He was quick, technically sound, and far more disciplined than Blake.
But Blake had one advantage.
His father paid for the private sessions.
That meant Owen was expected to accommodate him.
The session began with light boxing.
Blake bounced aggressively, throwing wide punches and making exaggerated movements whenever he slipped an attack.
He enjoyed the sound of gloves hitting the pads.
He enjoyed the attention of the people watching from the lounge.
He especially enjoyed having his sessions recorded.
Owen kept his hands high.
"Keep your feet under you," Marcus instructed from outside the cage.
Blake threw a right hand.
Owen stepped away.
"Don't reach," Marcus said.
Blake threw another.
Owen countered with a light jab.
Blake frowned.
"Come on, man. Give me something."
Owen moved forward.
Blake backed away, then threw a wide left hook.
It missed.
Owen tapped him with a straight right.
Blake stopped.
"That was cheap."
Marcus shook his head.
"It was open."
"Whatever."
"Reset."
The sparring continued.
Blake began getting frustrated.
He wanted to win every exchange.
He wanted Owen to look impressed.
And he wanted the people watching to see him as the stronger fighter.
That desire made him careless.
He stepped too close, swung too hard, and dropped his right hand after every combination.
Owen tried to keep the session controlled.
But Blake became increasingly aggressive.
After one exchange, he shoved Owen in the chest.
"Stop running."
Owen stepped back.
"I'm not running."
"Then fight."
Marcus moved toward the cage.
"Blake. Control your pace."
Blake ignored him.
He rushed forward with a looping right hand.
Owen slipped outside and touched him with a jab.
Blake stumbled.
His foot caught on the edge of the mat.
He fell backward.
A few members laughed.
Blake's face reddened.
"That's enough," Marcus said.
"I'm fine."
"Then take a breath."
Blake stood up.
He looked around the room and noticed Arthur cleaning near the entrance.
Arthur had been watching.
Not laughing.
Not smiling.
Just watching.
Blake pointed toward him.
"What?"
Arthur looked up.
"Nothing."
"You were staring."
"I was cleaning."
Blake scoffed.
"Then clean."
Arthur lowered his eyes and continued working.
Marcus watched Blake's expression change.
He knew that look.
It was not anger over a mistake.
It was embarrassment searching for somewhere to go.
"Let's finish the session," Marcus said.
Blake shook his head.
"I'm done."
He climbed out of the cage and walked toward the lounge.
Owen removed his gloves.
Marcus approached him.
"You all right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Next time, don't let him pull you into that kind of exchange."
Owen nodded.
Marcus glanced toward Arthur.
The maintenance worker was kneeling beside the cage, wiping a small patch of sweat from the floor.
Marcus noticed something.
Arthur had not looked at Blake when he fell.
He had looked at Owen's feet.
And when Owen shifted his weight to avoid the looping punch, Arthur had moved his eyes to the exact place where Blake's balance disappeared.
It was the same thing Marcus had been noticing for weeks.
Arthur was not watching the fight.
He was reading it.
At lunchtime, the academy became quieter.
Most of the professional fighters had finished their sessions.
The wealthy members moved toward the lounge.
A few stayed behind to lift weights.
Arthur carried a bag of used towels toward the laundry room.
As he passed the boxing area, he heard Marcus speaking with another coach.
"His balance is terrible," Marcus said.
"Blake?"
"Yes."
"He's improving."
"His conditioning is improving. His balance isn't."
The other coach laughed.
"Tell that to his father."
Marcus sighed.
"I have."
Arthur continued walking.
He placed the towels in the laundry room, checked the detergent supply, and returned to the main floor.
A few minutes later, Marcus found him near the water station.
"Arthur?"
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you something?"
Arthur set down the cleaning cloth.
"Sure."
Marcus gestured toward the cage.
"When Blake threw that right hand this morning, what did you see?"
Arthur looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because you were watching."
Arthur considered the question.
"He was reaching."
Marcus nodded.
"Anything else?"
"He was putting too much weight on his front foot."
Marcus waited.
"And?"
Arthur glanced toward the cage.
"He wasn't protecting himself when he missed."
Marcus studied him.
"That's exactly what happened."
Arthur picked up his cloth.
"Then you already knew."
Marcus smiled.
"I did. I just wanted to hear what you saw."
Arthur resumed cleaning.
Marcus leaned against the counter.
"Who taught you?"
Arthur's hand paused.
For the first time, something changed in his expression.
It was small.
Almost impossible to notice.
But Marcus saw it.
Arthur looked down at the cloth.
"Different people."
"Coaches?"
"Some."
"Where?"
Arthur took a breath.
"Places that don't matter anymore."
Marcus did not push.