He almost walked past.
Then he noticed the expression on her face.
“You okay?”
Rachel looked up.
“Yes.”
Derek sat beside her.
“You don't look okay.”
She smiled faintly.
“My father says I'm terrible at lying.”
“He's right.”
Rachel looked at the photograph.
It showed a young Daniel Monroe standing beside a much younger Rachel.
She couldn't have been more than ten.
Both were smiling.
“You loved training?” Derek asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Rachel was quiet.
“My father got injured.”
Derek waited.
“Badly.”
“How?”
“A tournament.”
She folded the photograph.
“He tore his knee apart. Then he needed surgery. Then another surgery. He couldn't work for a while.”
Derek nodded.
Rachel continued.
“My mother worked two jobs. I stopped competing because someone had to help at home.”
“You quit?”
“I thought I did.”
“What changed?”
Rachel looked toward the academy.
“My father.”
Derek listened.
“He never told me to come back.”
“What did he do?”
“He kept an old pair of gloves beside my bedroom door.”
Derek smiled.
“That sounds like him.”
Rachel laughed softly.
“For ten years, I ignored them.”
“Then?”
“My father got sick.”
Derek's expression changed.
“Is he okay?”
“He's better now.”
She looked down.
“But last year he told me something.”
“What?”
“He said he regretted teaching me to believe that strength meant never needing anyone.”
Derek said nothing.
Rachel continued.
“I realized I'd spent years trying to prove I could handle everything alone.”
She looked at the academy.
“So I came back.”
“Not to compete?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Rachel looked at him.
“To teach.”
Derek frowned.
“You want to become a coach?”
“Yes.”
“That makes sense.”
Rachel smiled.
“My father always said the best fighters eventually become teachers.”
Derek nodded.
Then the academy door opened.
Samuel stepped outside.
“Both of you. Inside.”
They followed him.
A group of students stood around the mat.
Samuel held a phone.
“Someone posted the video.”
Derek frowned.
“What video?”
“The first round.”
Rachel's expression tightened.
“Who posted it?”
Samuel showed them.
The clip had already spread through several local martial-arts pages.
The title read:
BLACK BELT VS. RANDOM WOMAN — YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED.
Derek felt his stomach drop.
Rachel stared at the screen.
Comments filled the page.
Some praised her.
Others mocked Derek.
Others mocked Rachel.
But one comment caught Derek's attention.
Bring her to the Northside Invitational. Let's see if she can do that against someone serious.
Derek looked at Samuel.
“Who's that?”
Samuel's face darkened.
“Marcus Vane.”
Derek knew the name.
Twenty-nine.
National submission champion.
Aggressive.
Powerful.
Known for humiliating opponents when they were already beaten.
Rachel read the comment.
“I don't care.”
Derek looked at her.
“You should.”
“No.”
“He's not looking for competition.”
Rachel folded her arms.
“Then what is he looking for?”
“Attention.”
Rachel smiled.
“Then he can have mine.”
Derek stared.
“What are you saying?”
Rachel looked toward Samuel.
“I'll compete.”
Samuel immediately shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because this isn't about proving anything.”
“I know.”
“Then don't do it.”
Rachel was silent.
Finally she said, “I'm not competing because someone insulted me.”
“Then why?”
She looked at Derek.
“Because there are girls watching.”
Derek understood.
There were always young women in academies who heard the same sentence.
Too small.
Too weak.
Too young.
Not built for it.
Rachel wasn't trying to prove that every small person could defeat every large person.
She wanted to prove something different.
That size did not determine whether someone deserved to stand on the mat.
Samuel sighed.
“Then we prepare.”
Derek smiled.
“I'll help.”
Rachel looked at him.
“You don't have to.”