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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.
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I ignored it.
My right forearm slid across the back of his neck.
My left hand controlled his wrist.
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For half a second, I had a path to a choke.
I released it.
Derek scrambled backward.
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The room had gone almost completely silent.
The digital clock mounted above the cage read:
4:11 REMAINING.
Derek stared at me.
“
“You wrestle?”
“A little.”
That irritated him more than an insult would have.
He rushed forward.
I could see Claire saying something from the edge of the mat, but I couldn’t hear her over the blood pulsing in my ears.
Derek threw a knee.
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I stepped inside it.
My palm struck his chest—not hard, merely enough to break his balance.
Then I hooked his ankle.
He hit the mat flat on his back.
The crowd made a collective sound.
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Not cheering now.
Confusion.
Derek rolled instantly and jumped up.
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His face had gone red.
“Lucky.”
I wiped the blood from my lip.
“Probably.”
He attacked again.
This time he stopped trying to impress anyone.
No flashy combinations.
No spinning kick.
He came to hurt me.
That was his second mistake.
His first had been calling me.
His third would be believing I wanted to beat him.
I didn’t.
I wanted
him to expose himself.
There is a difference.
Three days earlier, I had been sitting in my kitchen when everything started.
