He pointed up at the massive vinyl banner hanging above the ring: ANDERSON ELITE COMBAT ACADEMY — STATE CHAMPIONS 2018.
"You see that word? Elite. That means not everybody gets to walk through my doors."
"He paid the exact same fee as everyone else here," Wanda countered quietly. "And you kept his money and gave him nothing."
Brock’s jaw flexed. He despised being cornered—especially by someone he viewed as utterly beneath him. He stepped off the ring apron and onto the main floor, closing the distance until he towered over her.
"Let me make this crystal clear," Brock hissed, his voice dropping into a menacing rumble. "Your grandson doesn’t have what it takes. And you certainly don’t have what it takes. If you don't walk out those glass doors in the next thirty seconds, I’ll have someone carry you out into the street. Are we clear?"
Wanda looked up at him. She stood a full head shorter than the hulking coach. She did not back away.
She simply said one word.
"No."
Quiet as a church bell tolling in an empty field.
Brock blinked. For a second, he thought he had misheard. Then he threw his head back and let out a sharp, barking laugh that bounced off the mirrors. "No? Did this old woman just say no to me?"
He spun around to his students, arms spread wide. "You all hearing this? Grandma just said no to the champ!"
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock terror. "Oh lord, I’m shaking. Absolutely terrified."
More laughter—louder, meaner—erupted across the gym. Phones were held high, capturing every second.
Then, a sudden shift occurred in Brock Anderson’s eyes. The performative influencer smile dropped away, replaced by something much darker. A cold, humiliated fury. Because Wanda Moore wasn’t crying. She wasn’t trembling. She was looking at him the way a mother looks at a toddler throwing a temper tantrum in a grocery store aisle—with absolute, pitying detachment.
And every single one of his students was watching to see how the great Brock Anderson would handle an old woman who refused to cower.
Unable to tolerate being made to feel insignificant in his own domain, Brock snapped.
He whirled around, marched over to the front reception desk, and yanked open the cash register drawer with a violent metallic crash. He reached inside and pulled out a thick, banded stack of hundred-dollar bills.
Ten thousand dollars in crisp cash—the academy’s entire emergency reserve, money earmarked for the upcoming quarterly lease.
He stormed back across the mat, stopping inches from Wanda’s face. The gym went completely, suffocatingly dead silent. Every phone camera zoomed in.
"You want to talk about fairness?" Brock whispered, his voice trembling with unbridled rage. "Ten thousand dollars. Cash. Right here in my hand."
He thrust the thick stack of bills directly toward her face. "All you got to do is hit me. Just one clean shot. Anywhere on my body. Land one punch, old lady, and all this cash is yours to take home."
Wanda did not flinch. She did not look at the money.
Brock sneered, a twisted sense of triumph returning to his eyes. "What? You can't even do that? Figures. Your grandson couldn't do it either. Must run straight down through the bloodline—weakness."
He waited for her to break. He waited for her to turn around and shuffle out the door defeated, giving him the perfect viral clip for his channel tomorrow morning.