He just didn't know it yet.
The Woman Who Had Stopped Wearing a Belt
The first thing Sarah noticed about Lone Star Combat Academy was that the mats were clean.
The second was that Robert Hale still had the same habit of humming when he was thinking.
The third was Dylan Mercer.
She had noticed him before he noticed her.
That was not because he was particularly intimidating.
He was simply loud.
Not physically.
Socially.
He moved through the gym like he expected the room to recognize him.
People did.
Some admired him.
Some tolerated him.
A few watched him carefully.
Sarah had seen that dynamic before.
Years earlier, she had been the person in the middle of it.
She had started grappling at twenty-three.
At twenty-four, she entered her first competition.
At twenty-five, she began fighting amateur MMA.
By twenty-seven, she was competing nationally.
At twenty-eight, she suffered a devastating knee injury during a training camp.
Six months later, she tore her shoulder compensating for the knee.
The injuries did not end her career immediately.
What ended it was what came after.
Her younger brother, Daniel, had been killed in a highway accident.
Sarah had been twenty-nine.
Daniel was twenty-six.
After his death, competition stopped making sense.
She kept training for a while.
Then less.
Then only occasionally.
Eventually, the belt in her gym bag became something she no longer wore.
Not because she was ashamed of it.
Because she had stopped needing strangers to know what she had accomplished.
Her black belt was wrapped inside an old towel at home.
She had earned it eight years earlier.
Robert knew.
He had trained with her during one of the hardest periods of her life.
He knew about the competitions.
The injuries.
Daniel.
The years she spent away from the sport.
He had not told anyone.
Sarah appreciated that.
She had come to Austin for three weeks to help her mother settle into a new apartment.
Lone Star was the nearest serious gym.
Sarah only wanted somewhere to move.
Somewhere familiar.
She had not expected to be challenged within an hour.
Especially not by a professional fighter.
But Dylan was approaching her now.
“What belt are you?”
Sarah looked at him.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re standing in a grappling gym.”
“And?”
“You said you trained.”
“I did.”
“So what belt?”
Sarah hesitated.
Then said:
“I haven’t worn one in a while.”
Dylan laughed.
“That usually means white.”
Robert closed his eyes.
Sarah looked at him for a long moment.
Then smiled.
“Sure.”
Dylan interpreted the smile incorrectly.
He thought it meant she was embarrassed.
It actually meant she had decided arguing was pointless.
Dylan pointed toward the mat.
“One round.”
“No.”
“Just for fun.”
“No.”
“Thirty seconds.”
Sarah looked at Robert.
Robert immediately said:
“You don’t owe him anything.”
That answer told Dylan there was something he did not know.
His curiosity turned into ego.
“What?”
Robert shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“No, clearly something.”
Sarah said quietly:
“Robert.”
He nodded.
Would not say more.
Dylan smiled.
“All right.”
He looked at Sarah.
“You’re some secret assassin?”
She laughed.
“No.”
“Then come on.”
“No.”
“I’ll go light.”
Sarah’s expression changed.
“I don’t need you to go light.”
A few heads turned.
Dylan heard the tone.
Not bravado.
Not insecurity.
Simple confidence.
“Okay.”
He spread his hands.
“Then normal pace.”
Sarah looked toward Emily.
Then at Marcus, whose phone was down now.
Then toward Robert.
“You want me to?”
Robert rubbed his forehead.
“I want him to stop talking.”
Sarah smiled.
“That wasn’t the question.”
Robert sighed.
“Technical round.”
Dylan grinned.
“Perfect.”
Sarah stood.
She removed a thin knee brace from her bag and pulled it over her right knee.
Dylan noticed.
“Injured?”
“Old problem.”
“You sure?”
She looked at him.
“Are you?”
Someone laughed.
Dylan stopped smiling for a second.
Then stepped onto the mat.
Sarah joined him.
The size difference was obvious.
Dylan was nearly forty pounds heavier.
Younger.
Active professional fighter.
Sarah had not competed in years, though Dylan did not know that yet.
Robert stepped between them.
“One minute.”
Dylan frowned.
“I thought thirty seconds.”
Robert looked at him.
“You wanted a round.”
Sarah said:
“One minute is fine.”
“No slams,” Robert continued.
Dylan nodded.
“No cranks.”
“Obviously.”
“Technical.”
Dylan smiled.
“Always.”
Sarah glanced toward Robert.
He noticed.
She did not believe him.
Neither did Robert.
They touched hands.
The timer began.
Dylan crouched immediately.
Sarah did not.
She stood almost upright.
Hands relaxed.
Weight centered.
Dylan circled.
“You really haven’t done this in a while?”
Sarah said nothing.
He reached for her wrist.
She gave it.
He pulled.
She moved with him.
Dylan smiled.
Easy.
He secured a collar tie.
Sarah peeled it away.
Not forcefully.
Just enough.
Dylan reached again.
She redirected the wrist.
Five seconds.
He changed levels.
Faked a shot.
Sarah barely reacted.
He came back high.
Inside tie.
She framed.
And suddenly Dylan felt something he could not explain.
Her hands were soft.
Her movement wasn't.
Thirty Seconds
Dylan shot for a single leg.
It was a clean entry.
At least, it should have been.
He stepped outside Sarah's foot, lowered his level, and reached for her leg.
Sarah moved half a step backward.
Not fast.
Precise.
Dylan's hands closed around empty air.
He recovered immediately.
Most people wouldn't have noticed.
Robert did.
So did Chris Dalton, the brown belt who had been drilling nearby.
Dylan circled again.
He shot a second time.