Chapter One
The mat was slick with sweat. Not blood, not today—but Dale Ricoh wouldn’t rule that out if these rookies didn’t start paying attention.
He stepped back from the pair currently sparring and crossed his arms, barking, “You’re going to get yourselves killed if you keep leading with your damn chins. You think anyone out there’s going to pull their punches because you’re slow on the uptake?”
The younger of the two—Morales, twenty-two and cocky—scowled, rubbing at his jaw where Dale had demonstrated a textbook redirect with a little more force than strictly necessary.
“Jesus, Ricoh,” came Bateman’s dry voice from the sidelines. “You trying to knock his teeth into next week? This is training, not Fight Club.”
Ricky, arms folded, and one eyebrow lifted, added, “I told you to go easy. Half of these guys are med techs and comms officers, not SEAL dropouts.”
Dale cracked a grin, wolfish and unapologetic. “They want to pass this section of the course? They better learn to hit hard and fall better. I’m not holding their hands when the bullets start flying.”
The trainees staggered off the mat as Dale waved the next two forward. The combat class was part of the Ridge’s advanced curriculum—optional, but not if you were in the field rotation. Dale taught it like his life depended on it. Because once, it had.
“All right, Reiss and Keller—your turn. Same setup. Don’t embarrass yourselves.”
He circled them as they squared off. Keller’s stance was too wide, Reiss looked like he was already planning to lose. Dale clapped his hands once. “Go.”
The two lunged. Keller moved first, overcommitted, and Reiss got inside his guard fast—but Dale saw it coming three beats before it happened. He stepped in, caught Keller’s shoulder before he could stumble, and redirected him.
“You’re too eager. Wait for your opening,” he snapped. He turned to Reiss. “And you—you don’t wait long enough. If you’re going to rush a guy, you finish it.”
Bateman gave a mock sigh behind him. “See? This is why no one wants to spar with you.”
Dale threw a smirk over his shoulder. “That’s because none of you like losing.”
Bateman snorted. “I don’t lose.” He stripped off his shirt, muscles bunching and flexing under skin slick with sweat. “What do you say, Ricoh? Think you’re ready to test that theory?”
Dale arched a brow, his grin turning downright wicked. “Been waiting for you to grow a pair, Bateman.”
The class whooped and stepped back, clearing the center mat.
They circled each other, low and loose. Bateman moved like a brawler, confident, grounded.
Dale kept light on his feet, probing, looking for an opening.
Their first clash was sharp—Dale’s jab met by Bateman’s deflection, their momentum snapping them apart before either could capitalize.
He called out what was happening for the sake of those on the course.
“You always this talkative when you’re about to get your ass handed to you?” Bateman muttered.
“Only when it’s by someone who’s overdue a lesson in humility,” Dale shot back.
They traded blows—kicks, quick punches, elbows that glanced but didn’t land clean. Dale got under Bateman’s guard with a sweeping low kick, but Bateman rolled through it, caught Dale’s arm, and turned the momentum into a takedown.
Dale grunted, twisting out of the pin, scrambling back to his feet.
“Not bad,” Bateman said, circling.
“I work out.”
“I can tell.”
They clashed again—this time harder. Dale feinted, went for a chokehold. Bateman slipped out, drove a shoulder into his midsection, and slammed him to the mat with a practiced sweep. In a blink, he had Dale’s arm trapped, pressure applied with ruthless efficiency.
Dale growled but tapped out before the joint could go. He lay there a second, catching his breath, then looked up at Bateman.
“Smug bastard.”
Bateman grinned, offering a hand. “You almost had me. In an alternate universe where you’re six inches taller and I forgot how to fight, it would be all you.”
The class erupted in cheers and jeers, laughter rippling through the space, tension easing just a little. It was always like this—intensity edged with camaraderie, sharp corners dulled only by trust.
Dale took the hand, pulled himself up, and dusted off.
“All right, you laughing jackals, hit the showers—after the three-mile run you’ve all earned for fighting like you learned from Saturday morning cartoons.
And, yeah, it’s also because you laughed when I lost. I’m petty like that.
” The room filled with groans and eyerolls, but the team dispersed with grins on their faces and sweat on their backs.
Once they had the gym to themselves, Ricky ambled over. “You’re still working out whatever’s in your head, aren’t you?”
Ah, and now they were at the reason part of their visit.
“Maybe.” Dale didn’t look at him. “But they need this. Every single one of them.”
