“Standard kickboxing rules?” Tyler asked, tossing his head back, his stance wide and flashy. “No elbows, no knees to the head. Just light work.”
Ursula didn't answer. She merely nodded once, her eyes locked directly onto the center of his chest—not his face, not his hands, but the core of his mass, where every physical movement originates.
Rick stood at the edge of the mat, holding a digital timer in his hand. He looked at Tyler, then at Ursula, feeling a sudden, sinking knot form in his stomach. He raised his hand slowly. “Three minutes on the clock. Light contact only. Touch gloves and keep it clean.”
Tyler offered a careless, one-handed tap of his glove toward hers, already coiling his legs to throw a fast, showy lead sidekick to her body. Ursula didn't reach out to touch his glove. She simply raised her guard, her chin tucking tightly into her left shoulder as Rick blew the whistle.
Tyler moved instantly, sliding across the mat with the fluid, bouncy footwork that had won him regional trophies. He threw a lightning-fast left sidekick aimed directly at her chest, intending to push her back, snap her head up, and elicit a gasp from the crowd. It was a kick he had executed ten thousand times—fast, precise, and visually striking.
Ursula didn't back up. She didn't jump out of range.
As his boot whipped through the air, she made a micro-adjustment with her back foot, stepping inside the arc of his kick by a matter of inches. She caught the underside of his heel with a slight deflecting motion of her forearm, absorbing almost none of the impact. The kick slid harmlessly past her ribcage, overextending Tyler’s hips for a fraction of a second.
Before he could pull his leg back, Ursula stepped into his guard. Her right hand delivered a crisp, heavy jab that struck him squarely on the point of his nose.
POP.
The sound was sharp, dry, and echoed like a gunshot through the silent gym.
Tyler’s head snapped backward. His eyes watered instantly, blinding him for a split second as his body instinctively retreated. He stumbled back two full steps, his hand flying up to touch his face. When he pulled his glove away, a smear of bright red blood was already dripping down his lip.
The crowd gasped in unison. The smartphones recording the match trembled slightly as the hands holding them froze in absolute shock.
Tyler blinked away the tears, his face contorting into an expression of wild, disbelieving fury. He looked at Ursula, who hadn't moved from her spot. She stood in her tight, compact guard, her breathing completely silent, her eyes cold and steady.
“You hit me,” Tyler muttered, his voice thick with blood and disbelief.
“It’s a fight, Tyler,” Ursula said through her mouthguard, her voice muffled but chillingly calm. “Protect yourself at all times.”
Tyler spat a drop of blood onto the mat—the very mat Ursula had cleaned an hour earlier—and dropped into a low, aggressive fighting stance. The showmanship, the bouncy footwork, and the cocky smile vanished, replaced by a raw, unrefined rage. He charged forward, throwing a violent three-punch combination: a heavy left hook, a straight right, and a sweeping leg kick meant to take her off her feet.
To an untrained eye, his attack was a terrifying display of athletic power. To Ursula Brooks, it was an invitation written in giant, predictable letters.
She didn't retreat. She slipped the left hook by shifting her head an inch to the right, letting his glove graze the air above her shoulder. She absorbed his straight right against her tight earmuff guard, her weight anchored firmly into the floor. As his leg kick swung around, she raised her left shin, turning her knee outward to meet his shin with the hardest, densest part of her bone.
CRACK.
The sound of bone checking bone made several parents in the gallery wince. Tyler’s leg bounced off her check as if he had kicked a steel lamp pole. A sharp, involuntary yelp escaped his throat as he was forced to step back onto his injured leg, his balance completely compromised.