CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
On his way to find one of two people he needed to make amends with, Jay stopped by the recovery room to discover it empty except for Madelyn sleeping in the hospital bed. Her color a healthier shade of pale, she no longer needed oxygen support, and the relief he felt lessened some of the tension in his chest.
He needed to talk to her, thank her for saving his life, for saving Grant’s life, but he didn’t want to wake her, so he left her to rest and wandered down the hallway past the locker rooms.
At the open entrance to the gym, he found Grant leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest as he observed the activities. “I’m sorry,” Jay said, pulling up beside him and opting for the direct approach. “I’m sorry I put you in the position of having to risk your life to save mine. I know it’s what you’ve been trained to do. I know you’re fucking good at it. I know you’d do it again in a heartbeat, because that’s who you are at your core. You put your teammates, your friends, your family, your country ahead of yourself—always—and it kills me because everything that matters to me is right here, including you. So, I’m sorry for putting you in that position, but I’m fucking grateful for what you did. For what Madelyn did. You saved my life, but more importantly, you saved Rebecca’s, and I’ll be forever in your debt.”
Grant’s snort was the equivalent of a smack upside the head. “We’ve all made sacrifices to be here, Jay. Colonel Grayson isn’t dead because of you. Tak isn’t missing because of you. Jamie wasn’t shot because of you. And I didn’t get rolled by an iceberg because of you.” He shifted his gaze, and his rust-colored eyes landed on Jay with unusual intensity.
“Guilt is a waste of fucking time and energy. We’re all fighting on the same side. You didn’t pull any triggers. You didn’t set off any bombs. You didn’t even know your project had been stolen and Dominion successfully engineered. None of this is on you, but make no mistake, we’re at war, and casualties will happen.”
He shrugged. “All we can do is keep showing up to the fight. That’s how we honor the dead, the fallen, the missing. And when shit goes sideways, we do what we gotta do, and then we pray for a little bit of luck and a whole lot of divine intervention. We both did what we thought was the right thing, for the right God damn reasons. Nothing else matters. Although if you ever go off the rails like that again, I’m gonna be your biggest nightmare come to life. Understood?”
Jay huffed and grinned. “So, what’s good for the goose is definitely not good for the gander.”
“Hell no.” Grant shoved himself off the wall. “You’re the brains, and I’m the brawn. Our shit works better when we stay in our lanes, you get me, butt nut?”
“Yeah,” Jay replied, his response muffled by the back-thumping embrace he found himself in. “Just don’t fucking die or Gray will go nuclear, and Chase will murder your ass.”
“Doesn’t take him dying to achieve those results,” Adam said, his arrival interrupting the moment and breaking them apart. “Have you tried talking to them?”
“Spoke to Gray this morning,” Grant replied, swinging his gaze back to the couple goofing around on the mats. “It didn’t go well.”
“And Chase?” Jay asked, his eyes on Davis as he threw an ineffective punch at the bag Cody held.
“Hard to talk to someone who leaves the room every time you enter.”
“He’ll come around,” Adam said. “They both will, just give them some time.”
Grant shrugged again like he didn’t care, but the truth was far from. He cared. A lot. “Do me a favor.” He hitched his chin toward the struggling teenager, an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Go show Davis what he’s doing wrong. That shit’s almost as painful to watch as him shooting his weapon.”
“Is he using a right-handed grip?” Jay cocked his head, watching Davis tap out another weak jab. His footwork all over the place, he shifted his weight awkwardly, telegraphing every punch before it left his glove.
“Yeah, he can’t hit the side of a barn with a bazooka, never mind put a bullet through the bullseye of a target. Why?”
“Because he’s a leftie.”
Their surprise evident, both Grant and Adam homed in on the action in the corner.
“You’re shitting me,” Adam said. “You think that’s the issue?”
“Hundred percent.” Jay nodded. “He’s a southpaw. Look at how he’s pivoting. He’s circling to the right. Orthodox fighters cut left. His balance is off because he’s fighting against his own instincts. Switch his stance—right foot forward, left foot back—and he’ll be planting his fists in his opponent’s spleen instead of arm-punching in no time.”
Adam’s brow furrowed as he processed, then his gaze shifted to Rebecca. She stood in front of the boxing machine, her focus absolute as she unloaded a one-two—jab, cross. Then came the power shots: a hook, a shovel punch to the body, an uppercut that would lift a guy’s chin straight into the nosebleeds.
Her punches weren’t just thrown. They were driven. Legs coiled like springs, hips snapping through each move, core locked tight. Every hit landed with a satisfying smack of gloves meeting resistance. A sound Jay knew well.
“Did you train Rebecca?” Adam asked, watching as she reset her stance, light on her toes, her weight perfectly distributed.
“I taught her the fundamentals.” Jay’s lips quirked into a full-on grin as she tossed her long braid over her shoulder. He couldn’t help himself. She’d removed his heavy sweatshirt, and with her exposed skin covered in a sheen of sweat and her arm muscles rippling, he could see his lessons in every move she made. In the way she kept her chin tucked. In how she never let a punch go without purpose. Every strike was sharp, deliberate, and packed with power, and she looked fucking hot doing it. “She’s obviously been practicing.”
He didn’t want to speculate about why or with whom, but from all appearances, she still loved the sport, and from now on, she’d only be sparring with him, on the mats and off, because watching her move with such grace and power filled him with need—for her—same as always.
God, he loved her fire. Loved her fierce, competitive nature when it came to throwing hands. Whether in the ring with him, on the training machine, or beating the shit out of the heavy bag, boxing had become her coping strategy early on. A physical outlet to release the pent-up energy, frustration, and stress she absorbed from those around her in a healthy, controlled, and cathartic way.
A way that prevented the overload of her nervous system, and the complete shutdown they’d witnessed in Jamie’s medical office yesterday. It had scared the hell out of him. He’d never seen her go catatonic before. Never witnessed her become unresponsive and nonverbal. Then again, that was before Maya’s murder spree. Before the baby. Before Dominion. Before Big Diomede and all that had happened there.
She landed another perfect combination, a quick one-two-three-two, jab, cross, hook, cross, the sound traveling across the room with impressive speed.
