Third Degree by Julie Cross Read Free Book Online Page B

older retired man in a full-out army uniform, but Sergeant Holloway is probably middle-aged and he’s wearing an NIU ROTC T-shirt with gym shorts. He does have a whistle around his neck, and he blows it the second he sees me.
    “I don’t know you!” he shouts. “Did you party too hard last week and cut my class?Unacceptable.”
    “No, I didn’t—”
    Marshall pokes me in the back and whispers, “Rule number one in this class—don’t argue with the drill sergeant.”
    “Come on, he’s not a real drill sergeant.”
    At least twenty students have gathered around the circle drive in front of the rec center, watching Sergeant Holloway lean in, right next to my face, and blow hard on the whistle again.
    “Did I hear you right?” he says, his voice booming across a half-mile radius. “I’m not a real drill sergeant? Well, you’re not a real soldier. Just a stupid girl who can’t run fast or do a push-up.”
    “I can do a push-up,” I argue, then clamp my mouth shut, remembering Marshall’s advice.
    “Drop and give me twenty!” Holloway lifts his chin and addresses the entire class. “All of you. Now!”
    A groan erupts through the group as we all drop to the ground, gravel from the driveway digging into our palms. I glance at Marshall. He gives me his innocent I-told-you-so face, then he’s on the ground, whipping out his push-ups like it’s nothing.
    “You can all thank our new student for inspiring me to give you the hardest workout of your lives today!” Holloway paces through the lines of students doing push-ups, stopping occasionally to press his foot on people’s backs or yell at them to suck in their gut.
    I’m pretty sure he’s taking this drill sergeant role a little too seriously. I’m also pretty sure that my advisor must be as pissed off at me as Kelsey is, because she “highly recommended” this course as a wonderful and beneficial method of achieving physical fitness. She even said she’d heard great things about the instructor.
    “One step out of line today and I’m flunking your asses!”
    I guess technically you can flunk people in a pass/fail class, but typically that happens only if people don’t attend or participate. Not if they fall over from push-up exhaustion or their gut is too big to suck in.
    By the end of the class, my knees and elbows are scraped from the army crawl section of the obstacle course and I’m so beat I can barely walk. Marshall did everything we did and stayed at the front of the group, but he appears to be fine, not near collapse like the rest of us.
    Several students take a moment to glare at me and mumble a sarcastic thank-you before leaving. I rip off my T-shirt and use it to wipe sweat from my forehead so it won’t drip into my eyes. Marshall jogs to catch up with me after spending a few minutes chatting with our abusive instructor.
    “I’m beginning to think you should listen to my advice more often,” he says.
    “That’s probably a good idea.” I tug the bottom of my sports bra, making sure it stays in place and covers what it’s supposed to cover. “I feel like shit.”
    “You need breakfast. That’ll get you going again.” He takes me by the shoulders and steers me toward the dining hall.
    I pull out of his grip and angle myself toward our dorm. “No way. I can’t think about food. Must. Shower. Now.”
    “I thought we were listening to my advice today,” Marshall says.
    I glance around to see if anyone’s watching or listening. “Are you sure that’s allowed? You know, for RAs and residents …”
    “Conversing and advising over a meal in a university dining hall is completely acceptable,” Marshall says. “In fact, it’s encouraged.”
    Once inside, we both grab big glasses of water and start chugging, then I follow him through the line. Marshall told me to observe new things, but I can’t stop myself from watching him load his tray with food and analyzing the choices—three pancakes, passes up the butter but piles