Brock told the story twice.
Then he noticed Wanda.
She was wiping down the edge of the mat.
He smiled.
“Hey, Wanda.”
She looked up.
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
She continued wiping.
“I'm working.”
Brock laughed.
“You always working.”
“Yes.”
“You ever do anything else?”
She shrugged.
“Sometimes.”
“What?”
“Walk.”
People laughed.
Brock grinned.
“Come on. Show us.”
Wanda stopped.
“Show you what?”
“You said you know something about fighting.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You corrected my stance.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
Brock stepped onto the mat.
“Come on.”
Wanda shook her head.
“No.”
“Scared?”
“No.”
“Then what's the problem?”
“My knee.”
Brock laughed.
“That old thing?”
A few people looked uncomfortable.
Wanda said nothing.
Brock stepped closer.
“You know what I think?”
She looked at him.
“I think you like pretending you're tougher than you are.”
The room went quiet.
Wanda slowly put the cleaning cloth down.
“Brock.”
“What?”
“Leave it alone.”
Instead of listening, Brock smiled.
“Or what?”
Wanda stared at him.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she stepped onto the mat.
Someone laughed.
Someone else whispered, “This is going to be ugly.”
Brock raised his hands.
“Don't worry. I'll go easy.”
Wanda looked at him.
“That's not necessary.”
Brock smirked.
The trainer, Calvin Reese, immediately stepped forward.
“Light sparring only.”
Brock nodded.
“Of course.”
Wanda nodded too.
“Okay.”
The bell rang.
Brock moved first.
Fast.
Too fast for someone who believed his opponent was helpless.
He threw a jab.
Wanda slipped.
The room went quiet.
Brock threw the cross.
She stepped outside it.
Then he kicked.
Wanda pivoted.
Her injured knee bent.
Her body rotated.
And Brock suddenly found himself staring at the ceiling.
He didn't understand what had happened.
Neither did anyone else.
Not yet.
The First Fall
Brock landed hard.
The sound of his body hitting the mat echoed through the gym.
He immediately rolled to his side.
“What the hell?”
Wanda was already standing several feet away.
She hadn't followed him down.
She hadn't celebrated.
She hadn't even raised her hands.
Calvin stared at her.
“Stop.”
Brock pushed himself up.
“I slipped.”
Nobody answered.
Brock looked around.
“That's what happened.”
A teenager near the wall looked away.
Someone coughed.
Brock stood.
“Again.”
Calvin shook his head.
“No.”
“I'm fine.”
“Brock.”
“I said I'm fine.”
Wanda quietly said:
“It's okay.”
Calvin looked at her.
“No. It's not.”
Brock stepped forward.
“What's wrong, Wanda? You tired already?”
She looked at him.
“No.”
“Then let's go.”
Calvin sighed.
“Thirty seconds. Controlled.”
Brock nodded.
The bell rang again.
This time Brock didn't rush.
He circled.
He watched.
Wanda moved with him.
Her limp was visible now.
But strangely, it didn't seem to slow her.
Brock feinted.
Nothing.
He jabbed.
Nothing.
He threw a low kick.
Wanda checked it.
Brock felt the impact travel up his shin.
His expression changed.
She had checked the kick perfectly.
Not with strength.
With timing.
He attacked again.
Jab.
Cross.
Hook.
Wanda slipped under the hook.
Her hand touched his shoulder.
She turned.
Brock's balance disappeared.
Again.
He fell.
This time, Calvin screamed.
“Too late! Stop! Stop!”
The room froze.
Calvin looked at Wanda's feet.
Then at Brock.
Then back at Wanda.
His face had changed.
“What did you just do?”
Wanda slowly stepped away.
“Nothing.”
Calvin shook his head.
“No.”
He pointed toward her feet.
“That wasn't nothing.”
Brock stood.
His face was red.
“You knew that move.”
Wanda didn't answer.
“You knew exactly what I was going to do.”
She looked at him.
“You telegraph.”
Brock clenched his jaw.
Calvin stepped closer.
“Wanda.”
She looked at him.
“Where did you train?”
For the first time that night, Wanda looked afraid.
Not of Brock.
Of the memory.
Thirty-Seven Years Earlier
In 1989, Wanda Moore was twenty-five years old.
She was faster then.
Stronger.
Her knee was healthy.