Claire turned, walked calmly over to the cinderblock wall, and picked up her plastic water bottle. "It will make sense eventually."
Derek turned his head and looked desperately toward Mike, looking for an explanation, looking for an excuse.
The veteran gym owner was standing near the edge of the mat, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He was smiling now. It wasn't a smug, triumphant smile. It was a soft, almost melancholy smile of vindication.
Derek noticed the expression and felt a fresh wave of irritation. "What? What is so funny, Mike?"
Mike slowly shook his heavy head. "Nothing, kid. Not a thing."
"No, don't give me that. What?" Derek pressed, his voice rising in pitch.
Claire unscrewed the cap of her water. "Mike. Don't."
But it was far too late to put the genie back in the bottle. Derek pointed a shaking finger at Claire. "Who exactly is she?"
Mike looked over at Claire, raising an eyebrow in silent apology.
Claire sighed deeply, a sound of profound exhaustion. She took a sip of water. "You’re going to tell him anyway, aren't you?"
"Oh, absolutely," Mike said, his smile widening into a grin. "I probably should have told him an hour ago."
Claire walked over and sat down on the edge of the elevated mat, resting her elbows on her knees, surrendering to the inevitable. Derek remained standing in the center of the floor, feeling increasingly naked under the gaze of the entire gym.
Mike uncrossed his arms and took a step toward Derek. "Her name is Claire Bennett."
"Yes, Mike, I got that part," Derek snapped, his patience fraying.
"I want you to turn around, Derek," Mike instructed calmly. "Walk over to the photo wall."
Derek frowned, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. "What? Why?"
"Just do it. Far left side. The old black-and-white promotional photos near the bottom."
Derek hesitated, then slowly turned and walked toward the designated corner of the gym. The oldest pictures on the wall were faded, their edges curling, covered in a thin film of gym dust. They were historical artifacts that the modern, young athletes rarely ever looked at, far more concerned with current UFC champions and modern grappling phenoms than the bloody history of the regional circuit.
Derek leaned in close, his eyes scanning the rows of framed photographs. He saw old regional boxing teams from the late nineties. He saw grainy photos of high school wrestling tournaments. He saw podium shots of early jiu-jitsu medalists holding up cheap plastic trophies.
Then, his eyes locked onto a specific frame.
It was a professional photograph taken roughly thirteen years earlier. It showed a much younger, slightly thinner Mike Callahan standing inside the chain-link fencing of a fighting cage. He was flanked by three heavily battered fighters, celebrating the aftermath of an underground, unsanctioned-looking regional MMA event.
Standing on the far right of the group was a woman.
Her dark hair was braided tightly in intricate cornrows against her scalp. A massive, gaudy championship belt was slung casually over her left shoulder. She was small, incredibly lean, her muscles defined with razor-sharp dehydration. Her right cheekbone was swollen and bruised a deep, violently purple hue, and a cut over her eye was sealed with medical glue.
And she was smiling a dangerous, feral smile.
Derek leaned his face just inches from the glass. He traced the features. The eyes. The jawline.
It was Claire.
He spun around, his jaw practically unhinged. "What... what the hell is this?"
Mike walked slowly across the mats, coming to stand beside Derek, looking fondly at the old photograph. "That picture was taken right after her seventh professional fight."
Derek stared at his coach, his brain short-circuiting. "Professional?"
Sitting on the mat across the room, Claire looked visibly uncomfortable, staring down at the water bottle in her hands.
Mike continued, his voice filled with a deep, booming pride. "Yeah. She fought down at one-twenty-five. Strawweight and flyweight. She was an absolute terror on the regional circuit."
Derek looked frantically back at the photograph. "What was her record?"
"That doesn't matter," Claire called out from across the room.