to convince himself that the previous thirty seconds hadn’t happened.
“Enough games,” he snapped.
He rushed forward.
I recognized what he was preparing before he fully committed to the movement.
His right shoulder dipped.
His left foot shifted.
His weight settled.
He was preparing another spinning kick.
The same technique he’d used against my son.
For an instant, I saw Evan lying on the floor again, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs.
I heard his voice.
I’m just not strong enough, Dad.
Anger surged through my chest.
It was
immediate.
Familiar.
Dangerously tempting.
There had been a time in my life when hesitation could lead to consequences far worse than embarrassment.
I’d spent years learning to recognize danger before it fully developed.
I’d trained beside men who understood physical confrontation in ways most civilians would never need to experience.
And for one terrible second, I wanted Blake to feel the same helplessness he’d forced on my boy.
Then I remembered something my first instructor had taught me.
The moment anger makes your decisions, you’ve surrendered control.
So I waited.
