Derek never challenged her again.
At first, for the first few days, he actively avoided her, staying on the opposite side of the gym out of sheer awkward embarrassment. But slowly, the morbid curiosity of an obsessed athlete overcame his pride.
One Thursday evening, exactly one week after the incident, he saw Claire sitting on the edge of the mat, patiently helping Sophie Tran troubleshoot the mechanics of a guard pass. Derek took a deep breath, walked across the gym, and stood politely a few feet away until they paused their conversation.
"Excuse me, Claire?" he asked quietly.
She looked up, shielding her eyes from the overhead lights. "Yes, Derek?"
He gestured vaguely toward his own hips. "Can I... can I ask you a technical question about the throw?"
Claire studied his face for a moment, looking for the arrogance, looking for the trap. She found none. Just a student asking a teacher a question. "You want to learn the entry mechanics?"
"Yes, ma'am. If you don't mind."
Claire considered it, tapping her chin. "Alright. Go get Eli."
Derek frowned, confused. "Get Eli? Why?"
"Because he needs to learn how to defend it, and he needs to learn how to throw it too," Claire said, a hint of a smile touching her eyes. "Go get him."
Derek jogged over to the heavy bags, interrupted the teenager's workout, and dragged him back across the mat. When Eli saw they were walking toward the woman who had launched Derek into orbit, he looked absolutely terrified.
"Wait, I have to do this?" Eli whispered, his eyes wide.
Claire smiled warmly. "Yes, Eli. You do."
For the next forty-five uninterrupted minutes, Claire Bennett ran a masterclass in the corner of the gym. She taught both the black belt and the blue belt the precise entry mechanics of the throw.
She did not teach them the flashy, explosive, cinematic version. She stripped the technique down to its absolute, bare-metal physics. Balance. Vector lines. Center of gravity. Pressure testing. Timing.
She made Derek execute the movement in excruciating slow motion. Every single time he tried to rely on his massive upper body strength to force the movement—a habit ingrained from years of muscling through bad technique—she immediately stopped him.
"No," Claire said firmly, slapping his shoulder. "Reset. Again."
Derek grunted, resetting his grips on Eli's gi. He stepped in.
"Stop. Too much upper body tension. Your arms are doing the work of your hips. Again."
He reset, focusing harder. He stepped, turned, and pulled.
"Stop. Your lead foot is chasing his center line instead of blocking it. You're off balance. Again."
Derek was sweating profusely now, purely from the mental exertion of trying to override his own instincts. "Damn it."
"Stop trying to throw him, Derek," Claire instructed, stepping in and adjusting his posture with a firm hand on his lower back.
Derek frowned, wiping sweat from his eyes. "But it’s literally a throwing technique."
"And that fundamental misunderstanding is exactly why you’re failing to execute it smoothly," she countered.
He looked at her, completely baffled.
Claire stepped in front of Eli. "Make him put himself exactly where you need him to be. Don't lift him. Let him fall over you."
Suddenly, Derek remembered the agonizing seven-second round. He remembered the feeling of plunging forward into empty space.
"Wait," Derek said, his eyes widening in realization. "That's exactly what you did to me."
"Yes," Claire nodded.
"You didn't shoot in on me. I stepped into your space. I gave you the momentum."
"Yes."