“If I won’t like it, let’s keep thinking of something else.” His eyes were so heavy, so very heavy . . .

“I pull the rug out from under whatever jackass sent that letter and write an article on you myself.”

“Sounds nice,” he said on a yawn. “Keep doing that, please. Shoulder blades.”

She shifted her scratching fingers up higher. “I’ll frame it like a comeback story . . . only not that cheesy. Talk about how the Corps gave you the family you needed, like you said. How boxing gave you structure, how you left that old life behind.”

He blinked, forcing his tired, wrung-out brain to stay present and not give in to the dark, welcoming call of sleep. “Run that by me again.”

“An article.” She said it so simply, as if it were obvious. “It’s a basic PR move. Get ahead of the story. Spin it our way first so if they try to come back and—”

“No.” The idea made him clammy, and he rolled off the bed to hit the head, leaving Reagan behind. He gripped the bathroom sink and let his head hang while he breathed.

Jesus. It had taken everything he had to tell his two closest friends out here, and the woman he loved, and she wanted to make his past another human interest story.

Greg looked up at himself, nearly grimacing when he saw the tired, beaten expression on his own face. Was he stupid to trust her? His gut said no, but the survival part of his brain said you didn’t trust anyone. Ever. Never show them your back.

A soft knock startled him enough to make him suck in a breath.

“Greg? You okay?”

He reached over and flushed the toilet, counted to five and turned on the water. “Yeah, be out in a sec.”

There was a long pause, so long he thought she’d gone back to bed. Then, “Okay.”

Her answer was so soft, he almost didn’t hear it. But he could hear the hurt buried in there.

When he finally left the bathroom, she was gone, in the kitchen already making breakfast. He dressed quietly and headed to where she pushed scrambled eggs around in a pan. Her hair was in a messy bun, her feet were bare, and he wanted nothing more than to forget everything on the other side of the apartment door, carry her back to bed and not leave for a week.

Instead, he pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m gonna get going.”

She straightened and turned. “No breakfast?”

“I’ll grab a power bar in my room before practice. I still have to shower and change.”

“Oh.” She turned the heat off, stared at the stove a moment, then turned. “I don’t like this. It’s weird.”

His own shoulders sagged with relief. “I know. Look—”

“I’m not going to do it.” She held up a hand to stop him from speaking, then wiped them on a dish towel. “I get this is still a fresh thing for you to deal with as an adult, and I’m glad you confided in me. But just know, I can’t stop it from coming out another way. So you have to be aware of the realities that come with that.”

He sighed and leaned against the door jamb. “I know. I just would rather hope for the best, I guess.”

“That’s . . .” She braced herself against the kitchen counter and he could actually see the internal war she was fighting. “That’s your choice, I suppose.”

He wanted to say more, wanted to stay and work it out. But if he didn’t leave now . . . “I’ll see you at the gym, okay?”

When she merely nodded, he knew they weren’t leaving things the way they should. The way he wanted to. He walked back over and pressed a kiss to her mouth, pulling her tight against him. And he kept kissing her until she wound her arms around his neck and responded the way he knew she could.

It wasn’t the perfect place to end things, but for now, it would work.

*   *   *

SWEATING like a whore in church, Greg sat down and scooted on his butt over to where the guys were changing out their shoes for lunch break. “That . . . was brutal.”

“You’re telling me.” Brad removed his knee brace and stretched. “Thank God I don’t have PT today, or I’d be done.”

“Babies . . . both of you.” Graham thumped down, heaving in breaths like a guppy on land. “Stop . . . complaining.”

“Right,” Greg drawled. “We’re the babies. And that’s why you’re the one whose lips are turning blue.”

“Shut up.” He reached into his bag and dragged out a towel, running it over his head and neck. “I was . . . in the last . . . conditioning group.” He sucked in a long breath, then let it out slowly, muttering, “Fuck you,” as he finished.

“We’ve got three hours to relax.” Greg stood, looping his gym bag’s strap over his shoulder. “Let’s make ’em count, boys.”

“I’m grabbing lunch with Marianne. Do you want to call Reagan and come with?” Brad asked as they headed out to the parking lot.

“Sure, yeah.” A few weeks ago, an invitation like that would have been nonexistent from his I-work-alone roommate. The guy had definitely come a long way.

The thought of a lunch date with Reagan warmed him, and did a great deal to revive his exhausted spirit. She hadn’t been around all morning, though he knew that wasn’t unusual. She had other work to get done. But the gym was almost more vast without her, as if her presence took up more space than he realized. He tossed his bag in the backseat of the car he and Brad had shared over, then grabbed his cell. “I’ll call first. Hold on.” He dialed her number, waited, then heard her pick up. But she never said a word.

“Hello?” He raised a brow, then looked at Brad, who was watching him. “Reagan?”

He heard her voice then, but it sounded muffled. He grinned. She’d butt-answered. Likely reached in her pocket or bag and thought she’d hit one button to silence the ringer, but had hit the answer call button instead. Hoping she would hear him, he yelled, “Reagan!”

Brad moved closer to him, but Greg smiled and shook his head, mouthing, “Butt-answer.” Brad huffed out a laugh and shook his head, climbing in the passenger seat. Greg sat behind the driver seat, waiting another moment to see if she’d realize what she’d done or not.

But when her voice, that was so distant, raised higher, he sat forward in the car.

“. . . can’t fire me.”

Greg’s body tightened. No.

Something was said, though the voice was so garbled he didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman speaking. Then Reagan’s answering, “I’m doing all I can with what I have. You can’t fire me because some jerk is making a target of the boxing team.”

“Damn it,” Greg muttered, straining to hear more.

“Just hang up and text her,” Brad said, tapping the dashboard. “Let’s go, I’m starving.”

“Shut up,” he snapped. Luckily, his friend seemed to understand quickly that things had changed, and waited.

“No, I’m not going to . . .”

Not going to what? Greg strained, but he couldn’t make out any more.

“I’m not giving you that information . . . but you’re wrong . . . done my best.”

“Shit,” he said when he realized there was nothing more coming. He hung up, hand shaking a little.

“What? Is she okay?” Brad sat forward and gripped Greg’s shoulder. “Does she need help? Talk, dude.”

“I think she’s getting fired,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t be sure but that’s what it sounds like.”

Brad scoffed. “No way. She’s done great with all this shit she’s had thrown at her. They’re not letting her go. Who else would step in halfway through and pick up where she left off?”

“I doubt that matters. She’s refusing . . .” He swallowed. “She had a plan, and I said no, and now . . .” He closed his eyes. “Can you have Marianne come get you? Lunch isn’t happening.”

Brad was quiet a minute. “You want me to hang with you?”

“No. I appreciate the offer but no. I’ve just got to figure something out.” He let one side of his mouth tilt up, trying to reassure his friend. “Alone, you know. Just need to get stuff squared away in my mind before next practice.”

“Sure, yeah.” Looking unconvinced, but without anything to back him up, Brad stepped out of the car, opening the back door to grab his bag. “I’ll just run in and wait for her. But call me if you need me.”