Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Tap out, genius, or I swear you’re going home without an elbow!”
That was the first thing Bea heard when she opened the door. The second was Nico’s devil-may-care laugh, as if he got threatened with limb loss every Friday.
The private training room at the back of Havoc Combat Systems was humid enough to pickle a person alive. It smelled like a locker room had gone to war with a barbecue pit and lost.
She snuck in along the wall, trying not to be a distraction. Rafael found her instantly, caught her gaze with a brief strike of heat that sent her pulse into a sprint, before he turned back to the boys.
A dozen eighteen-year-olds, the entire championship basketball team, in t-shirts and compression shorts, were locked in pairs, grappling and slamming into the floor with thuds that made Bea’s ribs ache in sympathy.
She recognized Jude, Antonio, and a couple of others.
It was violent in the way only teenage boys could manage: equal parts bravado and horseplay.
Nico was in the middle. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead, his shirt dark as ink down the spine.
He broke out of a chokehold with surprising force, grinning like he was playing a game.
When he spotted her at the door, he flashed the same grin in her direction, and promptly caught an elbow in the ribs for losing focus.
Bea pressed her lips together. He was eighteen going on twelve sometimes, and she couldn’t decide if the military would call it spirit or try to bludgeon it out of him.
She dropped onto the bench, then settled in to ogle her boyfriend.
He wore a white athletic tank, forearms corded with the kind of power that made her question why sleeves were ever invented. He wasn’t just instructing, he was in it. Correcting grips, breaking holds with sharp demonstrations, having the boys try moves on him.
Someone lunged sloppily. Rafael hooked his arm, pivoted, and drove him into the mat like he’d never existed upright.
“Strength without stance is wasted,” he said, voice clipped, already moving on.
Jerry, another one of the Krav Maga trainers, was also instructing, and so was Laurent, who had just propelled one of the seniors into the wall. It was the first time she’d seen him fight. Maybe it should have surprised her. Instead her brain just went: of course he’s deadly too.
“Again,” Laurent drawled, offering a hand to the boy he’d shellacked.
The drills rolled on. She kept flinching when someone hit the mat too hard, but apparently teen boys were made of springs. They bounced back up, louder than before. Watching them was equal parts horror show and highlight reel.
Bea looked back at Rafael. She couldn’t resist a photo. Zoomed in on him and Laurent mid-display, tapped: both men sweaty, glowering, forearms so overqualified they deserved a corner office.
Thought about where it would be appropriate to share her voyeurism.
Group Chat: Basketball War Crimes
BEA SENT A PHOTO
BEA: Putting this here because they deserve to see themselves
CLAIRE: My eyes have been blessed
BEA: Accidentally objectifying my boyfriend and his partner in crime.
CLAIRE: Accidentally? You zoomed.
BEA: It’s journalism!
CLAIRE: More like Northgate propaganda
BEA: Are you brainwashed yet?
CLAIRE: If biceps won’t do it, nothing will
BEA: Wait. They’re both in this chat
CLAIRE: It was an honor knowing you.
BEA: …You think they’ll scroll up later?
CLAIRE: Men ALWAYS scroll up.
She grinned down at the screen, then tucked her phone away before Rafael caught her. He had a sixth sense for that sort of thing.
Rafael’s whistle sliced through the space. “Line up.”
The sound hit her nerves like a reflex. Everyone obeyed, including her.
Emotionally. The boys dropped their partners and formed a row, spines locked straight, sweat cutting paths down their faces.
Rafael stood in front of them, his back to her, feet planted shoulder-width apart, the stance of someone who could teach or demolish with equal ease.
Jerry and Laurent flanked him on either side.
“You’ve put in the hours. More than most.” His words weren’t loud, but they carried weight. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing prepares you.”
“When you’re ready to give up, that’s when the real training starts,” added Laurent.
“A man learns control before he earns command. Why?”
Bea startled as the boys shouted as one: “Per disciplinam, dominium!”
