I understood immediately why he had won competitions.
His technique was polished.
His timing was good.
His confidence came from years of winning.
But confidence without discipline was dangerous.
His first punch came straight toward my face.
The crowd reacted.
Somebody gasped.
I simply moved my head a few inches.
The punch cut through empty air.
Blake’s expression changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
He expected me to be slow.
He expected me to panic.
He expected an easy victory.
He didn’t expect me to already know where every strike was going before it arrived.
He attacked again.
A combination.
Left.
Right.
Kick.
Each movement was powerful.
Each movement was predictable.
I stepped aside.
Again.
Again.
The room slowly stopped cheering.
Because everyone was beginning to notice something.
I wasn’t fighting back.
I was controlling the fight without throwing a single punch.
Blake’s frustration grew.
“You think you’re funny?”
I stayed silent.
That made him angrier.
He rushed forward with the same spinning kick he had used against Evan.
The same kick that had put my son on the floor.
But this time, the person standing in front of it wasn’t a thirteen-year-old boy.
At the last second, I shifted my weight.
