“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?”
