partner, injuries happen. We do not allow walk-ins

to spar. Period.'

Braden stepped forward, invading my

personal space. He smelled strongly of cheap body

spray and artificial energy drinks. 'Listen, old man,'

he sneered. I was thirty-two, but to a teenager, I

suppose that was ancient. 'I'm not going to sit in a

class with a bunch of losers doing jumping jacks. I

want to fight. Put me in the cage with your best guy.

I'll show you what a real street fighter can do.'

The disrespect was palpable. In any other

setting, I might have just asked them to leave. But

there was something about the way Susan beamed

at her son's aggressive ignorance, something about

the way Braden sneered at the men and women in

my gym who poured their souls into this sport, that

struck a nerve. They viewed martial arts not as an

art, but as a venue to stroke their own fragile egos.

They needed a reality check, and unfortunately, it

seemed the universe had selected me to deliver it.

Chapter 3

'Braden, right?' I asked, my voice dropping an

octave. The gym had gone completely silent now.

Every eye was on us. 'This isn't a movie. There are

no street fighters here. We are athletes. If you want

to fight, you train, you diet, you sacrifice, and then

you step into a sanctioned bout. You don't walk into

someone's business, insult their team, and demand a

fight.'

Susan's face turned a violent shade of red.

'How dare you speak to him like that! You are

providing a service! We are the customers! If my son

wants to spar, you will provide him a sparring

partner, or I will make sure this disgusting, sweaty

garage you call a gym is shut down! I know the

mayor! I will leave reviews on every website saying

you discriminate and harbor cowards!'

The sheer entitlement was baffling. She was

wielding her status as a 'customer' like a weapon,

completely oblivious to the fact that I had the right

to refuse service to anyone, especially someone who

was an active liability. I looked at my students. They

were looking at me, waiting for my cue. Some looked

angry, others just amused.

Braden, emboldened by his mother's

screeching, took another step toward me. He shoved

a finger into my chest. 'You're scared,' he taunted, a

smug grin spreading across his face. 'You know I'd

flatline any of these guys. Hell, I'd probably flatline

you. You're just a washed-up coach hiding behind

your little rules.'

That was the breaking point. It wasn't the

insult—I had been insulted by much tougher, much

scarier men. It was the physical contact. The finger

to the chest. In the fighting world, you don't touch

someone unless you are prepared for the

consequences. I looked down at his finger, then up at

You don't get to risk their health for your ego. If you

want to spar, you spar me. Here. Now.'

Susan clapped her hands together in delight.

'Perfect! Braden, show this arrogant man what you

can do. Don't hold back, honey!' Braden grinned,