The sound reverberated through the room, the chair, her bones. One voice split into many, deep and resonant enough to rattle the mirrors. The Latin of through discipline, dominion echoed like a battle cry.
Nico was in that line, chin high, eyes blazing. Bea’s heart kicked. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears, or run in and drag him out by the collar. Instead she sat very still, her pulse tripping, as a team of jocks, for one long moment, already looked like soldiers.
The door opened suddenly behind her, and Max Mercer entered, sharp-eyed, already scanning the room like he was counting heads.
“Wrap it up, gents,” Max said to the line. “Shower and change. We’ve got a night ahead.”
Three carloads of teenagers spilled onto the curb like soda shaken too hard. Banners snapped in the wind in Northgate blue, the roar leaking through concrete like thunder.
Rafael, Laurent, and Max handed their keys to the waiting valets. Rafael and Max tossed out some Haventaal that made the valet grin; Laurent looked disgusted and articulated something in French that made the other valet laugh out loud.
When the boys realized they weren’t going down toward the court but up, toward the box suites, the commotion hit new decibels—hooting, backslaps, Jude yelling “WE’RE ROYALTY!” so loudly they drew stares.
Inside, the suite was an adolescent’s dream: platters of meat, truffle fries steaming, hot wings dripping in sauce, sushi rolls, soda fountains and a milkshake machine humming in the corner. One of the boys actually dropped to his knees in front of the dessert cart.
“Is this free? Like all of it? Bro, I’m taking a plate home.” Antonio started to stack lamb cutlets on a plate like trophies.
“I’m never leaving. Forget the army, I live here now,” another senior breathed.
Laurent flopped into a chair like the suite bored him, but his voice carried lazily across the room. “You’re spoiling them before boot camp,” he accused Rafael. “Softening the meat.”
“Let them have it. On Monday their world changes,” Rafael said as he sat, pulling Bea next to him, his arm going around her shoulders.
“This will be the story they tell to survive the mud,” Max said.
Bea’s heart ached. Rafael could be anywhere else tonight. She knew for a fact he had a deal in Thailand that was getting close to sign-off. Instead he was here, letting twelve boys gorge on truffle fries before they were put to march.
Nico plopped down beside Bea, legs bouncing like he was hooked to a car battery. His shirt was already stained with wing sauce. “Bea. Look. We’re above the players. Like—above them.” He pointed, in case she’d missed it.
“Enjoy it. Next week you’ll be below a sergeant’s boots,” Max said dryly.
“Don’t drop your soda on their heads,” Bea added gravely. “Or your hot sauce.”
Nico laughed so hard he nearly did. Half the Coke sloshed out of his cup.
The buzzer blared, and the game snapped alive. “LET’S GO NORTHGATE!” shook the glass.
Rafael’s phone buzzed on the table. She saw the screen light with a name she knew he should answer, about the Thailand deal he was flying out for in a few days.
“You’re not going to get it?” she asked.
“Not tonight,” he said, fingers playing with the hair at her nape. “Tonight’s for the boys.”
She traced her fingers on the hard muscle of his thigh. “You make it sound easy.”
“It is,” he said, voice dropping. “I already have what matters.”
She rolled her eyes, drawing lazy circles on his thigh. “You never answer straight.”
“I delegate,” he said simply. “And I don’t need much sleep.”
“Right. Superhuman again.”
He smiled. “No. Just unwilling to live on a leash.”
The game roared on, a blur of dunks and whistles. By halftime, the suite was wreckage: bones piled on plates, soda bubbling over, the glass shaking every time Northgate scored.
Laurent leaned back, eyeing the teens. “You’re eating like they won’t feed you fun stuff for three years. And you’d be right.”
The last quarter was pure mayhem: Westhelm fouling hard, Northgate sinking free throws. The win was secured by a last-minute jumper. Bea was on her feet, shouting with the rest of them.
As the evening wrapped up, two boys banged the milkshake levers like addicts. The spout hissed air while they shook their cups underneath, desperate for more, but nothing came out.
