Derek sat at his kitchen table, drinking black coffee, and watched the footage. He watched it alone. There was no heavy hip-hop soundtrack added over it. There were no slow-motion edits, no bold text captions hyping him up. Just raw, unedited reality.
The most painful part of watching the video wasn't the actual throw.
Honestly, separating his ego from the analysis, the throw itself was a thing of terrifying, mechanical beauty. Being a lifelong martial artist, Derek couldn't help but appreciate the sheer mastery of it. He scrubbed the video backward and replayed the exact point of impact at quarter speed.
He analyzed Claire’s impossibly precise foot placement. He watched the instantaneous, whip-like rotation of her hips. He realized with sickening clarity that she hadn't overpowered him; she had simply created a localized vacuum in space and waited precisely for him to pour all of his weight into it.
No, the throw was a masterpiece. What truly embarrassed him, what made his stomach churn with genuine self-loathing, was watching everything he did *before* the throw.
He watched himself swaggering across the mat. He saw his own arrogant, mocking grin. He noted the pathetic way he kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure Brandon’s camera was angled correctly to capture his glory. He heard his own voice echoing in the gym, delivering the cheap, one-handed jokes.
He heard the phrase fall from his own lips:
*Don't worry, Mike. I'm not going to hurt her.*
Watching the footage back as an objective observer, Derek realized a horrifying truth. If he had seen another fighter—a stranger on the internet—acting exactly the way he was acting in that video, Derek would have absolutely hated that person. He looked like the arrogant villain in a cheap martial arts movie right before the protagonist teaches him a lesson.
At exactly 10:14 AM, he picked up his phone. He had quietly gotten Claire's contact information from Mike's office ledger the night before.
He typed carefully, his thumbs hovering over the glass.
*This is Derek Sloan from North Ridge. I owe you a massive apology for my behavior last night.*
He hit send. He set the phone face down on the table.
No answer.
Ten minutes crawled by in silence. Then twenty. The coffee grew cold in his mug. He assumed she had blocked the unknown number, and he couldn't blame her.
Then, the screen lit up with a soft chime.
*You already apologized by making sure your friend didn't turn my face into internet content for a week.*
Derek stared at the glowing text. He picked up the phone and typed:
*Can I ask you something?*
A minute later, the reply came:
*Sure.*
He typed out the question that had been burning a hole in his brain all night.
*Why did you agree to the round? You obviously knew I was being an idiot. You could have just ignored me.*
The three little typing bubbles appeared on the screen. They stayed there for a long time. The answer, when it finally arrived, was a dense block of text.
*Because Mike Callahan has been trying to verbally ask you to listen to him and respect your training partners for two years, and you ignored him. In my professional experience, you seem like the exact type of athlete who needs to physically feel the lesson before their brain is capable of hearing it verbally.*
Derek read the text twice. He let out a loud, genuine laugh that startled him in the quiet apartment.
He typed back immediately:
*Fair point.*
Seconds later, a follow-up message arrived from her:
*Also, you were being a total jerk to that kid Eli. I don't like bullies.*
Derek stared at the screen, the remnants of his smile fading into a sober realization. He typed his final response.
*Also entirely fair.*
Claire Bennett's consulting contract kept her in Colorado for exactly three more weeks. During that time, she came into North Ridge four more times in the evenings to stretch, do physical therapy, and occasionally flow roll with the beginners.