Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(34)
She jolted, realizing she was still wearing his sweatshirt. Again. She was actually starting a collection of Graham Sweeney sweatshirts. “No, I was just . . .” Shivering with lust. “Cold. No dessert.”
“Hmm.” Reagan followed her into the kitchen, waited until Kara opened the fridge to get another bottle of water out—despite claiming to be cold, she was suddenly flushed—then slapped her hand over Kara’s butt. “You liar! You totally had dessert. You had a Graham Sweeney sundae!”
Kara straightened, face red, eyes wide. “How did you . . . Greg. Did Graham text him? Oh my God, I’m going to kill him!”
“You’ve got sexy eyes.” When Kara leaned back, blinking, Reagan shook her hands at that. “No, not like, ‘Hey, sexy eyes, come here often?’ You’ve got that dreamy look in your eyes, like you’ve had sex. Sexy eyes.”
“You failed optometry school, didn’t you?”
“Don’t deflect. You got some, you hot mama.” Reagan hip-checked her, then walked back to the living room to grab her cute clutch. “Zach was fine, which I know you were dying to ask but didn’t because you trust me. He kicked Greg’s ass in a video game—nice job there, by the way—and chowed down on some snacks. There was some grappling with Greg in there, in which Zach is now sure he is the kung fu master of the universe. We watched a movie, and he basically made it through the opening credits before he was out cold.”
Kara’s heart swelled at the other woman’s rundown of events. She truly had the world’s greatest friends. Hugging Reagan tight, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“Thank me by giving that man a chance. Don’t take the orgasm and run.” Tugging gently in a teasing manner on Kara’s ponytail, Reagan winked and headed for the door, closing it behind her quietly.
Kara checked on Zach—she was a mom, it was just what she had to do—and was satisfied to find him in nearly the same position as he’d been when Graham had shown her the photo. Still so much a little boy, she thought as she went in to smooth down his hair and kiss his forehead. But growing up fast. Growing up to be a man. She prayed he would be the kind of man who cooked good pasta for a woman, and asked about her own son, who believed in honor instead of taking what he could get and running like hell.
CHAPTER
10
Monday night, Graham sat on the floor, stretching while he waited for the team to show up. They’d passed word, and Marianne had let Brad into the gym before going to her office to work on paperwork. No coaches, no support staff. This was a team meeting, no distractions. He, Brad and Greg had come early, hammering out the meeting before everyone else came in.
“Still sore from practice today?” Brad asked, settling beside him and hissing out a breath as he extended his leg with the knee brace. Then he darted his eyes around the catwalk, as if looking to see if anyone else had witnessed his moment of vulnerability. Practice had ended nearly three hours earlier, but with his injury, he was pushing it to even still be on the team.
“Sore from last night’s mattress gymnastics,” Greg quipped, then dodged out of range as Graham kicked at him. “Whatever, you gave me shit, too, when I was trying to date Reagan. Turnabout’s fair play and all that junk.”
“‘And all that junk.’” Brad turned to him. “Wise man. Here comes the team. Showtime.”
It took a good ten minutes for the guys to all file in up on the catwalk. They’d chosen it because it was the first site of vandalism. The first time they’d sensed trouble. The team quieted down, almost all of them unconsciously standing at parade rest. Tressler, cocky shit that he was, smirked, but when nobody spoke, and the silence grew heavier, his attitude slowly shrank and he found himself mimicking everyone else’s pose.
“We’ve got a problem,” Brad started. “It’s become very clear to us that whatever this * vandal’s problem is, it’s with the team. And they have access, or have found a way to get access, to wherever we are. They know where we’ll be, where we won’t. It stands to reason, they’re connected to us somehow.”
“Last time, someone attempted to set fire to our locker room. It didn’t work,” Graham added quickly when a few guys shifted and looked enraged. “But Tressler’s shorts were in a prime spot to be the fuse for a big ass burn, and it was only luck that we managed to find it when we did and put it out without a problem . . . except for his ruined shirt.”
“Someone set my clothes on fire? No shit. That’s why I couldn’t find them after the match.” His face set in stone, Tressler’s jaw worked hard as he stared off into a dark corner.
“This building has shitty security.” Greg walked a little in a circle around the team, his voice carrying. “And the MPs are shrugging their shoulders. They’ve got bigger problems to worry about, to their way of thinking. We’re on our own. We just get left holding the bag, looking like idiots.”
“It stops now.” Picking up where they left off, Graham stood. “We close ranks. We watch everyone. We don’t turn our backs. It’s going to be exhausting. It’s going to suck balls. We’ve got enough shit to worry about, just keeping up with practices, with your life outside the gym. Now we have to add a constant vigilance to our plates. It won’t be easy.”