*
FEELING good about life, Graham headed back to the gym a little early. Kara had needed to be at her next class an hour earlier than he did, but his home, with the reminder of her and of their wild romp, felt too empty after she’d left. As he pulled up, finishing up the last of the sandwich he’d hastily thrown together and wrapped in a paper towel for the drive back, he realized Greg’s car was nowhere to be found. Hadn’t the other man said he’d be bringing Simpson back something to eat since he was doing guard duty between practices? He checked his watch as he climbed out of the car. He had plenty of time to double-check with Simpson, then run out and grab the guy something from the MCX if Greg had forgotten.
As he walked into the gym, he heard nothing but the low hum of the florescent lights suspended far above. The building was old, and the lights probably predated the Second World War. Okay, maybe not that old, but the majority of the place was pretty ancient, which was why the boxing team was the only one who used it 90 percent of the time. The maintenance crew was constantly putting Band-Aids on the building. Patch job here, quick fix there. Soon enough, Graham figured they’d raze the thing and start fresh. Just not before the end of the season.
When he rounded the corner of the folded-in bleachers, he found Simpson and—surprisingly—Nikki sitting side by side against the bleachers. They spoke in low tones, so he hadn’t heard them before.
As he got closer, he realized Simpson was doing almost no talking. It was all Nikki. And Simpson looked supremely uncomfortable with the whole thing. Most of the guys had wised up to the intern’s game early on. Tag chaser, all the way. Even as he watched, he saw Nikki lean forward emphatically, and Simpson inch back.
Poor kid. He was probably twenty or twenty-one, and had no clue how to let a woman down gently. Everything in his body language screamed I’m uncomfortable! But Nikki was either clueless as clueless could get, or she was deliberately misreading the situation in order to advance her own agenda.
Graham feared the latter, but couldn’t discount the former.
“Simpson!” he barked, wanting to save the kid. “Get over here.”
Eyes wild, the younger Marine jumped up, startling Nikki back a bit, and ran over to him. “Sir, I—”
“Don’t speak,” he ordered, biting back a smile when Simpson immediately went to attention. He was a good Marine, and a good boxer. The kid had a future for sure. “Simpson, have you eaten lunch?”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t care for the “sir” when on boxing time. Together, they were a team, no one man higher in rank than the other once they stepped into the ring. No uniforms, no insignia. Their leader was their coach, and that was the end of it. But for the moment, the military hierarchy served a purpose.
“Where is Higgs?”
“He went for a quick jog, sir. Wanted to stay limber, sir.”
Nikki stood, sauntering over in khaki shorts that were an inch or so too short for comfort. Her polo seemed too tight, though he’d seen her twist a knot at the small of her back before when she thought she could get away with it. Marianne wouldn’t approve, and made her unroll it whenever she noticed. “Hey there. We were just talking. I hope he’s not in any trouble.”
From the pleading look in Simpson’s dark eyes, Graham knew exactly what the Marine was thinking. Help me. Punish me. Make me run laps in the sweltering heat. Just get me out of here.
“Simpson knows what he’s done wrong. Chat time’s over.”
There was an infinitesimal relaxing of the younger man’s shoulders. Relief, in droves, shone in his eyes, along with gratitude.
“You’re not in practice yet,” Nikki pointed out, hands on her hips. “That’s not fair. He shouldn’t be punished for—”
“Thank you, Nikki.” Shutting her down, however rude it was, would be the fastest, easiest track for them all to take. “We will see you later.”
Somewhere else in the building, a door opened and shut. One of the coaches, most likely. Or a maintenance guy coming to look at the busted light. Best to end this quickly, without an audience.
She looked at him, then at Simpson’s profile. Simpson didn’t look back. Then she blew out a breath. “You’re not the coach, you know. This is rude. We were talking.” Wrapping an arm around the other man’s bicep, she tugged gently. “Come back and sit with me. I’m bored.”
“Nikki, please excuse us,” Graham said through clenched teeth. God, the woman was a barnacle.
“I’m not in the military, you can’t tell me what to do. And you can’t tell him, either. Come on, Alex.” She tugged harder, and Simpson actually jerked a little off balance before correcting. “We’ll—”
“Nikki, stop!”
She froze, mouth open. “You can’t speak to me like that!”
“I just did. Leave us alone for the moment, please.”