After the Bell
The bell rang once.
Then twice.
Daniel Cross heard both.
So did everyone else inside Harbor Fight Academy.
The problem was that Daniel did not let go.
His opponent, twenty-two-year-old Aaron Mills, was trapped beneath him near the edge of the mat, Daniel's right arm locked beneath Aaron's chin while his other hand reinforced the grip.
The round was over.
Coach Marcus Hale shouted from outside the cage.
"Daniel! Release!"
Daniel squeezed for one more second.
Maybe two.
Aaron slapped desperately at Daniel's arm.
Only then did Daniel let go.
Aaron rolled onto his side coughing.
The gym went silent.
Daniel stood, breathing hard, and looked toward the people gathered around the cage.
"What?"
Nobody answered.
Then, from a folding chair in the far corner, a seventy-four-year-old man slowly stood up.
His name was Samuel Grant.
Most of the younger fighters barely knew him.
Some assumed he was somebody's grandfather.
Others thought he was simply an old friend of Coach Hale who liked watching practice.
He wore gray slacks, a navy cardigan, and orthopedic walking shoes. His white hair was thin. His left hand shook slightly from arthritis.
Daniel had noticed him before.
He had never considered him important.
That was about to change.
Samuel stepped toward the cage.
Coach Hale saw him coming.
His face changed immediately.
"Sam."
Samuel stopped beside the door.
"Open it."
Coach Hale opened the cage.
Samuel stepped inside.
He did not look at Aaron first.
He looked at Daniel.
"Did you hear the bell?"
Daniel frowned.
"Yeah."
"Did you hear your coach?"
"Yes."
"Then why was your arm still around that boy's neck?"
Daniel glanced toward Aaron.
"He was still fighting the hands."
Aaron looked up from where he sat against the fence.
"The round was over."
Daniel's jaw tightened.
"I know."
Samuel nodded.
"That is what I asked."
Daniel had been undefeated for almost three years.
Twenty-eight years old.
Fourteen professional fights.
Fourteen wins.
Nine finishes.
The reigning regional welterweight champion.
Two major organizations had already contacted his manager.
One more dominant performance might move him onto national television.
At Harbor Fight Academy, Daniel Cross was the fighter everyone watched.
Young amateurs copied the way he wrapped his hands.
Members asked him for photographs.
Sponsors sent him equipment.
When Daniel walked into the gym, people moved.
Talent had earned him attention.
Winning had made people reluctant to correct him.
Samuel Grant seemed unaffected by either.
Daniel looked at Coach Hale.
"Who is this?"
The question landed harder than Daniel intended.
Coach Hale stared at him.
Then said quietly,
"The man who taught me."
Daniel looked back at Samuel.
"What?"
Coach Hale stepped inside the cage.
"He taught me how to grapple."
Samuel shook his head.
"Eventually."
Coach Hale almost smiled.
"He taught me how to fight."
Another pause.
"And how not to."
The younger fighters outside the cage stopped whispering.
Daniel looked at Samuel again.
The old cardigan suddenly seemed less ordinary.
"You coached Marcus?"
Samuel nodded.
"Among others."
Coach Hale folded his arms.
"I was fourteen when I met him."
Daniel knew Marcus Hale's history.
Everybody did.
Former national collegiate wrestler.
Professional MMA record of eighteen wins and five losses.
Later, one of the most respected coaches in the region.
He had trained state wrestling champions, professional fighters, police defensive-tactics instructors, and three regional MMA titleholders.
Daniel had spent seven years calling him Coach.
And now Coach Hale was telling him that the elderly man in orthopedic shoes had been his teacher.
Daniel looked at Samuel.
"You wrestled?"
Samuel smiled faintly.
"A little."
Coach Hale laughed.
Daniel knew that laugh.
It meant somebody was understating something.
"How little?"
Samuel gave Marcus a warning look.
Marcus ignored it.
"Two-time Division II All-American."
A few people outside the cage reacted.
Daniel's eyes narrowed.
Coach Hale continued.
"Then twenty-six years coaching wrestling and submission grappling at the old Jefferson Community Center."
Samuel sighed.
"You make it sound longer every time."
"It was long."
"How many champions?" one of the younger fighters asked.
Samuel immediately answered,
"Not relevant."
Coach Hale answered anyway.
"Enough."
Daniel looked down at Aaron.
Aaron was standing now.
His face was red from the choke.
Not injured.
But angry.
Samuel turned toward him.
"You dizzy?"
"A little."
"Headache?"
"No."
"Nausea?"
"No."
Samuel looked at Marcus.
"Still check him."
Marcus nodded toward the assistant coach.
"Take him to the back. Sit with him."
Aaron started walking away.
Daniel said,
"Aaron."
Aaron stopped.
Daniel hesitated.
The apology did not come.
Not yet.
Aaron left.
Samuel looked back at Daniel.
"That was your chance."
Daniel's face hardened.
"My chance for what?"
"To apologize while the mistake was still small."
Daniel crossed his arms.
"I didn't hurt him."
Samuel stared at him.
"You think that is the standard?"
"What standard?"
"As long as he gets up, you did nothing wrong?"
Daniel looked toward Coach Hale.
Marcus said nothing.
That irritated him more.
"We spar hard here."
Samuel nodded.
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then why have a bell?"
Daniel did not answer.
Samuel continued.
"Why have a coach?"
Still nothing.
"Why have rules?"
Daniel exhaled.