Cross had been one of the most respected grapplers of his generation, a competitor whose technical skill and sportsmanship had earned him a devoted following. He had won several international titles before becoming a coach.
Marcus had watched old recordings of Cross's matches with his father. When he began training, he studied the man's footwork and defensive transitions, hoping to develop the same composure under pressure.
"That's Daniel."
"Yes."
"And he's standing with Arthur."
"They were close."
"How close?"
"Very."
The two men did not look like rivals posing for a promotional photograph. Arthur's arm rested naturally across Daniel's shoulders, and Daniel leaned toward him as though they had shared a joke moments before the camera was raised.
"What happened between them?" Marcus asked.
"Coach?"
"Arthur should tell you that himself."
"Was Daniel's death connected to why Arthur left?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"I didn't. I'm asking."
"Then stop trying to turn a question into a conclusion."
"You could just tell me."
"No, Marcus. I could tell you a story that isn't mine to tell. I could give you a few facts without the context that makes them understandable. And you could walk out of here believing you finally know something about a man whose life you haven't bothered to understand."
"That's how rumors begin."
The words were difficult to dismiss because they sounded uncomfortably familiar.
He had spent the past several days searching for information about Arthur not because he wanted to understand the man, but because he wanted to find a way to explain his own embarrassment.
If Arthur had been a famous champion, Marcus could tell himself he had been defeated by an extraordinary athlete.
If Arthur had used some unusual technique, Marcus could study it and prepare a counter.
If Arthur had made a lucky move, Marcus could wait for the rematch.
But if the lesson had nothing to do with winning or losing, Marcus did not know what to do with it.
Marcus tried to concentrate on training. He worked through the warm-up, practiced takedown entries, and drilled defensive transitions with Daniel Price.
"Do you know when Arthur will be back?"
"Next Wednesday, I believe."
"Why Wednesday?"
"Because that's when he agreed to teach Ethan."
"Something wrong?"
"No."
"Then what are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"That word usually means something when you say it."
The photograph was no longer in Samuel's office. It had been placed in a small display near the reception desk, perhaps because the academy was preparing an exhibition about its early years.
Arthur and Daniel looked younger than he had ever imagined them.
He studied their expressions, searching for some clue that might explain what had happened.
Only two friends standing shoulder to shoulder, smiling at a camera.
For reasons he could not explain, Marcus found the photograph more unsettling than the video of his own defeat.
And for the first time, he wondered whether the most important thing Arthur had lost had been something that no tournament record could ever describe.
Arthur returned to the academy the following Wednesday carrying an old leather bag.
He arrived just before the afternoon youth class, greeted Samuel at the entrance, and asked whether the scholarship students had eaten.
"You're becoming more involved than I expected."
"Should I apologize?"
"Not unless you want to."
He set the bag on a bench and began helping Samuel arrange training equipment.
"Marcus has been asking questions."
"About what?"
"You know what."
"Yes."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"Eventually."
"You don't owe him your past."
"No. But I may owe him a warning."
"About himself?"
"About what can happen when a person begins believing that being admired is the same as being loved."
"You're thinking about Daniel."
For a moment, the only sound was the distant thud of footsteps from the training area.
"Every day," he replied.
He had known Arthur for more than thirty years, but there were still moments when the older man seemed to retreat behind a door Samuel could not open.
"Tell me something," Samuel said. "Do you ever think you blame yourself too much?"
"Yes."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"Because blaming myself is easier than accepting that some things cannot be undone."
"Daniel once told me that guilt can become another form of pride."
"What did he mean?"
"He said that if I insisted every tragedy was entirely my fault, I was still making myself the center of everything. I was treating other people's choices, circumstances, and lives as though they existed only in relation to mine."