Victor shut off the monitor. “Your fight is in six weeks. Rafael Sosa is not going to care about your online embarrassment. He'll care that you keep dropping your right hand when you get frustrated. He'll care that you chase a finish when you're angry. If this whole thing makes you train smarter, maybe it's useful.”
Adrian left the office with no plan except to prove everyone wrong.
At Vale House, Noah had returned to light training. His ribs still hurt when he twisted, but he was determined not to lose more time. Adrian found him stretching near the cage and stood awkwardly beside him.
“Hey.”
Noah looked up. “Hey.”
“How's the side?”
“Better.”
Adrian nodded. He had prepared a sentence in the car, but now it sounded rehearsed. “About Wednesday. I should've stopped when you asked.”
Noah studied him, waiting.
“I got carried away,” Adrian continued. “I shouldn't have.”
“No,” Noah said. “You shouldn't have.”
The directness stung. Adrian had expected relief, perhaps a joke, some sign that the apology had reset things. Instead, Noah returned to his stretch.
“Are we good?” Adrian asked.
“I don't know yet.”
Adrian's pride flared. “I apologized.”
“I heard you.”
“What else do you want?”
Noah sat back on his heels. “I want to know if you mean it when nobody's filming.”
Adrian opened his mouth, then closed it.
Noah stood and walked toward the water cooler. The conversation was over, and Adrian had not found a way to win it.
Later, he watched Elias repair a loose panel on the wall outside the locker room. The old man was working with a screwdriver and a small level, checking the panel twice before tightening the screws.
“Can I talk to you?” Adrian asked.
Elias set the tool down. “You can.”
“I want to train with you.”
“No.”
“You didn't even think about it.”
“I've thought about it.”
Adrian tried to keep his voice even. “I need to understand how you moved.”
“Then work on your balance.”
“I have good balance.”
“You have good balance when things go the way you expect.”
Adrian felt the remark find its mark. “I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
“Look, I know I was a jerk. I'm trying to fix it.”
Elias wiped his hands on a cloth. “Fix what?”
“The situation.”
“That's not the same as fixing yourself.”
Adrian's face warmed. “You don't know me.”
“No. But I know what you do when you feel small. You try to make someone else feel smaller.”
For a moment, Adrian wanted to shove the man—not because he thought he could win, but because the urge promised a simple answer to a complicated feeling. He curled his fingers, then forced them open.
Elias noticed. He said nothing.
Adrian took a breath. “What would it take for you to teach me?”
“Why do you want to learn?”
“To beat Rafael Sosa.”
“Then hire a coach.”
“To stop making the same mistakes.”
Elias watched him carefully. It was the first answer Adrian had given that did not sound like a slogan.
“Those are two different goals,” Elias said.
“Maybe I have both.”
“Maybe. But you won't learn much from me if every lesson has to prove you're better than someone.”
Adrian glanced toward the training floor, where fighters moved through drills beneath the white lights. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Start by keeping your word. Train with Noah at the pace he asks for. Listen to Coach Ortiz. Stop turning every correction into a contest.”
“And then?”
“Then do it again tomorrow.”
Adrian gave a humorless laugh. “That's your secret?”
“No. It's the part people skip because it doesn't make a good video.”
Elias picked up his screwdriver and returned to the panel.
Adrian stood there, feeling foolish. He had come expecting a hidden technique, a secret lineage, a dramatic revelation. Instead, the old man had given him a list of ordinary obligations.
As Adrian walked away, Elias spoke once more.
“Your opponent will try to make you angry. He doesn't need to beat your technique if he can make you abandon it.”
Adrian stopped.
“You've seen Sosa fight?”
“I've seen enough fighters.”
“Then help me prepare.”
Elias tightened the last screw. “I haven't agreed to anything.”
But Adrian noticed that, for the first time, Elias had not told him to go away.
Elias did not begin with punches.
On Saturday morning, he met Adrian in the smallest training room at Vale House, a space normally used for stretching and rehabilitation. There were no cameras, no teammates leaning against the wall, and no music. Only a clock, two floor mats, and the soft hum of the ventilation system.
“Take your shoes off,” Elias said.
Adrian obeyed.
“Stand naturally.”
“I am standing naturally.”
“You're posing.”
Adrian looked down at his feet. He had placed them in a familiar fighting stance without thinking. Elias gestured for him to relax his knees and let his arms hang.
“Now walk across the room.”
Adrian did.
“Again.”
He walked back.
“Again, but don't decide where your feet will land before you move.”
Adrian frowned. “That's impossible.”
“Then you'll have to practice the impossible.”
For ten minutes, they walked from one wall to the other. Elias corrected nothing at first. He watched Adrian's shoulders, his hips, the way he tightened his jaw before changing direction. The silence grew irritating.
“Are you going to teach me something?” Adrian finally asked.
“I am.”
“When?”
“When you stop trying to perform the lesson.”
Adrian exhaled sharply, then walked again.
Elias stepped into his path. “Don't avoid me.”
Adrian halted.
“I said don't avoid me. Walk naturally.”
“You're standing in the way.”
“Yes.”