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
a hit!”
“Then teach him safely.”
“He’s weak!”
For an instant, my grip tightened.
Then I deliberately relaxed it.
“No,” I said.
I looked directly into his eyes.
“He trusted you.”
