But the pounding persisted. With a grumble, he levered out of bed and headed for the door, suddenly aware he was still wearing jeans and his running shoes. A half-second before he opened it, he heard a hissed, “No, stop!”

He froze, hand on the doorknob, and looked behind him. Reagan stood, darting one leg into a pair of skin-tight black pants. Her ass was bare, but he couldn’t even concentrate on that when she looked so comical, hopping around the room.

Her room. Right. He was still in her room. They’d fallen asleep and he’d never made it back to his place. Shit. He’d nearly broadcast their sleeping together—literally sleeping—to whoever was on the other side of the door. Not that he cared . . . but she would.

“Who the hell is coming to your room at this hour?” he asked quietly as he sat back on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, then called out, “Who is it?” at the next set of knocks.

“It’s Coach Willis, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes, though he wasn’t sure if it was at the coach—unlikely—or the ma’am—more plausible. “Can I help you, Coach?”

“Just need to speak with you a moment, if you don’t mind.”

She grabbed her black jacket from yesterday, buttoned it over her sleeping tank without putting on a bra, then wrapped her hair up with two quick flicks of her wrist and clipped it. “Just a moment.” She waved him back, and he understood she wanted him out of the line of sight from the door. He scooted back toward the headboard and listened as she opened the door.

“Yes, Coach, how can I help you?”

The coach answered, but it was so low, Greg couldn’t make it out. Her own answer was equally quiet, despite his strain to hear. After another two minutes, she closed the door quietly with a click. Then she walked to her suitcase and started tearing through it. “You’ve got to head back to your room. Get packed and ready to roll. I’ll see you at the bus. Or . . .” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “I’ll think of something.”

“Think of what?” He stood, caught her shoulders and forced her to look at him. Forced her to slow down a moment and breathe. “What’s wrong with our own bus?”

She took a deep breath, then let it go again. Kara would have been proud of that. “I have to go check the damage for myself, but it appears as though someone has vandalized it.”

Greg waited for more. “So, what? Someone spray paint the sides? Did they draw a penis or something? What’s the real problem?”

“The real problem is the driver says he can’t drive it in its current condition, and has already reported the damage to his own supervisor. He can’t drive passengers on it due to liabilities. Which means I have to figure out how to get all of you, plus all your equipment, plus the support staff home.” She stepped back, cleared her throat, and nodded toward the door. When she spoke, her voice had dropped into Professional Distance Reagan mode. “I think you should take care of that while I get dressed. We both have a lot to get done this morning.”

“Yeah, sure.” He glanced around and found his polo, pulling it on. He wouldn’t make it weird, because it wasn’t. She had a job to do, and he wouldn’t be in her way. That was the mature, rational way to handle it, and he wasn’t going to get butt hurt over it.

But damn, he thought as he closed her door and quietly walked the hallway back to his own room. Would it kill her to bend just a little before she snapped?

*   *   *

REAGAN sat in the driver’s seat of the bus—ironically, the only seat not ripped to shreds—and did some quick Internet searching on her phone while she waited. The team was inside, having been woken up early to congregate and ask who had seen what. Marianne had her own little team and was doing the same.

She’d probably have to answer questions as well, to the base MPs as well as the MPs at Lejeune. There was no way this was coincidental. Not after so much else had happened to the team in such a short period of time.

But the scary part was . . . they were hours away from home. And unless you were a friend or family member of a teammate, most civilians wouldn’t know the team had headed down for a simple scrimmage.

So the culprit had most likely traveled down with them on the very bus he then vandalized. Very comforting.

Another ten minutes later—including one short and not-so-sweet call to her supervisor—Reagan had secured travel for the team back home. She hopped down from the seat and walked through the broken front doors, and nearly screamed when she hit the pavement and saw a tall figure lurking to her right.

“Hey.” Greg reached out and stroked a hand down her arm. “Sorry. You okay?”

She pressed the hand gripping her cell phone to her racing heart and took a deep breath. “Let me check my blood pressure and get back to you on that one.” Then she realized . . . “Why aren’t you inside with the rest of the team?”

“I told coach I wanted to stay with you. Just in case.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his team-issued jogging suit bottoms. In general, she thought windbreaker outfits were a little on the silly looking side. But he managed to make the parachute-like material sexy, anyway. She was in over her head. “He agreed. He thought it was best we kept eyes on everyone. Nobody is alone, battle buddy, that sort of thing.”

He’d told the coach, not asked. As if he wasn’t asking permission, but simply making the choice. Could have gotten him in serious trouble. It warmed her down in her still-chilled belly that he’d gone against the grain to make sure she was okay. “Well, thanks, but I’m fine. Just stressed.”

“Understatement.”

“No kidding.” With one last glance at the torn-up bus, she sighed and headed back toward the BOQ main lobby. Greg fell in step with her. “I guess it could have been an opponent from last night? Someone with sour grapes over losing?” Even as she said it, her voice lacked conviction.

Greg lifted one shoulder in a “maybe” gesture, but he didn’t appear convinced.

“But going inside like that . . .” She shuddered. “Just feels like more of a violation. Slashing a tire or keying your paint job sucks, but doesn’t feel like this does.”

“And that’s what they wanted. Whoever is pulling this junk wants to get in our heads.”

“What if he’s one of you?” She said it quietly, and Greg was silent long enough that she thought he hadn’t heard. She regretted asking the moment the question left her lips. There was no way he’d want to think about that. She shouldn’t have asked. He had enough to worry about.

“Probably is,” he said just as quietly. “Guess we’ll find out.”

CHAPTER

19

Greg played cards with Graham and two others while they waited for the replacement bus. The coaches had quizzed the team in groups of two or three, asking if they’d seen anything. Noticed anything. Heard anyone joking or whispering about damage to the bus. As far as he could tell, none had. Marianne had met with her interns, and Reagan was now in conference with the coaching staff herself.

The entire thing was a lame rodeo.

“So who was it?” one of the younger guys asked, playing a card. “One of the interns?”

“That chick was pissed when Hood wouldn’t let her sit in his lap,” the other confirmed. “Did you see the steam coming outta her ears when she stormed off?”

“Just the kind of female to pull shit like that,” the first said, scooping up the cards to shuffle.

Graham and Greg exchanged a look, but both declined to say a word.

Yeah, maybe it was a vindictive female. Women were just as capable of tearing up a bus as a man. But it seemed rather impersonal, to his way of thinking. Nikki would probably prefer a more direct hit to whoever had insulted her. Cutting up that specific Marine’s clothes, or slapping him in front of an audience.