Wicked Nights (Men of Discovery Island 2)

They dropped every two miles to bang out push-up reps.

“When?” Daeg grunted, hitting the ground.

Cal dropped and started working smoothly through his own reps. “Two weeks from now.”

Fourteen days didn’t feel like anywhere near enough time to fix what was wrong with his head. Discovery Island had already used up its quota of miracles when it had avoided a direct hit with a tropical storm earlier in the summer.

“Who’s the competition?” Daeg didn’t turn his head but picked up the pace of the push-ups. Hell. Cal kicked it up a notch. He wasn’t getting out-repped.

“Who said I had competition?”

“Eighty-one.” Tag, the overachiever, knocked out a butt-load more than the U.S. Navy’s required forty-two push-ups. If he went back to the SEALs, he’d pass the PT exam without breaking a sweat.

Cal snuck a peek at his watch on his way toward the ground. Tag had accomplished his mission-impossible numbers in ninety seconds. Tag rolled smoothly onto his back, sucking in air. Ten seconds left. Cal powered through reps, back straight, hands and feet planted on the ground. “Dream Big and Dive’s the last competitor left standing.”

Daeg whistled and flopped to the ground. “Eighty-seven. You’ve got three seconds to concede defeat. Which you might want to think about doing with Piper. She’s going to be one unhappy woman.”

Defeat wasn’t a word any of them knew. Cal finished the last rep, arms burning. “Eighty-nine.”

Tag raised an eyebrow. “The form on your last rep was highly questionable. I’m calling it as a does-not-count.”

They squabbled amicably for the rest of the two-minute rest period. As soon as Tag called, “Time,” they started crunching. Arms crossed over his chest, fingertips on his shoulders, Cal watched the bay come and go from his field of vision.

“You really think Dream Big and Dive can beat us?”

“Not a chance.” He had to work through this, but not with a boatload of divers depending on him. Get in the water. Descend. It wasn’t complicated. He’d logged thousands of dives.

“Hooyah.” Tag jackknifed up smoothly.

“Piper’s a world-champion diver.” Daeg shot him a glance. “Plus, if Fiesta’s passing out points for personality, she’s going to give us a run for our money.”

“She didn’t actually make it to the world championships,” Cal pointed out.

“She earned a berth on the team, and she would have gone if her accident hadn’t busted up her knee. The media had her pegged as a shoo-in for gold. The cruise ship people will eat her history up.”

Probably. “A good story doesn’t make her the best fit for the job.” He kept his eyes on the harbor and the boats there, bobbing up and down.

Daeg snorted. “Right. It could be a rout.”

“A melee. A debacle.” Tag rattled synonyms off as if he was channeling a thesaurus.

“Face it.” Daeg finished his reps, shoved to his feet and started running down toward the beach. It was Armageddon time. “You don’t know how not to compete.”

Daeg had a point.

Cal pounded after his buddy, Tag dogging his heels. As soon as they hit the sand, Daeg toed off his shoes and ran into the water.

“To the point and back?”

Tag splashed into the surf. “You bet. Last one back buys the beer.”

Half a mile out, half a mile back. One thousand seven hundred and sixty yards, and forty-five minutes.

Damn it. He didn’t want to do this. It didn’t matter how clear and debris free the water was or that he’d bump into nothing if he went under. Ever since the first five-hundred-yard swim of his SEAL Physical Screening Test, the combat sidestroke had been second nature, as easy as walking or running. He swam and swam well, covering five hundred yards in under twelve minutes and competing against himself to better his time. The stroke kept the body low in the water, which was a plus when the day’s mission included bullets flying at him while he swam.

He’d take bullets any day.

He toed off his sneakers and dropped his T-shirt on the sand. Then he walked over to the water’s edge. The surf in the bay wasn’t bad, the waves cresting at one to two feet. There was a current to fight on the way out to the point, but on the way back, the same current would push him to shore. The problem wasn’t the water or the current. It was in his head.

Daeg and Tag ripped cleanly through the water’s surface. They swam hard and fast, pushing underwater until their air ran out, then popping to the surface and dropping into the combat sidestroke. He’d bought the beer every night since Tag had named the stakes.

At least he was in the water. He looked down. Up to his ankles. He compromised with his head and waded in. There was no point in agonizing over a dive he couldn’t make. Plus, if he hung back much longer, Daeg and Tag would definitely notice his absence.