Laurent cocked his head. “That’s history. First time I’ve seen that machine bled dry.”
Max shook his head, amused. “History ends here. No souvenirs for the ride.”
“Let’s go, kids,” Rafael said. “Night’s not done.”
RAFAEL
The convoy rolled over the dirt track, headlights catching scrub and sand. He’d given the site crew the night off. Bea had asked where they were. He’d told her the truth: “Private beach.”
The fire caught quick, crackling high. A speaker thudded bass, mixing with the roar of waves. The boys circled like combatants, hauling driftwood, bragging over which log would outlast the night. Two broke into stick-sword duels. Another managed to torch three marshmallows at once.
Max had come armed with Northgate sausages. Laurent produced chorizo and cheese that reeked of an overpriced Parisian deli.
“Seriously?” Bea shook her head. “How are any of you still hungry?”
“Scientific fact,” Max said flatly. “Teen boys have at least four stomachs.”
“Smoke makes everything cuisine,” Laurent said, slicing cheese with a pocketknife.
They were all standing, firelight jumping across their faces, shadows thrown long into the sand. Bea stood barefoot at the edge of the firelight, her hair pulled back by the breeze, smiling as Nico swung his stick like a gladiator, hollering until Jude tackled him into the sand.
She laughed, then sighed, as if she’d already begun missing him.
He crossed to her. His hand slid around her shoulders and she came in without hesitation, both arms wrapping his waist, pressing herself fully against him.
It was the first time she’d sought comfort in him that way.
It gutted him. He folded her in tighter, angling her so the sparks from the fire would hit his back, not her.
“Do you always bring cigars to corrupt the youth?” Bea called out to Laurent, who had cracked open a box.
“Cadets get Kombucha. Men get fire,” Laurent said smoothly, tossing one to Rafael and one to Max.
Rafael struck the match. Smoke curled, sharp and heavy. Cigars weren’t pleasure—they were ritual. He lit, passed the flame. The three of them side by side, and he knew the boys were watching, memorizing.
One of the boys finally asked it, voice loud enough to cut through the noise. “Was it really that bad?”
Max exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Worse than you think. Better for you than anything else.”
Nico’s eyes were bright. “Laurent…how’d you end up doing boot camp?”
Laurent’s smile sharpened. “I didn’t have to. My father wanted me educated here. Citizenship was my choice. I had to earn it.”
“So you chose to get screamed at by sergeants for three years?” Jude asked.
“Every morning at five,” Laurent said, blowing out cigar smoke.
Antonio frowned. “Why? You already have everything.”
“‘Everything’ makes you soft. I wanted to know if under the silk shirts, I could belong as one of you.”
“And?”
Laurent smirked. “No one can say I’m only here by bloodlines and money.”
“The mud doesn’t care who your father is. It strips everyone the same,” Rafael said, flicking ash off his cigar.
The boys fell quiet. The fire popped. The knowledge sank in: in two days, childhood ended.
“Guess silk shirts are off the packing list,” Antonio jested, earning a round of rough laughter.
The conversation picked up again, and the boys talked over one another, tossing predictions of medals and heroics.
Rafael caught Bea watching Nico again. He felt the pride and grief in her body as if it were his own.
“He’ll be fine,” he assured.
“You can’t promise that.”
“He’s strong. He’ll come back stronger.”
She tipped her chin up, voice tight. “Why stronger? Why not just…safe?”
“Safety only exists where there’s strength,” he said. “A nation of strong men is the best deterrent. That’s the order of things.”
“Or maybe it’s just an excuse to throw boys into pain and call it noble.”
“Pain is inevitable. If men aren’t built to bear it, the women we love will instead.”
Bea stared at him, saw he meant every word, then gave a short huff and pressed her cheek into his chest. “You’re crazy.”
He kissed her hair.
If she knew this was her beach, her house rising just beyond the tree line, she’d know she was one hundred percent correct.