pulling him forward, completely off balance. The

lesson had officially begun.

As Braden stumbled past me, carried by his

own wild momentum, I could have ended it right

there. A short left hook to the jaw or a knee to the

liver would have folded him instantly. But a quick

knockout wouldn't teach him anything; he would

just claim he slipped or got lucky. He needed to

understand the vast, insurmountable ocean of

difference between us.

I tapped him lightly on the back of the head as

he stumbled, just enough to annoy him. He spun

around, his face flushed with embarrassment and

rage. 'Stand still!' he roared, charging again. This

time, he threw a flurry of punches—lefts and rights,

wild and chaotic like a windmill. I kept my hands

high, my elbows tucked tight against my ribs, and

simply walked backward, absorbing the few blows

that landed on my forearms. They felt like a child's

temper tantrum.

He gassed out within thirty seconds. The

human body requires oxygen to fuel explosive

movement, and because Braden was holding his

breath and swinging with maximum tension, his

muscles quickly filled with lactic acid. He stopped,

his hands dropping to his waist, gasping for air. His

chest heaved, his face purple.

'Are you tired already?' I asked, my voice

calm, not a hint of breathlessness in my lungs. 'We

have four and a half minutes left in the round.'

From the sidelines, Susan shrieked, 'Hit him,

Braden! Stop playing around! Knock him out!'

Encouraged by his mother's delusion, Braden let out

a primal yell and lunged at my legs, attempting a

clumsy tackle. It was the worst mistake he could

have made.

I sprawled, dropping my hips heavily onto his

back and driving his face directly into the mat. The

impact forced the air out of his lungs in a sharp

*whuff*. Before he could even understand what was

happening, I spun to his side, locked my arms

around his waist, and effortlessly lifted his entire

body off the ground. I held him in the air for a

second—a pregnant pause for the audience—before

dumping him onto his back with a resounding thud.

I immediately transitioned into the full

mount, sitting heavily on his chest. His arms flailed

wildly, trying to push me off, but it was like trying to

push a boulder uphill. I pinned his wrists to the mat.

He was completely trapped, helpless, staring up at

me with eyes that had suddenly gone very wide and

very terrified.

I didn't hit him. I just leaned down, my face

inches from his. 'This is where you realize you're not

in a movie, Braden,' I whispered. 'This is where a

real fighter ends you. Do you understand?' He

struggled, grunting, but couldn't move an inch. I

shifted my weight, applying pressure to his

diaphragm, making it incredibly difficult for him to

breathe. Panic set in. He thrashed his head back and

forth.

'Tap out,' I instructed him calmly. 'Tap the mat,