Page 10

Chapter 10

Cate

C ould I work with Jaden Sheppard? That was the million-dollar question. He was smart and insightful, but he had a chip on his shoulder and seemed hell bent on taking his frustrations out on me.

I still can’t believe I punched him.

My unprofessional behavior was inexcusable. I believed myself to be a better person, one capable of handling workplace bullshit.

All that time taking shit from the jarheads in the Marines. All that time taking shit from the frat boys in the FBI. And not once had I lost control and hauled off and hit someone.

Not even when Gavin started the rumor that I purred during sex and convinced everyone to call me Catie Cat. Not when printouts of raunchy memes, with Catie Cat written in marker, started showing up on my desk and around the office .

Reporting Gavin was out of the question, and I couldn’t prove anything anyway. Going to HR would have made things much worse. I learned a lot of things during my time with the FBI, the most important being—never date a co-worker.

I was already looking for another job when Jones asked me to consult on a missing child case in Weatherford. When I first met the SSI team, I thought they were a little rough around the edges, but they gave off strong family vibes. And not just because it’s a family business .

When I saw they were hiring, I didn’t hesitate to apply. I had zero regrets about leaving the FBI.

Until today.

Hell no. I’m not giving up another good job because some asshole can’t handle working with a woman.

“Sir, what happened today was a mistake.” No excuses, no explanations, just owning my shit. “And it won’t happen again.” I made eye contact with each of my bosses. “If you give us a second chance, I believe we can work together and find Wendy.” I refused to say bring her home, because none of us could guarantee that.

They nodded. Then John asked, “Jaden?”

After Jaden echoed my sentiments, we updated John on the case. Afterwards, he told us to go home, making it clear it was an order, not a suggestion .

Since I couldn’t stay at the office, I took a picture of the whiteboard and packed up my notes so I could work from home. But first, I had to blow off some steam.

Once my phone connected to the car’s speaker, I called my coach, Brian.

“Hey Cate, how’s it going?”

“It’s been a day. You available tonight?”

He mumbled about wanting to get home early.

“I’ll double your hourly fee,” I offered.

“That bad, huh?”

You have no idea . “Yeah. What do you say?”

“I’ll see you in the ring at seven.”

“Thanks, Brian. I appreciate it.”

An hour in the ring with Coach Brian was just what I needed. I’d get in a work out, hone my boxing skills, and work off my anger. My right hand would suffer for it, but in that moment, I didn’t care.

I got to the gym early to warm up. After five minutes on a treadmill, I wrapped my hands and put on my favorite gloves, the Marine logo faded from use. I put in my earbuds, pulled up my workout playlist, and faced off against the bag.

I let the upbeat tempo of the music set my rhythm as I set the bag swinging with punch after punch.

By the time Brian showed up, I was dripping in sweat.

I worked harder than I should’ve, knowing I had an hour with my coach, a two-time, lightweight national champion.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said as he wrapped his hands.

“No problem. Want to talk about it? ”

“No, I want to hit shit,” I said with a laugh. My hand was already throbbing, so I took two ibuprofen, knowing I’d need more later while I iced it. I’ve boxed through worse pain.

I’d been boxing most of my life. I was a hurt, angry five-year-old after my mother left us, and my father thought it’d be a good way for me to channel my aggression.

He was right. I thought about quitting as a teen, but boxing brought me closer to him, so I stuck with it, boxing through high school, college, and the Marines.

Brian started off slow with basic drills: blocking, high and low. Each block followed by a three-punch combo.

Before long, he called out longer, more complex combinations, testing my speed, accuracy, and concentration. I messed up more than once, but understanding my need to go fast and hard at the pads, he never slowed down.

He called out strikes, “Jab, jab, uppercut.” I slipped right and left. “Three, two, three.” I slipped and landed two body shots to his padded body protector before rolling under his hook. “Cross, hook, cross.” I landed the last punch with a solid thud.

After twenty minutes, I asked him to take off the pads and glove up so we could spar. I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of beating him, but the workout would drain the last of my frustration.

At first, he went easy on me and I held my own. Slipping out of the way of jabs and crosses, returning blows, rolling under hooks, and connecting with my elbows .

But Brian was fast and was soon dancing circles around me. The fight turned one-sided as fatigue got the best of me and all I could do was duck and block.

Brian stepped back and dropped his hands, signaling the match was over.

“Nice effort.” He held his glove up for a fist-pump. “You good?” he asked, with a laugh. He’d just kicked my ass without breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, I was bent over, panting like dog left in a car on a hot day.

“Yeah. That was exactly what I needed,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with my equally sweaty forearm. “Thanks.”

“Glad I could help.”

We chatted for a few minutes while we chugged water and cooled down. It wasn’t always easy finding a new coach, but I lucked out finding Brian when I moved to Weatherford. He was a good guy and a great coach. And he’d hooked me up with a friend of his when I wanted to add Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, or BJJ, to my training schedule.

“Our normal time Saturday?” he asked as we packed up.

“Yeah.” I held my fist up. “Thanks again, Bri. I owe you one.”

“You owe me double, but who’s counting?” he laughed, knowing I was good for it.

“Cash okay?” He’d bill me for the hour at the gym, so I only owed him for the extra amount.

“Cash is always okay. ”

On the way home, I grabbed a salad with extra chicken so I wouldn’t have to cook. That way I could start working right after my shower.

Combining our notes into a coherent document was easier than I expected thanks to Jaden’s notes being clear, concise, and neatly organized.

Nothing like the chaos of his hand written notes.

I quit researching around midnight. Before crawling into bed, I put eye drops in my tired eyes to soothe them and reminded myself that tomorrow would be a fresh start.

And come hell or high water, I won’t let Jaden Sheppard get to me ever again.