. We’ve got practice in the morning, our first official practice as a team. One might think you two would want to be rested up. We’re the old ones out there. We have to keep up with the infants.”

“Speak for yourself. Everyone else has to keep up with him,” Sweeney said with a mock sneer for Greg. “Greased lightning asshole.”

“Jealous,” was all Greg said. “Don’t reach for the phone. Don’t be that guy.”

“You’ll be sorry when I read you this text,” was all Costa said, and did it anyway. “Yup. Just like I thought. The ladies are ready to mingle.”

“Ladies?” Greg and Sweeney said at the same time. Both sat up. “Which ladies?” Greg added, not ready to get his hopes up yet.

“Yeah, because Cook is cute and all, but I heard a rumor she’s spoken for,” Sweeney added, which earned him a half-hearted kick from Costa.

“She’s on some girls’ night crusade with her friend Kara and the liaison woman.”

“Yoga lady,” Sweeney breathed.

“No, Legs,” Greg corrected.

Costa looked at him, then at Sweeney and shook his head. “You’re both right. Kara is the yoga and Pilates instructor, and ‘Legs,’” he added with air quotes, “I can only assume is the liaison lady. I can’t remember her name.”

“Reagan,” Greg said automatically, then glanced between the other two men. “What? I had that interview with her today. You did, too. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Uh-huh.” Sounding unconvinced, Sweeney stood. “I’m one beer down, so you have to drive, Costa.” He tossed Brad the keys to his SUV. “Let’s roll, gentlemen. There are ladies waiting.”

Brad joined him quickly. Greg waited a moment. He could stay here, or have them drop him off at the BOQ on the way.

But the thought of Reagan in those tight suits she wore, in those sweet heels that did impossibly sexy things to her legs, and what she might look like when she let her hair down off the clock had him jogging after them. “Wait up, I’m coming, too.”

*   *   *

“I’VE missed this,” Reagan said, finishing off her drink. “Okay, not the martini, maybe. That was terrible.”

Kara and Marianne both laughed. “I warned you not to order anything they had to mix,” Marianne said with a grin. “This is strictly a bottle-or-tap sort of place.”

“And yet neither of you strike me as the brewski type,” Reagan said, setting down the martini glass and pushing it away. Lesson learned there. “So why pick here?”

“It’s a hub for adorable men,” Kara said matter-of-factly. “In fact, Marianne’s mom likes to come here and scope out the scenery a few times a week.”

Marianne simply rolled her eyes.

“Oh.” Reagan glanced around, but mostly only noticed Marines out of uniform. They were impossible to miss. The oldest male who wasn’t with a woman looked like he would barely pass thirty. “Uh, how old is your mom again?”

“Old enough to drive me crazy,” Marianne muttered. “She’s been happily married for almost thirty-five years, and yet, is still boy-crazy. But can we please not spend our girl time out talking about my mother of all people?”

“Yes, let’s talk about the ever-adorable, slightly brooding Bradley Costa,” Kara said with a smirk. She sipped her beer with dainty movements that made Reagan think of a queen at high tea. “How are things with you?”

“Things are good. Great, actually.” Reaching for her own beer, Marianne froze and watched Reagan. “Sorry, is this weird? Hearing about one of the teammates and me, personally? I can stop if it’s a conflict of interest or something.”

“No, not at all. As long as it’s something I can use for media,” she added. Counting to three, she burst out laughing at the twin jaw-drops on Kara and Marianne’s faces. “Oh, come on! I’m kidding.”

Marianne shook it off and grumbled, “I knew that.”

Kara just smiled serenely. “So how about you, Reagan? Any guys waiting for you back in . . . where was it you said you were from again?”

“Wisconsin. And no, absolutely not. There was nothing for me back there.” And she meant that literally. “I mean, I had to come all this way just for this tiny job. Clearly, things were not happening in my hometown. Which works well for those who live there by choice. Me, not so much.”

“And this is your first job post college, right?”

Reagan nodded, flagging down the waitress to ask for a beer. “Yeah. I know I have to start at the ground floor, and frankly I’m glad I even got this job with zero work experience. But sometimes I think—”

“Hello, pretty ladies. Can we buy you a round?”

Marianne’s eyes grew soft as she glanced over Reagan’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, ladies, but we’re about to be invaded.”

Reagan glanced at Kara, who shrugged and scooted her chair over. If they didn’t mind girls’ night being invaded by a male, who was Reagan to argue? She was the outsider in this group.

But it wasn’t just any male who slid into the chair beside Marianne. Brad Costa, Marianne’s boyfriend, took the seat and draped an arm over the back of her chair in a proprietary, “This Is Mine” sign to any other men at the bar. The way he leaned over her while talking into her ear was about as obvious as if he’d whipped it out and peed on her to mark his territory.

The imagery both horrified Reagan and made her smother a chuckle, which ended up coming through as a snort that choked her a little. She coughed, then flew forward as a large hand thumped her on the back. Catching herself a half second before her chest flew into the table’s edge, she barked out another cough to clear her throat. Glancing behind her, ready to give hell to whoever thought that was amusing, she found herself eye to eye with none other than Gregory “just Greg” Higgs.

“Sorry about that,” he said sincerely, sitting beside her. “Didn’t mean to hit you so hard. I thought you we