On the fourth evening, a violent storm broke over the city. Rain lashed against the high, frosted windows of the gym. Reed was locking up, killing the overhead lights one by one, when he heard a rhythmic, punishing sound coming from the back training room. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
He pushed open the swinging doors. The room was dark, lit only by a single bare bulb hanging over the heavy bag. Mia was there. She was drenched in sweat, her knuckles raw and bleeding through her thin wraps, relentlessly driving her shins and elbows into the dense leather.
She wasn't training for sport. She was fighting her grief. She was fighting the silence of her empty apartment, the loss of her father, the betrayal of being turned away by his only trusted friend.
“You're dropping your right hand when you kick,” Reed’s voice cut through the sound of the rain and the impacts.
Mia froze. She didn't turn around. She leaned her forehead against the heavy bag, her chest heaving.
“Elias always dropped his right hand when he threw that roundhouse,” Reed said, stepping into the dim light. He took off his jacket and tossed it onto a bench. “It nearly got him killed in Fallujah. He tried to teach it to you perfectly, but he passed on his one bad habit.”
Mia finally turned. Her eyes were red, though she would never admit to crying. “You told me to leave.”
“I told you I couldn't look at you and see his ghost,” Reed corrected, stepping onto the mat. He held up his hands, wrapped in old, yellowed tape he kept in his pocket. “So I’m not going to look at his ghost. I’m going to look at you. If you want to learn how to fight in the light, where there are rules, and honor, and a bell that tells you when it’s over... I’ll teach you. But you have to leave the war behind.”
Mia looked at the old coach. For the first time since her father died, she felt a crack in the armor she had built around her heart.
“Show me,” she whispered.
Chapter Six: Breaking the Soldier
The transition was agonizing. For the next three months, Reed stripped Mia’s fighting style down to the studs. He had to break the soldier to build the athlete. Her instincts were lethal—every time a sparring partner moved too fast, her body automatically sought to break a joint or strike a throat. Reed was merciless in his correction.
“No!” Reed barked, slapping the mat with a towel as Mia instinctively reached for a chokehold during a grappling drill. “We don't kill in this room, Mia! We outscore! We outmaneuver! You are not in a war zone!”