Derek smiled, a slow, patronizing curvature of his lips. In his experience, people who said *'a little bit of everything'* were usually cardio-kickboxers, strip-mall karate hobbyists, or people who watched UFC pay-per-views and hit the heavy bag in their garage. It meant recreational, irrelevant experience.
"How long did you do that for?" Derek asked, adopting the tone of a seasoned veteran humoring an amateur.
"Long enough," Claire replied.
Mike shot a warning look at Claire, but she just offered a microscopic shrug. She had no desire to have her athletic biography announced to a stranger in a crowded room.
Derek didn't take the hint. He was incapable of leaving a conversation without asserting his position in it. "What belt?"
"Depends on the art," Claire said, her voice remaining perfectly level.
Derek’s smile broadened into a smirk. The answers sounded evasive, defensive. He assumed she was embarrassed by her lack of rank. "Well," he said, tapping the black belt tied securely around his waist, "I’m a jiu-jitsu black belt. Been on the mats since I was a kid."
"I heard," Claire said gently. Not impressed, just acknowledging the statement.
"Do you grapple at all?" Derek pressed.
"Sometimes."
"In the gi?"
"Not lately."
"No-gi submission grappling?"
Claire turned her head, looking out at the sprawling expanse of gray mats. "Not lately either."
Derek let out a short, dismissive bark of laughter. "Right. Okay. Got it."
Mike stepped physically between them, his broad shoulders blocking Derek's line of sight to Claire. "Derek. Go finish warming up. I want your heart rate up before we start."
The younger fighter frowned, bristling at the tone. "What? The competition class doesn't start for another twenty minutes."
"I don't care," Mike rumbled, his voice dropping an octave. "Go warm up."
Derek glanced around Mike to look at Claire. "We were just talking, coach."
"I know exactly what you were doing. Get on the mat."
The absolute, unyielding firmness in Mike’s voice left no room for negotiation. Derek clicked his tongue against his teeth, gave a mocking two-finger salute, and jogged backward onto the mats, his eyes still lingering on the strange woman at the desk.
Claire watched his retreating back. She had spent her entire adult life in gyms exactly like this one. She knew the archetypes. She knew the body language, the posturing, the subtle ways men took up space to make others feel smaller. She looked back at Mike.
"Is he always exactly like that?" she asked quietly.
Mike rubbed the back of his thick, scarred neck, looking suddenly exhausted. "He’s incredibly talented. One of the best pure grapplers I've ever had in this room."
"Mike," Claire said, her voice dropping a fraction. "That wasn’t my question."
Mike exhaled a long breath through his nose. "He's been worse lately. It's getting harder to reel him in."
Claire nodded slowly. "And you're just letting him run the floor?"
Mike’s jaw tightened. He hated being challenged on his authority, even by her. "I manage it, Claire. It's fine."
Claire didn't argue. She simply looked back out toward the training floor. Near the cage, a thin, lanky teenage blue belt named Eli Ramirez was dutifully drilling single-leg takedowns with another young, nervous-looking fighter. They were moving at half-speed, focusing on the mechanics.
Derek walked past them on his way to his gym bag. As he passed, he reached out and slapped Eli on the back of the head. It wasn't a devastating blow, but it was hard enough to snap the boy's head forward and ruin his balance. It was a physical exertion of dominance, designed entirely to make Derek's friends—a group of muscular guys lingering by the water fountain—bark with laughter.
Eli stumbled, caught himself, and forced a humiliated, tight-lipped smile, trying desperately to play along so he wouldn't be targeted for a harder sparring round later.
Claire watched the entire interaction. Her dark eyes tracked the teenage boy's forced smile, then shifted to Derek laughing with his friends. She looked back at Mike, raising a single eyebrow.
"You manage it, huh?"