Blake frowned.
"What?"
"You're making your movement predictable."
"I'm moving."
"Yes. But you're not solving the problem."
A few people laughed.
Blake looked toward them.
Marcus raised his voice.
"Nobody is here to impress anyone. Do the drill."
They continued.
After several repetitions, Marcus noticed Owen stepping backward repeatedly.
He remembered Arthur's comment.
"Hold it," Marcus said.
The class stopped.
He pointed toward Owen.
"Show me what you're doing."
Owen demonstrated.
Marcus nodded.
"You're giving up the center every time."
Owen looked down.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Fix it."
Marcus demonstrated the lateral movement.
"Move off the line. Don't retreat unless you have a reason. If you keep giving ground, someone eventually decides where you can go."
Owen tried again.
This time, he moved sideways.
Marcus nodded.
"Better."
Then he looked toward Blake.
"Your turn."
Blake moved forward.
Owen shifted laterally.
Blake followed, but Owen changed direction again and escaped the line.
Marcus smiled.
"That's it."
Owen looked pleased.
Blake did not.
He disliked being corrected in front of other members.
He disliked it even more when someone else performed better.
"Can we do something harder?" he asked.
Marcus looked at him.
"That was the point of the drill."
"I mean something useful."
Marcus crossed his arms.
"Footwork is useful."
"Yeah, but I'm not paying for dancing lessons."
A few members laughed.
Marcus did not.
"You're paying to learn how not to get hit."
Blake rolled his eyes.
"Whatever."
Marcus ended the drill and moved to the next exercise.
But the tension remained.
Later that morning, Blake was in the lounge with two friends.
They were discussing a video he had posted the previous night.
In it, he stood beside the cage with his gloves raised while a professional fighter demonstrated a combination.
The caption read:
WORKING TOWARD THE NEXT LEVEL. NO DAYS OFF.
One of his friends laughed.
"Bro, you look like a professional."
Blake smiled.
"I've been putting in the work."
The other friend took a drink.
"When's your first fight?"
Blake shrugged.
"When I'm ready."
"Your dad could probably get you on a card."
"That's not how I want to do it."
The friend laughed.
"Sure."
Blake glanced toward the training floor.
Arthur was cleaning the glass partition near the entrance.
"That guy's always here," Blake said.
"Who?"
"The janitor."
One friend looked over.
"Oh, yeah."
Blake leaned back.
"He's got an attitude."
"How?"
"He watches everybody like he's judging them."
His friend laughed.
"Maybe he's bored."
"Then he should find something else to do."
At that moment, Arthur pushed the cleaning cart past the lounge.
Blake called out.
"Hey, man."
Arthur stopped.
"Yes?"
"Can you clean the glass over here? There are fingerprints."
Arthur glanced at the partition.
"I'll get it."
Blake looked at his friends.
"See? That's what I mean. He just stands around."
Arthur began wiping the glass.
Blake watched him for a few seconds.
Then he noticed the scar on Arthur's forearm.
"Where'd you get that?"
Arthur continued cleaning.
"Long time ago."
"Work accident?"
"No."
Blake smiled.
"Did you get into a fight?"
Arthur looked at him briefly.
"Something like that."
Blake laughed.
"Well, I hope you won."
Arthur returned to the glass.
"I learned something."
"What?"
Arthur finished wiping the lower section.
"That winning isn't always the point."
Blake looked at his friends.
They laughed.
"That's deep," Blake said. "You should put that on a motivational poster."
Arthur moved the cart away.
Blake shook his head.
"Strange guy."
His friend took another drink.
"Leave him alone."
But Blake was already irritated.
He did not like being ignored.
And he especially did not like the idea that someone he considered beneath him might be judging his performance.
At noon, Marcus found Arthur in the maintenance room.
The door was open.
Arthur was organizing cleaning supplies.
Marcus leaned against the frame.
"Can I come in?"
Arthur glanced up.
"Sure."
Marcus stepped inside.
The room was small and practical.
Shelves held disinfectant, spare towels, cleaning cloths, replacement shower fittings, and boxes of disposable gloves.
A small desk stood against the wall.
On it sat a thermos, a folded newspaper, and a notebook.
Marcus noticed that the notebook was closed.
He did not ask about it.
"I wanted to talk to you about Owen."
Arthur continued arranging the supplies.
"All right."
"You were right about his footwork."
Arthur nodded.
"He's a good athlete."
"He is. But I hadn't noticed how predictable his retreat was until you mentioned it."
"Sometimes you see something after someone points it out."
Marcus smiled.
"That's true."
He paused.
"Would you consider helping me with a class?"
Arthur stopped moving.
"What kind of help?"
"Footwork. Movement. Defensive positioning. Nothing complicated."
Arthur looked at him.
"I'm not a coach."
"I didn't ask if you were."