Derek’s eyes were wide, his chest still puffed out, but the confidence was draining out of his face like water from a cracked bucket. He looked at my husband, then at my mother, searching for someone to laugh and break the spell. Nobody did.
“Silver Star?” Derek stammered, trying to muster a smirk, though his lip trembled slightly. “What, did they start giving those out for filing reports under fire?”
I didn’t answer. I stepped back onto the mat.
He lunged first—an awkward, heavy-handed tackle fueled purely by bruised ego and the desperate need to save face in front of the family. It was loud, slow, and reckless.
I didn’t flinch.
As he closed the distance, I pivoted my hips, grabbed his extended wrist, and swept his lead leg. Gravity and his own momentum did the rest. With a sickening thud that shook the wooden frames of the porch, Derek slammed back-first into the canvas.
