Page 75 of Loving a Warrior

As Howe moved off, Matt watched him go, relieved that he’d survived the encounter unscathed. He respected Howe a great deal, but he couldn’t say he liked him much. Talk about intimidating.

Settling back again in his seat, Matt stretched his legs out in the aisle and tried to get comfortable. He closed his eyes, intending to doze, but his thoughts churned. On impulse he pulled his phone out and did a Google search. Not a whole lot popped up, just a few official press releases announcing Jon’s death in support of combat operations in Afghanistan’s Nuristan Province, including a long list of the medals he was posthumously awarded.

There were some images from his funeral, and Matt pored over the pictures, looking for Shane or Alexis. Hmm. Lots of shots of what had to be Jon’s grieving parents, but the Hovlands were nowhere in sight. Matt squinted closer at one picture. There was his uncle, and Howe, both in dress blues as they stood over Jon’s casket pounding their Tridents into the polished wood, a long-standing SEAL tradition for honoring a fallen brother.

Why wasn’t Shane there, or Alexis, his fiancée?

Matt sighed before turning his phone off and stowing it away. This really wasn’t any of his fucking business. Maybe Shane would tell him the story someday, maybe not. Closing his eyes, Matt at last fell asleep.

When they arrived at La Posta, they all staggered off the bus into the thin mountain air. As he helped to unload their gear, Matt glanced around, seeing nothing more than a few old buildings and what looked like a shooting range.

“I’m starving,” Trey whispered to him at one point. “You think there’s a chow hall?”

That question was answered a few hours later when Howe took his combat knife out and ripped into a cardboard box, revealing it full of MREs.

“This here’s a five-star resort, boys. Nothing but the best! Now drop!”

Their days quickly fell into a routine of little sleep, punishing exertion and cold MREs. The terrain was rugged and unforgiving, the timed evolutions designed to be impossible to meet in order to push them all to the edge physically and mentally.

They climbed up some cliffs; they rappelled down some cliffs. They blew shit up, and had their first introduction to the M4 rifle, a standard SEAL weapon. Matt had grown up around guns and was comfortable with them, so he had no trouble excelling during the firing exercises and competitions.

One night as he got ready to hit his rack after being awake almost forty hours, Matt turned his phone on to see he had a missed call and voice mail from Shane. He left the barracks and stretched out on top of a large flat rock at the edge of the compound, enjoying the residual warmth it held from the heat of the day, and listened to the message.

“Hey, Soup, it’s me. I, uh—well, I’m not sure how to say this, so I guess I’ll just say it.”

Matt sat up in alarm at the words and the sound of Shane’s voice, rough with emotion.

“I’m being sent before the performance review board on Monday morning for failing two timed runs. It’s my fucking thigh, you know? Anyway, I’m probably gonna be dropped from BUD/S, and I just wanted—hell, I don’t know what I wanted. I know you have no use for failures.”

There was a long pause. Matt gripped his phone so hard he was surprised he didn’t crack the damn thing.

“I guess I just wanted you to hear it from me, for what it’s worth. Also was kinda hoping to hear your voice, but you don’t even have a personalized greeting set up, you prick. Thanks for nothing.”

The message ended. With shaking fingers Matt dialed him back and Shane picked up on the second ring, sounding surprised. “Hey.”

“First of all,” Matt snarled, “I believe I said I have no use for quitters, not people who fail something because they have a fucking injury.”

“Matt—”

“Second of all, what’s this giving-up bullshit? The review board might decide to keep you, and you should be getting ready to retake the run instead of leaving oh-poor-me voice mails.” He broke off when Shane started laughing. “What the hell are you laughing at?”

“You,” Shane gasped. “Me. Because I’m a mess and you insulting me makes me feel better.”

Matt huffed in annoyance, but he knew Shane was scared, and frankly, so was he. Performance review boards were no joke. BUD/S didn’t wait for anyone, even a guy who was fighting a legitimate injury. Still, Shane was a strong and popular trainee whom the instructors respected and there was always hope.

“Okay, clown, it’s three-foot-world time,” Matt said firmly. “There’s nothing you can do about the performance board. That part is totally out of your hands, right? If they’re planning to get rid of you, you can’t change that.”

Shane gave a watery snort. “Yeah, thanks. You really suck at pep talks, you know?”

“My point is, forget about the board. It’s gonna happen, like it or not, so it’s out of your three-foot world. If by some miracle they vote to give you another chance at the run, and I don’t see why they won’t because you’re strong, a natural leader—”

“Compliments for the clown? Geez.”

“Shut up and listen for one second, would ya?” Matt hissed. “If they let you run it again, I want you to do these stretches first.”

Shane was quiet as Matt described some of his favorite quad and hamstring stretches in meticulous detail.

“Actually, I want you to start doing these now, as soon as we get off the phone. Don’t try to run this weekend, just stretch every chance you get. Take ibuprofen for the inflammation. Shane, this is all stuff you can control, so take control of it.” He waited a beat, then said more gently, “And if they go the other way, well, you can always come back and try again in a couple of years, right? It’s shitty luck, but it doesn’t have to be over.”