Page 12 of Loving a Warrior

The evolution that afternoon was an introduction to the world-famous obstacle course—fifteen sections of rope ladders, bridges, cargo nets and other sadistic apparatus that they were expected to get through, past, under and over. All timed, of course.

“Operational SEALs come train on this course when they’re in town for workups,” Salazar informed them. “That’s how tough it is. You guys need to bring your A-game, because in each phase the qualifying times will come down.”

To Matt’s enormous relief, the O-course was a smaller guy’s kingdom. He zipped along while bigger guys like Shane struggled to haul their heavier frames up, down and around.

Some of his confidence restored, he couldn’t help but aim a cocky grin at Shane as he flew past him.

“Asshole,” Shane muttered with a roll of his eyes. Matt flipped him off and continued on his way, Shane’s deep chuckle following in his wake.

At last Salazar released them to make their final preparations for room inspection. Matt stayed behind to help rinse off equipment and put it away, hoping to redeem himself a little in Salazar’s eyes.

Finally he made his way to the barracks in the cool, damp evening air, the marine layer rolling in to block out the stars. Matt breathed in deeply, bone-tired and sore. At least he knew his room was in order. When he’d left it that morning, the floor was polished and immaculate, so clean the instructors could eat off it. His uniforms hung in the closet, starched and pressed, boots lined up neatly.

As he approached his building, he wondered why there were so many people milling about on the stairway and landing outside—Jesus! Was that his door ajar?

“What the fuck?” he yelled, rushing up the last flight of stairs. He’d closed and locked that door, he was positive of it! The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, faces averted, except for Shane, whose eyes were filled with a horrified sympathy.

What the hell is going on?

Matt shoved his way into his room and let out a bellow that could probably be heard across the bay. It was trashed. No, trashed wasn’t the word for it—it was fucking destroyed. His bedclothes had been stripped from the mattress and thrown on the floor, wet sand dumped on them. His pristine uniforms were now heaped in the bathtub, which was full of murky water and threatening to overflow. Footprints were all over the once-immaculate floor, muddy handprints were on the wall, trash was strewn everywhere…

“Who did this?” Matt roared. “Which of you fuckers did this?” He whirled in a circle, glaring at each of his classmates in turn. “Who?” He was shaking with rage. It would take hours to fix the damage and get the room ready for inspection again. “I want to know—”

“Dial down the accusations. Now.” The voice was quiet, but authoritative, and Matt swung around to face Salazar. “Your teammates had nothing to do with this.”

Matt’s chest heaved as he fought for air. He clenched his fists at his sides, wanting nothing more than to take two huge steps forward and punch his instructor’s lights out. If he hadn’t done this himself, he sure as fuck knew who had, most likely with his blessing. Salazar’s face was impassive, but his eyes were watchful as he crossed his arms over his barrel chest—the same stance he took in the classroom right as he was about to say something important.

This is a test. Matt almost choked on the horrified realization. A fucking test to see how I handle adversity, and unfairness. To see how well I adapt and overcome.

And he’d just blown it big-time. Fear surged into his throat, and he took a deep breath, striving to keep his voice steady. “Roger that, Instructor.”

“Get to work. I still expect you to be on that CTT deck at 0500 sharp, and this room better be ready for re-inspection by then. Understood?”

“Hooyah!”

Salazar turned and walked out, followed by Matt’s classmates, who seemed to melt into thin air and disappear. Except for Shane.

“Can I help?” he asked in a hushed tone, as if confronting a cornered animal. “Between the two of us, we could have it done in no time.”

All Matt wanted to do was be alone so he could scream into his pillow, or punch a wall. The last thing he needed was goddamn Shane Hovland witnessing this massive humiliation.

“No. Get out.”

Shane didn’t blink. “Matt, let me help—”

Matt slashed his hand in a shut-up motion. “I said get the fuck out.”

His lips tight, Shane backed from the room as Matt sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands. What a fucking disaster of a day. Desperate to hear a friendly voice, Matt grabbed his phone and called his uncle, pouring out all his disappointment and frustration. Rick listened silently, waiting for Matt to wind down before saying, “This training is ninety percent mental, Matty.”

“I know—”

“I know you know,” Rick interrupted. “And what I don’t understand is why I’m listening to someone who’s already mentally DORed.”

Matt choked. “What?”

“BUD/S isn’t just about showing you can run fast or swim well, boy. It’s about building character and developing strength through adversity. These instructors want guys who’d rather die than quit, yes, but they also want guys who’re willing to work together to put the good of the team above all. What I’m hearing now is a man completely distracted by his own personal misery and failure, and looking for someone to blame for it.”

“Uncle—”