"Look," Jake said, dropping his voice to a patronizing pitch. "I'm a big guy. I hit hard. When I come at you, just keep backing up. Give yourself room. If you try to stand your ground, you're going to get hurt."
It was a classic Mercer tactic. Plant the seed of retreat before the fight even begins. Make the opponent accept that giving ground is their only option. Once they start stepping backward, their balance is compromised, their offense is neutralized, and they are essentially just waiting to be hit.
Emma looked at him through the narrow gap of her guard. "Understood."
Jake smiled. It was going to be too easy.
Chapter 5: Stepping on the Mat
The bell rang.
Jake moved first, exactly as he always did. He didn't just step forward; he surged. He threw a heavy, looping right hook meant not to land, but to force Emma to flinch and retreat. It was a battering ram of a punch, carrying all of his two hundred and twenty pounds behind it.
He expected her to scramble backward, to desperately try to keep the distance he had warned her about. He expected to easily establish the center of the mat and corral her into the corner.
But Emma didn't scramble.
As Jake's massive arm swung through the air, Emma moved six inches. She simply stepped diagonally to her left, pivoting perfectly on her lead foot. Jake's fist sailed harmlessly past her ear, cutting only air.
Because he had expected her to retreat, Jake had committed too much weight forward. He stumbled slightly, his boots squeaking against the rubber mat as he tried to arrest his momentum.
He stopped and turned, a flash of irritation crossing his face.
Chapter 6: The Instruction
"I told you," Jake snapped, embarrassed by his own clumsiness. "Keep backing up. You stay in the pocket with me, you're going to catch one of these."
Emma had already reset into her calm, immobile stance. She hadn't thrown a counter. She had just let him miss.
The gym had grown noticeably quieter. The other pairs had stopped sparring entirely, their attention fully captured by the unfolding drama. Jake Mercer, the gym's resident wrecking ball, had just thrown his best opening salvo and hit absolutely nothing.