The crowd erupted.
Someone whistled.
Someone else yelled, “Welcome to the real world, old man!”
I tasted blood where my molar had cut the inside of my cheek.
Across the blue mats, Claire stood with her arms folded beneath her chest, watching the man she had been married to for fourteen years get punched by the twenty-eight-year-old man she had been sleeping with.
She didn’t look frightened.
She looked relieved.
As if Derek’s fist had confirmed something she had been telling herself for months.
That I was weak.
That I was finished.
That whatever man she had married was gone.
Derek bounced backward, grinning through his mouthguard.
“Come on, HVAC,” he said.
Laughter rolled through the gym.
My left knee throbbed where his kick had landed seconds earlier.
That knee had been rebuilt twice.
Once in Germany.
Once in Virginia.
Doctors had told me I would never run normally again.
They had been right.
What they hadn’t said was that a man didn’t need to run to remain dangerous.
I raised my eyes to Derek.
He misunderstood my silence.
Most arrogant men do.
He thought silence meant fear.
It usually means calculation.
Derek stepped forward again and threw a fast right hand followed by a left hook.
This time, neither touched me.
I slipped the right by less than an inch, shifted my weight onto my good leg, caught his wrist as the hook came around, and redirected his momentum past me.
Derek stumbled.
Not much.
Half a step.
But enough.
The crowd grew quieter.
His eyebrows tightened.
He came again.
Harder.
That was what I wanted.
I had learned a long time ago that angry men become predictable.
His shoulders rose before his combinations.
His right heel lifted before his power shots.
When he kicked, he glanced at the target.
Good coaching could fix those habits.
Ego rarely allowed it.
Derek threw another low kick.
I checked it.
The sound of shin against shin echoed across the gym.
His expression changed.
Just slightly.
Then he shot for a double-leg takedown.
It was technically competent.
Fast.
Explosive.
Exactly what you would expect from a young athlete who had spent thousands of hours drilling takedowns on cooperative partners.
I sprawled.
My bad knee screamed.
I ignored it.
