Whitney didn't resist. She kept her breathing steady: four counts in, four counts out. It was how the Marines had trained her. They marched her down to the elevated ring under the glaring stage lights.
Tyler met her at the center of the mat, inspecting her like used furniture. "What's your name, sweetheart? Speak up."
Whitney said nothing.
Tyler's smile vanished. "I asked your name, woman."
"I don't want to be here," Whitney replied, her voice flat and almost bored.
Tyler laughed into the mic, working the crowd. "Too bad. You're part of the show now." He circled her like a shark. "You look like you wandered in off Magnolia Street. You one of those Section 8 tenants? Welfare line?"
He stepped within inches of her face. "You smell like a dirty laundromat, sweetheart. When was the last time you took a bath?" The crowd laughed. Tyler was finding his rhythm. "Look at this outfit. Long sleeves in October. Are you cold? You hiding track marks under there?"
He grabbed her right wrist, yanking the sleeve up two inches. Whitney pulled back firmly, her sleeve dropping down. Tyler's eyes flashed dark; nobody pulled away from him on his own mat.
"Oh, the little black rat's got fight," Tyler sneered. He snapped his fingers again. The two massive students moved in, each taking an arm and wrenching them behind her back.
Whitney counted to three in her head. One. The mandatory pause before an escalation decision in close quarters. Two. Assessing the threat, calculating angles and weak points. Three. Choosing a path she could live with.
She stayed still. Tyler mocked her further, snatching the faded Padres cap off her head and throwing it to the mat. He stomped on it three times. Then, he uncapped a plastic water bottle and slowly, deliberately, poured it over her head. The icy water soaked her gray shirt.