Now there was only competition.
Good.
Camille preferred him this way.
Mason engaged again.
This time more carefully.
A hand behind her shoulder.
Another near her elbow.
He pressured.
Camille redirected.
He followed.
She gave ground.
Then stopped.
Mason thought he had cornered her movement.
He committed.
Camille turned.
Not fast.
Exact.
Mason’s weight continued where she no longer was.
He landed on one hip.
Before he recovered, Camille was beside him.
He turned aggressively.
She let him.
That was the mistake.
Thirty seconds earlier, Mason believed she did not belong on the mat.
Now he was working hard simply to understand where she wanted him to move.
He regained his knees.
Camille released position.
Mason stood.
The audience murmured.
He looked at Richard.
“Why did she let me up?”
Richard said nothing.
Camille answered.
“Because this is technical.”
Mason stared.
A few spectators made a sound.
He heard humiliation in it.
Camille did not mean humiliation.
That distinction no longer mattered to him.
He attacked harder.
Richard’s voice sharpened.
“Mason.”
“I’m fine.”
Camille saw what was happening.
Old Camille would have punished it.
Twenty-three-year-old Camille Jackson would have recognized anger as a tactical gift.
She would have taken every inch.
Would have forced the lesson into muscle and bone.
Forty-six-year-old Camille Reed saw something different.
A thirty-two-year-old man losing judgment because a room was watching.
She knew exactly how dangerous that combination could become.
For everyone.
Including him.
Mason pressured again.
Camille moved into a safer angle.
He followed too quickly.
She guided his arm across.
Controlled the upper body.
Mason tried to pull free.
Camille adjusted.
Chapter 8
No force.
Just structure.
Mason changed direction.
Wrong.
His shoulder tightened.
He froze.
Camille had him.
Everyone knew it.
His right arm was trapped in a position where another burst of strength could hurt him.
Camille used almost none.
She waited.
Mason’s breathing became loud.
He tried a small movement.
She followed.
Richard crouched closer.
“Tap if you need to.”
Mason glared.
Camille looked down at him.
No smile.
No revenge.
Nothing.
That bothered him most.
He tried once more.
Camille loosened the position slightly.
Giving him room.
Mason felt it.
He turned.
The trap reappeared.
Not tighter.
Just undeniable.
His left hand hovered.
Camille whispered:
“You can stop.”
Mason’s face tightened.
The exact lesson he had denied Emily.
Permission to stop.
The audience watched.
His hand descended.
Tap.
Once.
Camille released before the second tap arrived.
Immediately.
Mason rolled onto his back.
Camille moved away.
Richard stood.
The entire round had lasted forty-one seconds.
Nobody cheered.
Not yet.
The gym was too stunned.
Camille rose carefully.
Her right knee reminded her of its age.
Mason remained on his back.
Looking at the ceiling.
Richard reached toward Camille’s wrist.
She shook her head.
“No.”
He understood.
No raised hand.
No winner.
This had not been entered into any bracket.
Camille walked toward Emily.
The girl’s eyes were enormous.
Camille picked up her jacket.
Mason sat up.
“What belt are you?”
The question stopped her.
She turned.
“What?”
“What belt?”
Mason repeated.
“What rank?”
Camille looked at Richard.
Then back.
“Why?”
“Because I want to know.”
“Why?”
Chapter 9
Mason stood.
“Because I need to understand what just happened.”
Camille looked at him for a long moment.
Then:
“No.”
His face changed.
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean you don’t need my résumé to understand what happened.”
Mason stared.
Camille continued:
“You asked for a round.”
“You got one.”
“You tapped.”
“I released.”
“That part is simple.”
He stepped forward.
“But who are you?”
Richard finally spoke.
“Enough.”
Mason turned.
“No.”
“Everybody here obviously knows something I don’t.”
Richard looked toward Camille.
She sighed.
“Tell him.”
Richard stared.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Mason waited.
Richard looked around the academy.
At photographs.
Banners.
The logo on Camille’s old shirt.
Then he said:
“Northstar Combat Academy used to be Northstar Combat Club.”
Mason nodded impatiently.
“I know.”
“No.”
Richard said.
“You know the name.”
“You don’t know the place.”
The room quieted.
Richard continued.
“It opened in 1992.”
“My brother David and I rented twelve hundred square feet over a tire shop.”
“Bad heat.”
“Worse plumbing.”
“Three mats.”
“Two heavy bags.”
“And almost no students.”
He looked toward Camille.
“She arrived in 1996.”
“Fourteen years old.”
Camille looked down.
Mason stared at her.
Richard smiled faintly.
“She hated me.”
Camille corrected:
“You talked too much.”
“You hated me.”
“Reasonable response.”
A few people laughed.
Richard continued.
“She trained here twelve years.”
“Mason.”
He paused.
“Camille Jackson won the Ohio state grappling championship at seventeen.”
“National junior title at nineteen.”
“Senior nationals twice.”
“Pan-American medalist.”
“Three-time Midwest Open champion.”
The room changed with each line.
Mason’s face emptied.
Richard continued.
“She trained judo too.”
“Competed internationally.”
Chapter 10
“Coached here.”
“Helped build the women’s program before Northstar had enough women to call it a program.”
Emily stared at Camille.
Richard looked toward an old wall near the office.
“Half the original curriculum Mason teaches beginners was written by her and David.”
Mason looked toward Camille.
“You…”
“Yes.”
Richard continued.
“And before she left competition, she was a black belt.”
Silence.
Mason swallowed.
“What degree?”
Camille shook her head.
“No.”
He frowned.
Richard smiled.
“She never cared about the numbers.”
Mason looked at her old shirt.
“That logo.”
Camille touched it.
“Found it in a box this morning.”
Richard’s voice softened.
“I thought you threw everything away.”
“Most of it.”
“What happened to you?”
Camille’s face closed.