Marianne just smiled. “Sorry you didn’t hear me over all the pheromones you and Higgs were throwing at each other.”

“Phero . . . no. You totally misunderstood the situation.” Reagan straightened her jacket, then smoothed straight down the skirt she wore. “We’re becoming professional adversaries. It’s not a personal thing.”

“Right.” Marianne’s tone said, You’re full of shit.

Time to change the subject. “What’s redundant?”

“Cocky Marine. They’re all cocky. The attitude is issued with the uniforms once they sign on the dotted line. It’s survival.” She glanced down at Reagan’s feet. “I thought I told you to stop wearing heels like that in the gym.”

Reagan looked down at her adorable, so-on-sale-they-basically-paid-her-to-buy-them peep-toe pumps, then kicked one out to the side just a little. “But they’re so cute.”

“They’re a death trap. A walking death trap, literally. You’re going to slip on the smooth floorboards of the gym floor and snap an ankle.” When Reagan opened her mouth to protest, Marianne shook her head. “Never mind, that’s not why I’m out here. I wanted to make sure everything’s okay from last night.”

Last night. She’d completely forgotten she’d ditched Marianne and Kara to get started on work. “I’m so sorry, I should have texted or called when I was finished to see how things were.”

Marianne waved her hand at that and leaned against Reagan’s bumper in a casual slouch. Reagan prayed to the patron saint of automobiles that the bumper didn’t give way on the spot. “No biggie. We all get the whole career thing. I’m not a stranger to weird calls late at night.”

“But how . . . you know what? Never mind.” Reagan opened her driver’s side door and shook her head. “Don’t want to know. Now, you and I need to schedule a time to meet this week, too.”

“Meet for what?” The trainer stood, and Reagan winced mentally at the rust spot on the hip of her friend’s khakis. She prayed it would come out in the wash later.

“Meet to go over the travel arrangements, plus any potential interview questions you might get in the future. Standard PR prep.”

“I’m the athletic trainer. I’m not exactly high profile . . . and that’s how I like it.” Marianne gripped the door frame as Reagan slid in. “Have you interviewed everyone else?”

“Almost.”

“How chatty were the Marines?”

Reagan grinned at that. “Some were extremely chatty.”

Marianne raised a brown. “And others?”

“Bradley was very short,” Reagan said, answering the question she knew her friend wouldn’t ask. “And very smart on how to answer questions pertaining to your affiliation with the team, your relationship, and how that plays out. He’s got it covered. So will you, after I’ve had my hands on you.”

“Why, Reagan, we just met.” When Reagan’s eyes widened and she started to explain, Marianne laughed. “Go to lunch, PR queen. I’ll see you later. In flats,” she added in a firm voice, then shut the door.

Flats. Reagan shuddered—as did Dolly Madison as she pulled out of the parking spot and headed toward the main offices. Some things were just not worth arguing.

CHAPTER

4

Greg walked into the BOQ, salad container in hand, and heard Costa on the phone in his own room. They shared a common entrance, but had small individual sleeping quarters. His roommate was probably talking to Marianne, since those two couldn’t seem to go more than three minutes apart without talking to each other. He gave it a three-count, then burst into Brad’s room and yelled, “Costa! Put your pants back on and get that stripper out of here!”

Brad whirled on him, fully dressed, phone to his ear, with a death stare. “No, Mom, that’s just my soon-to-be-dead roommate. No, I don’t have . . . Mom! Come on.”

Whoops. Greg swallowed back a laugh. Cook would have found the whole thing funny. His roommate’s mother was an unknown quantity in the joke’s equation.

“No, he didn’t say stripper, he’s got a weird slur. Yeah, I know. It’s a sad situation. I think the coach kept him on the team out of pity.” He walked over and punched Greg on the shoulder, then pushed him out of the room and slammed the door. Chuckling, Greg walked to the small table in the common room and sat down to eat. He mentally counted out the minutes, and after five, Costa appeared.

“I hate you,” his roommate said succinctly. He walked over to the tiny kitchenette they shared and opened the fridge for a bottle of water.

“I thought you were on the phone with Cook. My bad.”

“Because telling my girlfriend I’ve got a stripper in the room is much better than telling my mom.” He settled down in the seat across from Greg and sulked. “Your humor needs improvement.”

“I get that a lot.” He dug into his salad, fork freezing halfway to his mouth when Costa stared. “What?”

“You’re eating salad.”

Greg stared at the plastic container for a moment. “What? No way. Those grocery people lied to me. They swore this was a cheeseburger.”

“You’ve never willingly eaten anything healthy. What’s wrong?”

“I’m eating a salad, so clearly it must be cancer.” Put off of his impulse salad, he set the fork down for a minute. “Maybe I got sick of you harping on my diet. You’re always nagging me about ‘fueling the temple,’” he said with air quotes.

“And here I thought you didn’t care about that.” Looking smug, Costa sipped his water.

So maybe he cared a little. The entire boxing gig had only been a game to him at the start. He hadn’t even asked to be sent for the tryouts; his commanding officer simply called him in and told him he’d be going. Each additional day he was at training camp was another day he didn’t have to show up for regular work. Past that, boxing wasn’t a passion for him.

Fighting had simply been survival, once upon a time.

“Sorry about that whole mom-on-the-phone thing.” He reached into the mini fridge behind him for a soda. Some habits died harder than others. A health nut was not built in a day.

“No big deal.” Costa smiled a little and looked at the phone sitting on the table. “She’ll laugh about it later. Next time I walk in on you talking to your mom, though . . . payback.”

Greg smiled, but couldn’t work up a laugh. Instead, he stuffed another bite of lettuce and other assorted healthy crap into his mouth.

Fat chance of Costa ever catching him on the phone with his own mother, since Greg hadn’t seen his mom since before his first birthday. Couldn’t describe her if his life depended on it. He carried no memories of his life before his mom dumped him with the state, and for that he was grateful.

But each and every foster “mother” since he was about four? He could sketch them from memory. All fourteen.

“Have you finally unpacked?”

Costa’s question broke his contemplative eating and thinking. “Yeah, figured my name on the roster was the sign I’d been looking for. Time to act like it’s real.”

“It’s been real from the start.”

“Ah, there’s that stick-up-the-ass roommate I’ve been missing.” He grinned when Costa scowled.

Greg had come into the adventure hoping to make new friends and have some fun. Really wring the experience dry. Costa had been eagle-eye focused on the prize from the start, willing to sacrifice the option to make friends in order to get ahead. Thank God he’d loosened up, mostly due to meeting one flaming-hot athletic trainer named Marianne Cook. She’d snapped the stick in half and forced him to be a social human.

He checked his watch and stood, closing the take-out box on his still mostly uneaten salad. “I’ve gotta go get my two guys from the barracks whose tires were slashed for afternoon practice. God, I hope their cars get fixed soon. I’m not in the mood to play taxi service all week.” He dumped the container in the trash, which landed with a satisfying thump.