"Your favorites."
Daniel smiled.
"You're late."
Arthur glanced at the clock.
"By four minutes."
"Late."
"All right. I'll accept the charge."
Daniel laughed.
The sound was quiet but warm.
Arthur sat across from him.
They spent the next hour talking about ordinary things.
A new television series.
A baseball game.
The price of groceries.
A staff member who had accidentally ordered the wrong kind of tea.
Daniel complained that the television remote had too many buttons.
Arthur told him he had always been bad with technology.
Daniel disagreed.
Then he asked about Apex.
Arthur described the academy.
He mentioned the new coach.
He mentioned Owen.
He did not mention Blake.
Daniel listened.
"Do they fight?"
"Some of them."
"Good?"
"Some are."
Daniel looked at him.
"Are you?"
Arthur smiled faintly.
"Am I what?"
"Good."
Arthur looked down at his hands.
"That was a long time ago."
Daniel shook his head.
"You were good."
Arthur did not respond.
Daniel studied him.
"You still watch?"
Arthur looked up.
"Watch what?"
"Fighting."
"Sometimes."
Daniel nodded.
"Then you still know."
Arthur leaned back.
"Knowing something and wanting to do it are different."
Daniel considered that.
Then he looked toward the window.
"Do you remember when we trained together?"
Arthur smiled.
"Every day."
"You told me not to chase."
"Because you always chased."
Daniel laughed.
"I was faster."
"You were impatient."
"I was faster."
"You were impatient and fast."
Daniel grinned.
For a moment, Arthur saw the young man from the photographs.
The one who had once stood beside him with a championship medal.
The one who had wanted to fight professionally.
The one who had asked for one more round.
Then Daniel looked at him.
"Teach somebody."
Arthur's smile faded slightly.
"What?"
"Teach somebody."
"I don't teach anymore."
"Why?"
Arthur looked away.
Daniel waited.
Finally, Arthur said, "Because I don't want someone getting hurt."
Daniel nodded slowly.
Then he spoke with effort.
"People get hurt anyway."
Arthur looked back at him.
Daniel continued.
"Doesn't mean you stop helping."
Arthur sat still.
The words were simple.
But they reached a place Marcus's careful explanations had not.
Daniel looked at the pastries.
"Eat."
Arthur laughed softly.
"You eat."
"You're old."
"You're younger."
"You're slow."
"You're difficult."
Daniel smiled.
And for a while, they returned to ordinary conversation.
But when Arthur left that afternoon, Daniel's words remained with him.
Doesn't mean you stop helping.
At Apex, the situation was becoming more complicated.
Blake Harrington had begun to resent Marcus openly.
He still attended training.
He still worked with Diego.
But every correction seemed to irritate him.
When Marcus told him to lower his shoulders, Blake complained.
When Marcus asked him to repeat a defensive drill, Blake argued that he had already done it.
When Diego reminded him to maintain distance, Blake told him he was overthinking everything.
One afternoon, Marcus stopped a sparring session after Blake ignored three separate warnings.
"That's enough."
Blake removed his mouthguard.
"What?"
"You're done for today."
"I just started."
"You've been throwing uncontrolled combinations."
"I wasn't trying to hurt him."
"Intent doesn't change what happens when you lose control."
Blake looked toward Owen.
Owen was breathing heavily but appeared uninjured.
"I'm fine," Owen said.
Marcus turned toward him.
"That's not the point."
Blake laughed bitterly.
"Unbelievable."
Marcus remained calm.
"You'll come back tomorrow and work on control."
"You're treating me like a beginner."
"Then stop acting like one."
Blake stared at him.
The room became quiet.
Several fighters looked away.
Blake picked up his towel.
"This place is becoming a joke."
He walked toward the locker room.
Owen looked at Marcus.
"Sorry."
Marcus shook his head.
"You did nothing wrong."
Across the room, Arthur had been cleaning the lower section of the cage.
He had heard everything.
When Marcus approached him, Arthur said nothing.
Marcus stopped beside him.
"He's getting worse."
Arthur continued wiping the padding.
"He's getting frustrated."
"That's not an excuse."
"No."
Arthur looked at the cage.
"But it may be the reason."
Marcus folded his arms.
"How do I reach him?"
Arthur thought for a moment.
"Stop trying to make him understand that he's wrong."
Marcus frowned.
"What should I do?"
"Make him understand what he is responsible for."
Marcus considered that.
Arthur continued.
"If he hurts someone, he can't blame his father. He can't blame the coach. He can't blame the other fighter. He has to own the choice he made."
Marcus nodded.
"That's what I've been telling him."
"Then maybe he needs to hear it from someone he respects."
Marcus glanced toward the locker room.
"Who would that be?"
Arthur looked down at the cleaning cloth.
"I don't know."
Two days later, Grant Harrington arrived at Apex.
He came during the evening session, wearing a dark charcoal suit and carrying a leather briefcase.