Bateman shook his head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s peacetime, Ricoh. We’re not dodging bullets every morning.”
Dale snorted. “Not yet.”
Bateman met his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. But maybe not smacking the shit out of the teams paying us thousands to train them wouldn’t be the worst adjustment to this new life. Just saying.”
Ricky clapped him on the shoulder, then nodded toward the tablet mounted on the wall. “Your last session’s a private one and it is scheduled at 4:00. Someone wants to pay a shit load for the privilege of getting punched in the face by you.”
“Good,” Dale said. “After that ass whooping, I could use a tick in the win column.”
The clock ticked down. The class finished their run, wrapped with bruises, and staggered out, leaving the mats in various states of disarray, heading for their barracks and a much-earned shower. Dale stayed back to mop up bloodless evidence of hard lessons learned.
“You ever think about just teaching yoga instead? I am sure we could get hen parties and corporate retreats to come up the mountain for those, too,” Bateman called out as he and Ricky pulled the mats into order.
“Sure,” Dale called back. “If I ever take a hit hard enough to forget what war feels like, I’ll grow a beard, buy an incense burner, and start working on my chakras like a reformed yogi.”
They both laughed, the sound short but real, then left him alone in the gym. He checked the roster again. No name listed against the private session—just a temporary badge number and a note. “Authorized guest access. Payment cleared.”
He was still toweling off his hands when the gym door creaked open, and Ty Monroe walked in like he’d done a hundred times. Like he belonged there.
Tank top tight across his chest. Ink curled down both arms—more than Dale remembered from before, bold lines and black geometry etched into muscle. Cargo shorts. Combat boots. That smirk that said he knew exactly how Dale was looking at him.
Dale’s brain stalled for half a second before his body caught up.
“Ty Monroe,” he said flatly.
Ty tilted his head, like he didn’t know the effect he was having. “Coach.”
“You signed up for a private session?”
“Didn’t want to wait for the group warm-up. Figured I’d get my ass handed to me in style and in private.”
Dale tossed the towel aside and stepped onto the mat. “I won’t go easy on you just because we know each other.”
“I don’t want easy,” Ty said, stepping forward. “I want you.”
Dale’s gut tightened.
And then he smiled. “Gloves or no gloves?”
Ty’s grin spread. “No gloves. Let’s make it interesting.”
He waited as Ty removed his combat boots and stepped onto the mat with bare feet. The gym was quiet now, just the two of them, the late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds, casting long shadows on the mat.
Dale braced himself.
This was going to get complicated.
****
The hallway outside Ty Monroe’s room in the trainers’ barracks was quiet, the hum of the Ridge’s AC system the only sound threading through the space.
His feet, clad in combat boots, made very little noise against the polished concrete floor as he moved toward the main corridor, hair still damp from the shower.
He felt calm. Focused. At least on the surface.
He’d warmed up and stretched a little after his shower, wanting to make sure he was prepared for what was to come.
Combat training.
One on One.
With Dale Ricoh.
He needed this. Not just the training—but the contact. The release. The chance to sharpen himself.
He’d been out of the fight for too long.
Truth was, he wanted to learn. Needed to. After the attack at the Ridge, after Oren had been hurt—he couldn’t let himself be that helpless again. Watching a man he cared for deeply risk his life and get injured, held back by his own limitations, had awoken something primal within him.
Dale Ricoh was a bruiser, a tactician, the best hand-to-hand fighter Ty had ever seen. And Ty wasn’t above admitting that training with him offered another ... benefit.
Touch. Proximity.
Maybe even something he hadn’t let himself name yet.
He turned the corner and nearly ran into Oren.
Oren’s hair was tousled by the wind from the construction site, jeans streaked with dust, and his Redline Design Group work shirt rolled at the sleeves. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw Ty, eyes sweeping over him from damp hair to bare calves with open appreciation.
“You look ... ready for something,” Oren said.
Ty smirked. “I’m heading to the gym. Figured I’d pick a fight with Dale.”
Oren’s brows shot up, concern tightening his face. “You what?”
Ty chuckled, stepping closer. “Relax. It’s a private session. I asked him to train me.”
Oren’s jaw flexed. He looked off to the side, then back. “I could have trained you.”
Ty met his eyes, softer now. “I know. But Dale’s next level. He’s faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Oren’s eyes lit up with a flicker of excitement. “Fuck, yeah, he is! The night of the fight, when he came for the guy who stabbed me? The way he moved—like one second he was nowhere to be seen, and the next—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.