toward my face.
I moved aside.
Another punch followed.
Then another.
His movements were no longer disciplined combinations. He was swinging out of anger, no longer concerned with demonstrating skill.
He wanted to hurt me.
When his right arm extended too far, I caught it, turned with his movement, and brought him onto the mat.
This time, I maintained control of his wrist and shoulder.
Not enough pressure to injure him.
Just enough to prevent another strike.
Blake struggled beneath me.
“GET OFF!”
“Stop fighting.”
He twisted.
I adjusted my
position.
“Stop.”
He tried again.
Then he began to understand something he hadn’t expected.
He couldn’t move.
I wasn’t using all my strength.
I didn’t need to.
His breathing grew uneven.
I leaned close enough that he could hear me without the rest of the room catching every word.
“Your students trust you,” I said quietly. “Their parents pay you to teach discipline.”
He continued struggling.
“A thirteen-year-old walked into your gym believing you were someone worth respecting.”
Blake’s expression twisted with frustration.
“He needs to learn how to take
