Marianne finished up and sent her interns on their way, then rolled over to a filing cabinet while still in her chair. “I bought you something.”

Reagan smiled a little at that. “Is it chocolate?”

“No, but it’s better for you, on several different fronts.” She pulled out what looked like a shoe box from the bottom drawer and shut it again. Then, wheeling over, Marianne handed the box to Reagan. “You recall that in my training room, I make the rules.”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, but was paying more attention to the box than to her friend. Just because it was a shoe box didn’t meant it had shoes in it. She shook lightly, but the weight and movement gave nothing away.

“And so what I say goes?”

“Sure.”

“You’ll wear these, then, when you come in here.” Looking pleased with herself, Marianne crossed her arms and nodded. “Open up.”

Suddenly wary, Reagan lifted the lid and found herself staring at a very fuzzy pair of slippers in a vibrant blue. She pulled one out. “What the . . .”

“They’re better for you than heels. Plus,” her friend added, taking the slipper from her and turning it upside down, “look. Grips. Good for walking on the tile. Now you won’t be risking your neck in my training room with those icepick heels you insist on wearing.”

“Oh, but I can’t . . .” She glanced at Marianne, and the very firm line her mouth formed. “You’re serious.”

“Serious as a broken ankle. Put them on.”

Reagan watched her friend for another moment, praying to see a glint of amusement in her eyes.

Nada.

With a sigh, she slid her heels off—being careful not to sigh in relief in front of the traitorous trainer—and slid the slippers on. She extended one foot, then the other, then tapped the toes together and watched the fuzzy shoes quiver. They were actually kind of cute, if you ignored all normal fashion sense and just went with what made you smile. They looked ridiculous, though, with her suit.

“I guess they’re better than borrowing your Stewie-and-Brian slippers.”

“Keep them by the door, slip into them when you get in here, and back out when you leave. You know I’d rather you wear flats all the time in the gym, but it’s better than nothing. It’s something I can control.” Nodding in approval, she took the box, placed Reagan’s heels in it and slid it by the door. “So how goes it?”

Reagan lifted a brow at that. “You’re not serious, are you?”

Marianne sighed. “How can I keep on top of the gossip if my own friend won’t give it to me? What were they fighting over?”

“No clue.”

“Who took the first punch?”

“Didn’t see.”

“Did Tressler deserve the beat down?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Marianne blew at a strand of hair that fell over her forehead. “You suck, you know that? Your boyfriend is in a fight—”

“They always fight. It’s what they’re doing now,” Reagan pointed out, mostly to annoy her friend. It worked.

“You know what I mean.”

“Was Tressler okay?” Reagan asked quietly after a moment. “I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .” She winced. “I couldn’t look.”

“He’s fine. His left eye’s going to be swollen, but he’ll survive. The real problem with that one is his ego, followed swiftly by his pride. They’re both oversized, with the ego leading the pack at three times too large.”

“They’re Marines. Aren’t they all egotistical, prideful patriots?”

Marianne laughed at that. “Probably. Add some crazy in there and you’ve got your basic definition. God bless them, every one.”

That made Reagan smile, just a little. “I hate that I can’t solve any of the problems around here. I feel like they’re only getting worse.”

“What if someone donated some surveillance equipment? You know, like got a sponsorship for the team?” Working up steam now, Marianne went on, “If the equipment was free, then there’s no cost. If there’s no cost, then why would they say no?”

“Liability.” Reagan shook her head, sorry to see the excitement in her friend dampen. “Sorry, already tried that with my supervisor.” And about a dozen other ideas.

“Oh. Right. Of course you did.” She scooted her chair back to her desk and closed her laptop. “Make sure Greg puts ice on his knuckles tonight. And the way he’s working . . .” Marianne leaned forward to peek out of the door from her seat. Reagan followed her eye line and noticed Greg running past on the catwalk above the gym. “He might need an ice bath. You got a bathtub at your place?”

“No.” She barely had what constituted as a shower, with the water pressure that was somewhere between someone squeezing a sponge over your head and someone shooting an old Super Soaker at you. “Maybe he’s got access to one there.”

“Just bring him back to the gym tonight. You’ve got keys, right?”

Reagan lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, but why . . . oh, right. You’ve got the tubs and the ice machine. Of course.”

“I’m here almost every other night, but not tonight, so you’ll have to let him in.” Marianne stood, grabbing the fanny pack she kept her supplies in when she was out in the gym or on location. “Bring him back by, let him soak, then help him heat back up again.” She ended with a wink and headed for the door.

“Will do.” Reagan followed her friend out of the temperature-controlled athletic training room and into the sweltering gym. “Nice fanny pack, by the way. Really brings out the color of your eyes.”

Marianne smirked as they walked toward the middle of the gym to where the water jug sat on a rolling cart. “Nice slippers.”

Reagan gasped, looked down, then shuffled back to change her shoes.

*   *   *

“YOU got the okay to do this, right?” Greg held open the door for Reagan to walk through, then let it close behind them. He’d never been in the gym when it was so empty and lifeless before. Shadows tossed around the walls via the emergency lights and the echo of their own footsteps created an otherworldly atmosphere that had the hairs on his arms rising up.

“Marianne said it was fine. She mentioned she’s opened the gym several times before for Marines to work out. Besides,” she added, holding up her own key ring, “it’s my keys, and I work here, too. So I can’t see why not. Now.” She opened Marianne’s training room door, swinging it wide and flipping the lights on. “Let’s get you into some ice.”

“You sound way too sadistic and happy when you say that.” But it was cute how concerned she was about him after the hellacious day he’d had. Greg was fast—probably the fastest one on the team. But it was Brad who had the endurance to keep going for hours like he’d been forced to. Brad who could have made the whole workout without puking in the trash can.

But he’d have done it again, just to see the look on Tressler’s face when he’d walked beside him on the way out of the gym that night. The kid had wisely kept his eyes down and his mouth shut. For the first time, showing a little sense. Maybe it’d stick this time. He’d have a shiner tomorrow as a reminder, in case he forgot at some point.

That shouldn’t have pleased him. It was too animalistic, too rough. He’d smoothed down those edges years ago. Hadn’t he?

Maybe not.

Reagan, still dressed in her work outfit, pointed to the tub in the corner. “You know what to do? Where everything is?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a smart salute, turned on the cold water, and immediately felt his balls shrink up in anticipation. Nobody ever enjoyed an ice bath. If they did, they were just as sadistic as his girlfriend. But he knew he’d pay for it tomorrow if he didn’t. He’d rather pay tonight.

Bonus, maybe Reagan would baby him a bit afterward.

“Need help with the ice?”

He dumped in the first shovelful. “Nah. Do you have stuff to keep you busy while I’m in there?”

“You keep me busy.” When he glanced over his shoulder, she blushed. “I mean, talking to you. You know, keeping you entertained with . . . words,” she finished, color deepening. She turned away without a word when he laughed. The water was about right, so he added the last scoop of ice and shut off the valve. Then, stripping down to the board shorts he’d worn, he slid in and hissed through his teeth.