But training won out, and he pulled his head out of his butt enough to refocus and strategize on the fly. Reagan could almost see the wheels turning in his head while he ducked and dodged his opponent’s attacks. After a few moments, he managed a more complex bob-slash-weave thing, then threw an upper cut while still half-ducked over that took the Paris Island Marine totally by surprise. Blood flew as the bell rang to signal the end of the first round.

Marianne, along with Coach Willis, assisted in the corner while the Paris Island Marine stumbled over to his own corner to be looked at by his coach. Sixty seconds sped by as the coach fought to keep the blood in check, and right at the bell, he ducked back under the rope to let the Marine fight round two with the energized Tressler.

Reagan sat beside Nikki the athletic training intern as Tressler fought his second round. With each punch, Nikki blanched a little more. She was definitely not used to a more physical sport. Maybe she’d been lulled into complacency by watching the guys fight in the practice gym, where they mostly tagged instead of threw hard punches.

No tagging here. It was full-out boxing, with flying fists and crunching knocks. The sounds alone made Reagan’s stomach turn. But she swallowed it down, forced a smile on her face, and cheered their team on.

It helped, maybe, that they were winning. It wasn’t a blowout—because Greg’d explained it, Reagan watched for signs of backing off, and saw them—but it was definitely a solid win.

But next up was Greg’s round, and she wasn’t at all sure she could swallow down the feelings that was going to evoke.

The crowd mixed and mingled while the referee and the maintenance switched things out for the next matchup. Coach Cartwright, the corner man for Greg, took his spot next to his boxer.

When Greg let his robe fall, Reagan nearly swallowed her tongue. Completely naked, the man was a specimen of all that was right and good in the world. But there was something special about seeing him in a pair of boxing shorts, with his hands stuffed in boxing gloves. Those little bits were hidden from the view of the normal public, and only she knew what they covered.

Nikki leaned over. “He’s so hot, isn’t he?”

“Hmm.” Reagan wrote down a few notes—work-related, of course—about how the event was running to distract her from the sight in front of her.

“Nervous?”

She glanced at Nikki a moment. “No, why?”

“Your leg.” Nikki bumped her knee against Reagan’s, which was jingling rapidly. “I thought maybe you were nervous for the team. Or maybe you don’t like the violence.” She leaned in closer. “It sort of makes me feel sick to my stomach, honestly. The guys are all so freaking hot, but the blood . . .” She shuddered, then mimed gagging.

Lovely.

“No, I’m good. Just . . . anxious, I guess.” Anxious about watching my boyfriend get punched in the face. He was a damn good boxer, she knew that. Faster than greased lightning, but even the fast ones got a few knocks from time to time.

And when that first bell sounded, and Greg and his opponent knocked gloves then started throwing the punches, she did suddenly feel a little ill. Damn Nikki for putting that in her head . . . Greg threw a combination, and she nearly jumped out of her seat cheering. He took one to the shoulder, then the torso, then a few more to his stomach and she wanted to groan. He evaded, dodged, weaved, and threw a few more punches his opponent didn’t see coming until the bell sounded for round one. Greg retreated to the corner to sit on the small, almost child-sized stool Coach Cartwright had placed there. His back was to her so she couldn’t see his face, which was probably a good thing.

She looked down and found she’d crumpled the notebook paper in her hand. Smoothing it out, Reagan fought hard to keep her breathing in check. “I’m sorry, I have to . . .” She stood and left a confused Nikki as she exited the gym and moved into the cool air of the hallway beyond.

Leaning against the tile wall, she hesitated, then took a few slow, deep breaths. How could she be so stupid? How could she think she could sleep with the man one minute, then watch him get punched the next and not let it affect her? She should have been more prepared. Should have readied herself for it.

How exactly did one ready oneself to watch one’s boyfriend get beat up?

Must look that up online when she got home.

A tall, lanky man walked out of the gym and approached. “Feeling okay?”

She squinted, then barely took in the features of Levi, Marianne’s other intern. He was quiet, usually, but a good student and followed directions well. And had a horrible crush on Nikki, bless his heart.

“I’m good, thanks.” She took another cleansing breath. “Shouldn’t you be in there?”

“Taking a break. This one was Nikki’s to assist.” He shrugged and leaned against the wall beside her. Not close enough to crowd, but there, nonetheless. A comforting presence. “Saw you come out here, thought I’d make sure you were okay.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated. “How do you like your internship?”

“Ms. Cook is a good teacher. She lets us get our hands dirty when we need to.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Not sure I would have chosen to work on a base, but it is what it is. I’m learning.”

She wanted to ask more, but he seemed content to be quiet, so she let him. After another few minutes, she heard what she thought was the final bell of the last round, and a round of heavy cheering.

“He won,” Levi murmured. “That’s my guess, anyway. He was in the lead when I left.”

“The violence of the sport doesn’t bother you like it does Nikki?”

He smiled a little. “Nah. Nikki’s smart, but she lets her gut get in the way.”

More like her young heart. While Levi seemed content to quietly pine for Nikki, she flittered around the training room, offering her heart willingly to any Marine who would hold it for a moment.

Luckily for all involved, nobody had yet offered.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue to get back in, then.” She pushed away from the wall, waiting a moment for him to join. When he shrugged and settled in with his cell phone, she nodded. “Have a good break.”

*   *   *

SHE entered the arena again, thankful that the ropes were empty and Greg was somewhere other than having his face punched. She didn’t doubt he’d won. That was, in her mind, indisputable. But seeing him get hit, get hurt, no matter what the scoreboard said, hurt her, too.

And yes, she was being such a weenie about it. But how the hell was she supposed to feel? Contact sports were not really her thing. She’d been clinical about the rest of the team, but watching someone she looooooo—liked a great deal be hit was too much.

Whew. Close one, there.

She settled down behind the Marines who had already boxed or still had time to kill before they started getting ready for their own date with destiny. A few gave her small smiles as she eased in, but most either didn’t notice or didn’t acknowledge her. Fine stuff. She was there as a support, not to garner attention.

Unlike . . . Nikki. Reagan watched with a grimace as the young woman pouted because apparently, her seat had been taken while she’d been up doing her job. She joked, then mimed sitting on the young Marine’s lap as a solution. And Reagan had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when the smart Marine popped up and out of the seat like a Jack sprung from the box. With a slight scowl, Nikki sat.

Sorry, sweetie, but we’re here to work.

Another minute or so passed, and she saw Levi tap Nikki on the shoulder, apparently relieving her to take her own break.

Over the roar of the crowd, Nikki cupped her hands and called out, “Does anyone need anything?”

There were a few shakes of the head, but most ignored her, again.