Faster.
More obvious.
He threw combinations designed to look impressive even when they missed.
I had known men like him before.
The need to be seen changes movement.
A person fighting for survival watches the problem.
A person fighting for an audience watches the room.
Travis kept checking whether people had noticed.
That gave me more information than his hands did.
He rushed again.
This time, I caught his arm and stopped it.
For the first time, the smile disappeared completely.
He tried to pull away.
I held him for one second.
Then two.
Long enough.
“You give away your intentions.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“You keep looking for the camera.”
His jaw tightened.
I released him.
“Fight the person in front of you.”
He stepped back.
The room had become very quiet.
Travis looked around.
Then smiled again.
“Let’s grapple.”
Before I answered, he came low.
I shifted my weight and redirected him.
We went to the mat, but not the way he intended.
Within seconds, I had control of his arm and shoulder.
He struggled.
I did not tighten the position.
I simply held him.
“Get off me.”
“Stop moving.”
He tried harder.
Nothing changed.
I leaned slightly closer.
“You're teaching children that strength gives you permission.”
His face reddened.
“You don't know what I teach.”
“I watched you throw my son after he was already afraid.”
“That’s training.”
“No.”
I released him.
Then stood.
The room murmured.
No applause.
That would have been easier for Travis.
Instead, people were thinking.
He hated that.
Chapter 7: The Cheap Shot
Travis stood slowly.
I could see humiliation replacing judgment.
That made him dangerous.
“Gloves,” he said.
“For fairness.”
I turned toward the shelf.
That was my mistake.
Movement came from behind.
I shifted just before his kick reached my head.
It struck my upper shoulder instead.
The impact spun me.
Parents shouted.
One of Travis’s assistant coaches yelled:
“Coach!”
Travis kept coming.
I raised my guard.
“Stop.”
He threw again.
This was no longer an exhibition.
No longer instruction.
No longer anything a waiver was meant to cover.
His face told me he knew that.
He was trying to recover authority through damage.
I moved backward.
He pressed.
Then I realized where he was steering me.
Toward Noah.
My son stood near the chairs, frozen.
I changed angle to keep myself between them.
Travis saw it.
He used it.
A knee drove into my left ribs.
Pain exploded through the old scar tissue.
My leg folded.
I dropped to one knee.
Noah shouted.