bumping squarely into Mason's shoulder. Startled, Mason took a sharp step backward. His right
heel collided hard against the base of the expensive sports drink he had carelessly rested on the
wooden bench.
The bottle tipped over, tumbling to the floor with a plastic clatter, bursting open upon impact
and sending a torrent of bright red, sticky liquid splashing across the pristine rubber mats and
splattering against the hem of Walter’s gray trousers.
Silence descended upon the immediate vicinity. Mason looked down at his shoes, then at the
spreading crimson puddle, and finally turned his gaze upon Walter, whose mop was resting
inches away from the spill.
"What the hell did you do?" Mason demanded, his voice sharp and accusatory.
Walter stopped moving. He looked from the spilled liquid up into the young fighter’s flushed
face. "I didn't do anything, Mason. You knocked over your bottle when you stepped backward."
Mason let out a short, incredulous laugh, turning to his videographer with an exaggerated
expression of disbelief. "Did you hear that? You calling me a liar, old man?"
"I'm saying your foot hit the bottle," Walter replied evenly, his tone completely devoid of fear
or hostility.
The tension in the surrounding area tightened like a wound spring. Several amateur fighters
stopped their jumprope routines to watch. The videographer kept the camera rolling, capturing
every twitch of Mason’s jaw.
Realizing that his carelessness was now documented on tape—and worse, that an old janitor
was publicly correcting him in front of his entourage—Mason’s face darkened with humiliation.
He stepped directly into Walter’s personal space, towering over the older man by several inches.
"You’ve got a lot of nerve running your mouth for a guy holding a mop," Mason hissed, his
voice dropping an octave. "Pick it up."
Walter looked down at the red puddle, then back at Mason. "I was going to clean it. That is
my job. But you are the one who spilled it."
"I said, pick it up!" Mason shouted, his temper flaring past the point of reason. When Walter
did not immediately bend to obey, Mason reached out with a gloved hand and violently batted
the mop handle from the old man's grip, sending it crashing across the floor.
Walter stared down at the fallen mop, then slowly raised his eyes. There was no anger in
them—only a profound, chilling disappointment.
"Pick it up!" Mason roared again, shoving Walter backward against the reinforced padded
wall of the gym.
The impact knocked the breath from Walter’s lungs with a sharp grunt. Several people in the
gym gasped aloud. Coach Raymond Ellis, standing across the room, dropped his clipboard and
began sprinting toward them, shouting, "Mason! Back off! Right now!"
Before Raymond could reach them, Walter pushed himself away from the wall. He adjusted
the collar of his faded blue shirt, his breathing steady. He looked at Mason with eyes that
seemed to look straight through the young champion's bravado, seeing all the insecurity, fear,