Just once.
Thorne noticed.
His smile vanished.
He turned toward the old man.
"Something funny, old man?"
The gym became quiet.
Abby looked up.
"No."
Thorne walked closer.
"I saw you shaking your head."
Abby took another sip of cold coffee.
"I wasn't laughing."
"Then what?"
Abby studied him.
"You're fast."
Thorne waited.
"You have good hips."
A faint smile appeared.
Then Abby finished.
"But you don't fight with discipline."
The smile disappeared.
"You fight with arrogance."
Silence.
Thorne's jaw tightened.
"I've won six fights."
"I know."
"I'm a black belt."
"I can see that."
Thorne pointed toward Abby.
"Then what makes you qualified to judge me?"
Abby looked at him for several seconds.
"Nothing."
That answer seemed to irritate Thorne more than an insult would have.
"What?"
"You asked what qualifies me."
Abby placed his cup beside him.
"Nothing."
Thorne laughed.
"Exactly."
Gregory stepped between them.
"Thorne. Leave him alone."
But Thorne wasn't interested in leaving.
Not anymore.
He had an audience.
And that was all he needed.
"Come on," Thorne said. "If the old man knows so much, maybe he should show us."
Gregory's face hardened.
"Don't."
Thorne ignored him.
"Unless you're scared."
Abby remained seated.
He looked at Gregory.
The older man's face told him everything.
Gregory was exhausted.
He had mortgaged his home to keep Iron and Dust alive. Membership numbers had fallen. Insurance costs had climbed. Equipment needed replacing.
And Thorne was his best prospect.
Gregory was afraid that if he disciplined Thorne too harshly, he would leave.
Abby understood.
He understood fear.
He understood desperation.
He also understood what happened when a person became too afraid to do what was right.
So Abby stood.
His knee protested.
His spine tightened.
"I have bad knees," he said.
Thorne grinned.
"I noticed."
"My back is worse."
"Then sit down."
Abby reached for his canvas jacket.
"You have the hardware saying you're a fighter."
He put the jacket on.
"Be satisfied with that."
He turned toward the exit.
Thorne laughed.
"That's it?"
Abby stopped.
"That's it."
"You're just going to walk away?"
Abby looked over his shoulder.
"Yes."
"Because you're too old."
Abby didn't answer.
Thorne's voice followed him.
"Probably too weak when you were my age, too."
Gregory's expression changed.
"Thorne."
The young man kept going.
"You old guys always want respect because of stories nobody can verify."
Abby's hand rested on the exit bar.
Thorne pointed at the faded tattoo on Abby's forearm.
"Marine, right?"
Nobody laughed.
Gregory knew the tattoo.
He knew what it meant.
He knew about Anbar Province.
He knew about the convoy ambush.
He knew Abby had once pulled three Marines from a burning vehicle while bullets struck the road around him.
He knew that was only one story Abby had never told publicly.
"Respect gets earned in blood," Thorne said.
Abby slowly lowered his hand.
"You're too old to fight," Thorne added. "Probably always were."
Abby turned.
There was no anger on his face.
That was what frightened Gregory.
The patience had disappeared.
The disappointment was gone.
Abby looked at Thorne the way a soldier might look at a problem that needed solving.
He walked back toward the mat.
One step.
Then another.
He reached the blue canvas.
Bent down.
And quietly unlaced his boots.
He placed them beside each other.
Removed his socks.
Folded his jacket.
Then he stepped barefoot onto the mat.
"Abby," Gregory whispered.
The old Marine looked at him.
"You don't have to do this. Your spine—"
"I know."
"Your knee—"
"I know."
"Then why?"
Abby looked at Thorne.
"Because he needs to learn something."
Thorne smiled.
"What's that?"
Abby raised his eyes.
"That winning a fight and understanding fighting are two different things."
The Black Belt
Thorne Denton had spent most of his life being told he was special.
As a child, teachers called him gifted.
At sixteen, coaches called him explosive.
At nineteen, people told him he had professional potential.
At twenty-two, he earned his black belt.
By twenty-four, he had developed the most dangerous opponent a fighter could ever have.
He believed his own reputation.
Thorne had never understood that talent could become a trap.
Every victory had reinforced the same idea.
He was better.
Every knockout had made him more certain.
He was stronger.
Every compliment had convinced him that everyone else was beneath him.