I had never liked turning my military history into a résumé for strangers, especially not when half the neighborhood had their cameras raised.
Carlos Mendes stepped onto the mat and clapped his hands once.
“Are we still doing this?”
I looked at Ethan.
“That depends on him.”
Every face turned his way.
For the first time that afternoon, Ethan seemed uncertain.
His father stepped forward.
“Ethan, perhaps this has gone far enough.”
That surprised me.
Richard Caldwell had spent most of the challenge standing near the sponsor banner with the satisfied expression of a man who assumed his son controlled the room.
Now his expression had changed.
Not embarrassment.
Not exactly.
Concern.
Ethan looked at him.
“You were fine with it five minutes ago.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t understand the situation.”
“The situation is exactly the same.”
“No,” Richard said quietly. “It isn’t.”
Something passed between father and son.
It lasted only a second, but I noticed it.
So did Denise.
Her fingers brushed my elbow.
“Interesting,” she whispered.
Ethan turned toward me again.
“You still want to do this?”
I stepped onto the blue mat.
“I never wanted to do it.”
That earned several surprised smiles.
“But I agreed.”
Carlos studied both of us.
“Then we keep it controlled. No audience theatrics. No proving anything. Technical grappling only.”
Ethan nodded.
I nodded.
The phones stayed raised.
I wished they wouldn’t.
Then again, asking forty people at a neighborhood fundraiser to stop recording something interesting was probably more unrealistic than anything that might happen on the mat.
Carlos brought us together.
“Ready?”
Ethan held out his hand.
That surprised me too.
I shook it.
His grip was firm.
“Ready.”
Carlos stepped back.
“Begin.”
Ethan moved immediately.
Not recklessly.
He was too experienced for that.
The joking young man vanished, replaced by someone disciplined and focused. His stance lowered slightly. His weight settled through his feet. He tested distance, reached for my wrist, withdrew, then tried again from a different angle.
For the first time since I’d met him, I respected him without qualification.
He was good.
Very good.
But he had spent three weeks assuming I was completely untrained.
That mistake lasted approximately seven seconds.
When he reached for a collar tie, I redirected his wrist, changed levels, stepped inside, and forced him to recover his balance.
His eyes widened.
“You wrestled.”
“A little.”
“That wasn’t a little.”
He circled.
I followed.
From somewhere outside the mat, Ortega laughed.
“She always says things like that.”
Ethan feinted right.
This time I didn’t move.
He changed direction quickly, caught my arm, and tried to turn the corner.
I slipped free.
He smiled.
Not mockingly.
Almost involuntarily.
The expression of someone who had finally found the contest he thought he wanted.
“Okay,” he murmured.
“Okay,” I replied.
We moved again.
