He remembered.
I could tell.
A short laugh escaped him.
"Getting confident."
"Getting warmed up."
That wasn't entirely true.
My arms felt heavy.
My thighs were beginning to burn.
But I had discovered something more useful than energy.
Rhythm.
Cole liked pressure.
He liked making the other person react.
He was at his best when he dictated tempo.
So I started breaking it.
When he expected movement, I paused.
When he expected retreat, I entered.
When he slowed, I attacked.
Not recklessly.
Not angrily.
Deliberately.
The effect wasn't dramatic at first.
A missed opportunity here.
A forced reset there.
But I could see frustration beginning to creep into his movements.
Not emotional frustration.
Technical frustration.
The irritation of solving a puzzle only to have the pieces change shape.
He landed another controlled strike against my guard.
I countered.
Missed.
He came back.
I moved.
He stopped.
I stopped too.
We stared at each other.
Neither of us attacked.
Someone behind us whispered, "What are they doing?"
Waiting.
That's what we were doing.
People think combat is movement.
It isn't.
Movement is only the visible part.
The real contest often happens before anything moves.
It's in the eyes.
The feet.
The shoulders.
The question of who commits first.
Cole twitched his lead hand.
I didn't react.
Again.
Nothing.
He stepped.
I shifted.
He stopped.
I almost laughed.
Now he was testing whether I could be baited.
I raised my eyebrows.
His jaw tightened.
Then Reed's voice cut through the room.
"Enough."
The word landed harder than any strike.
Cole immediately lowered his hands.
So did I.
Silence.
For a second, neither of us seemed to know what to do with ourselves.
My pulse was hammering.
Sweat ran down my spine.
My forearms ached.
Cole rolled one shoulder and stepped backward.
Reed walked onto the mat.
"Everybody breathe," he said.
That got a laugh.
A nervous one.
The tension cracked.
Suddenly the room was full of voices again.
"That dodge—"
"Man, I thought she was done—"
"Did you see Mercer when she turned him?"
"Play it back!"
Diaz looked down at his phone.
That was a mistake.
Everyone moved toward him.
"Hold up," he said, backing away. "Hold up!"
I stayed where I was.
So did Cole.
For a moment, we stood on opposite sides of the mat while everyone else crowded around a five-inch screen to watch what had happened ten feet away from them.
I could hear the video.
The room on the recording sounded different.
More chaotic.
Someone yelled just before Cole's first punch.
The camera jerked.
Then there was a collective roar.
Diaz replayed it.
Again.
And again.
Every time, the reaction was the same.
"Look at that!"
"Pause it!"
"No, back up."
"How did she even see that?"
I didn't want to watch.
Not yet.
There are some moments you need to understand from inside before you let yourself see them from outside.
I grabbed my water bottle.
My hand trembled slightly when I lifted it.
Only slightly.
But Cole noticed.
Of course he did.
"You all right?" he asked.
I drank before answering.
"Fine."
"Arm?"
"Fine."
He looked at me.
"That's twice."
"What?"
"You said 'fine' twice."
"Maybe I'm extremely fine."
That earned another short laugh.
Then his expression became serious.
"The first one was close."
I lowered the bottle.
"So you admit it."
"I knew you'd move."
That irritated me more than I expected.
"You knew?"
"I thought you would."
"That's different."
"Yeah."
At least he admitted it.
I studied him.