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.
My right forearm slid across the back of his neck.
My left hand controlled his wrist.
For half a second, I had a path to a choke.
I released it.
Derek scrambled backward.
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.
I stepped inside it.
My palm struck his chest—not hard, merely enough to break his balance.
Then I hooked his ankle.
