"Today, we're going to look at what the camera missed."
For the next hour, he broke down our exchange.
Not the exciting parts.
The ugly parts.
He paused when my feet crossed during a hurried retreat.
"Problem?"
"Balance," I said.
"And?"
"Limited options."
"Exactly."
He showed Cole overcommitting after I scored.
"Problem?"
Cole answered.
"Chasing."
"Why?"
Cole hesitated.
Then said, "Wanted the point back."
Reed looked around.
"That's ego."
The word hung there.
Cole nodded.
No excuse.
That earned more respect from me than I expected.
Then Reed showed the moment I'd stepped toward Cole while trapped near the wall.
The video paused.
My body was halfway through the movement.
Cole's weight was forward.
Reed looked at me.
"Why'd you go inside?"
"Because he expected lateral movement."
"Did you know it would work?"
"No."
"What did you know?"
I studied the frozen image.
"Staying there wouldn't."
Reed nodded.
"That's decision-making."
He turned toward everyone.
"Training isn't about always choosing the perfect option. Sometimes there isn't one. It's about recognizing when your current position is getting worse and making a controlled decision before somebody else makes it for you."
I looked at the screen again.
For the first time, I didn't see myself dodging.
I saw choices.
Cole's.
Mine.
Tiny decisions compressed into fractions of seconds.
That afternoon we trained again.
Cole and I were paired.
Of course we were.
Diaz groaned dramatically.
"Somebody get the camera."
Reed stared at him.
Diaz raised both hands.
"No camera."
Cole faced me.
"Ready?"
"You're asking?"
"Trying something new."
"Good."
We touched gloves.
Then began.
This time there was no spectacle.
No surprise punch.
No screaming crowd.
Just work.
Cole attacked.
I moved.
I attacked.
He blocked.
He was calmer than the day before.
So was I.
Without the noise, I noticed things I'd missed.
He protected his center well.
He used small movements.
He rarely wasted energy.
I understood why he'd been difficult to read before I found his rhythm.
He understood my movement better too.
Twice he cut off angles that had worked the previous day.
The second time, I stopped.
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Obviously."
"Annoying."
"Thank you."
We reset.
I tried a different angle.
He adjusted.
Again.
Again.
There was something addictive about it.
Not winning.
Learning.
Every time I solved one problem, he created another.
Every time he began controlling the exchange, I found a way to disrupt it.
Neither of us could relax.
That was the point.
Halfway through the session, Reed paired us with other people.
I worked with Harris.
He was lighter on his feet than Cole and attacked differently.
I got caught twice trying to use responses that had worked against Cole.
That embarrassed me.
Then I understood why Reed had changed partners.
Adaptation could become another habit.
If I learned only how to fight Cole, I wasn't learning to react.
I was learning Cole.
Different problem.
After training, I found him by the water station.
"You knew Reed was going to switch us."
Cole shrugged.
"Figured."
"And you didn't warn me."
He gave me a look.
I pointed at him.
"Don't say it."
He smiled.
"Would've ruined the test."
"I knew you were going to say that."
For the first time since the punch, we both laughed.
The tension between us wasn't gone.
It had changed.
There was respect in it now.
Not friendship exactly.
Not yet.
Something simpler.
Recognition.
I knew what he could do.
He knew what I could do.
Neither of us needed the other person to pretend.
That mattered.
Over the next several days, Training Room Four became ordinary again.
Almost.
People still mentioned the video.
But less often.