Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(69)

She watched as Brad walked beside Graham, wearing a silky red robe trimmed with gold. Marine Corps colors. Brad took the robe as he walked to the corner where Coach Willis and Cartwright stood, then settled down in a seat on the front row with the rest of the team.

God, Graham was gorgeous to look at. A Greek god come to life. She wanted to touch him now. Give him a hug, whisper something encouraging in his ear. Stroke her hand down his back, feeling every ripple of muscle under her fingertips as she did so . . .

Okay, so maybe that last one was more for her pleasure than his. Who cared? The man was magnificent.

Unlike his teammates before him, he looked to be scanning the crowd. Had Brad told him she was here? She’d had enough time before his match to find him and tell him good luck. But in her mind, that would have distracted him from the purpose. They had so much to talk about, so much to discuss. Too much to cram into one before-match conversation. Better he have his full attention on the task at hand so he could escape from this round unscathed, then talk later.

Those dark eyes seemed to take in the crowd in quick sections, even as Coach Willis started talking to him. He nearly missed her; she felt his eyes actually rake over her as they kept scanning, then they zeroed back in on her.

She was in a crowd of five hundred plus—on her side of the stands, anyway—and he’d still managed to find her. He must be a champion Where’s Waldo? player.

Raising her hand a little, she smiled and gave a tiny wave.

His grin broke out, a little distorted from the mouth guard, but she knew that was what he meant. He didn’t wave, just sent her a wink—at least, she thought it was a wink, hard to tell from this distance—and nodded once. She understood it was an acknowledgment there would be more to come, but now, he had a job to do.

Go get ’em, baby.

The first bell rang to indicate the start of round one, and she covered her eyes. His Army opponent came out swinging, and Graham instantly went on the defense, using footwork and an innate understanding of where each punch would be thrown before it was to dodge and weave around the barrage of punches and jabs. If she knew more . . . she could have given him mental instructions. As if that would have helped . . . but it would have made her feel more productive than just watching him work his ass off to keep from being hit.

When a blow from Mr. Army connected, glancing off his jaw, she looked down and sat. As everyone around her stood, she had no view of the ring. And probably for the best. No wonder Reagan had said before she’d nearly thrown up at her first match. How did someone watch the man she loved intentionally step into the ring and get punched?

When the bell sounded for the end of round one, a few people sat, but not enough to see. She jumped back up and saw Graham walking to the corner and the tiny stool set there by Coach Cartwright. His back was to her, and he didn’t look behind him. Good idea. Keep focused. There was no way to know how it had gone. No way to know if he’d been hit in the face, or the stomach . . . God, this stupid, violent sport! If Zach ever decided to take up boxing, she’d just have to kill him.

So instead, she focused on Graham’s opponent. His chest heaved as he sucked in wind, and it was shiny with sweat, but he appeared untouched. As if they’d spent the entire first round doing nothing but practicing their Zumba moves around each other instead of trying to punch and jab each other’s eyes out.

This sport made no sense to her at all.

When the bell for round two started, she sat back down. Wuss. Total wuss. This was just something they would have to come to grips with. He would have his boxing hobby, and she would encourage him from a distance. A long distance away. Like, from home.

After the last round, she stood and watched as Graham and his opponent came to stand in the middle, not looking at each other, an arm’s length apart. Graham’s head was bowed, as if he didn’t want to look up. Or maybe because he was exhausted. Or possibly hurt? Kara’s heart raced at the thought. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself down the bleachers and crowd surf to the floor, run to him and hold him until he recovered.

Overreaction much, Kara?

After conferring with the judges at their table on the main floor—who Kara knew based their scoring on connected punches—the referee climbed back into the ring. He stood between the two men, pausing for effect. The rumble of the gym grew quiet as they waited, like a classroom full of students whose teacher was about to hand out either a reward or a punishment, and they didn’t know which . . . then grabbed Graham’s hand and lifted it high.

She screamed. She screamed so loud the person in front of her covered her ears and turned to give her a bitchy look. Kara couldn’t have cared less. He’d won. He’d won! Grabbing her purse, she made her way quickly out of the row—apologizing profusely along the way as she was sure she knocked into more than one set of knees in her haste—and worked her way through the people leaving during the break to hit the restrooms or concession stands to run at the main floor. But she couldn’t get to it. The area for the team and staff was roped off this time, with security standing guard.

Graham had shrugged back into his robe and was heading back toward the exit that would lead him into the locker rooms. She wanted him to turn around, to notice her. To come for her.

“Graham!” She jumped and waved like a lunatic, but he either didn’t hear her, or wasn’t ready yet to talk. He kept walking.

“Hey, girl.”