Stale vinyl and cheap pine cleaner couldn't mask the stench of fragile egos. 10 guys in pristine black belts openly snickered at a scrawny 14-year-old drowning in an oversized loaner gi. They assumed she was a victim. They didn't realize she was a national champion and entirely out of patience. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead with a sickly oscillating buzz, casting a jaundiced glare over the Coastal Athletics Martial Arts Center.
The space felt less like a dojo and more like a repurposed tax accountant's office. A single wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected a sea of royal blue puzzle mats, most of them peeling at the interlocking seams, trapping decades of dead skin and dried sweat. Holland Wright stood near the heavy bags, trying not to breathe too deeply. She was 14, though her slight frame and sharp bird-like collar bones usually made people guess 11. She wore a stiff bleached white loaner gi from the front desk's lost and found.
The canvas was rough, smelling faintly of mildew, an aggressive industrial detergent, and the sleeves hung 2 inches past her wrists. She rolled them up, but the thick fabric kept sliding back down, scratching against her knuckles. She wasn't supposed to be here, or rather, she wasn't supposed to be in this specific class. A scheduling glitch at the front desk, managed by a teenager who cared more about her acrylic nails than class rosters, had dumped Holland into the Thursday night advanced adult/teen sparring session. Her actual credentials, three consecutive national gold medals in full-contact Kyokushin, a black belt earned on splintering hardwood floors under a man who rarely spoke above a whisper, were packed in a cardboard box currently lost somewhere in the back of a moving truck on Interstate 40.
Her mother had insisted she get out of their cramped, half unpacked apartment. "Go find a gym. Hit something. Stop pacing! " her mother had yelled, a vein throbbing at her temple, deeply hung over from the reality of a miserable divorce. So here Holland was wearing a white belt as stiff as cardboard, tied in a lopsided knot, standing on peeling blue foam.
Across the room, the advanced students were stretching. They were a collection of suburban predators, boys who peaked in junior high and grown men dodging their wives. The loudest among them was Trent Lawson. He looked about 19, built like a fire hydrant, with thick sloping shoulders and a jawline hidden under a patchy layer of stubble. He wore a heavy black cotton gi customized with golden embroidery down the lapel, his black belt tied with arrogant precision.
Holland watched him without appearing to watch him. It was a habit born of a thousand hours of sparring. She cataloged his movements instinctively. He was demonstrating a spinning hook kick to a pair of younger, equally bloated blue belts. He grunted loudly with the exertion, snapping his heel through the air.
He drops his left hand, Holland thought, her brain automatically highlighting the mechanical flaw. He drops his hand. He plants his pivot foot flat, and he telegraphs the spin by throwing his shoulder first. It was a garbage kick. flashy, useless against anyone who knew how to step into the pocket rather than back away. But the blue belts murmured in awe, and Trent smirked, adjusting his belt with a sharp performative tug.
"All right, line up. " The voice belonged to Graham Foster, the head instructor. He emerged from the back office holding a clipboard and a half empty mug of coffee. Graham was in his late 30s, sporting a fading athletic build that was rapidly surrendering to a diet of fast food and administrative stress. He walked with a slight limp, an old knee injury he probably talked about too much. The class scrambled to the center of the mats, organizing themselves by rank.
The black belts took the front. Trent stood dead center, chest puffed out, exuding the heavy scent of axe body spray and spearmint gum. Holland didn't move. She stayed by the heavy bags, a small pale ghost in oversized canvas. Graham looked up from his clipboard, his brow furrowing as he spotted her.
He sighed, a wet rattling sound. Hey kid, you're in the wrong hour. Fundamentals is on Tuesdays. The front row turned. Trent leaned over to the guy next to him, a tall, gangly black belt with acne scars, and muttered something.
The gangly guy snorted, a sharp, ugly sound that echoed off the mirrors. Holland felt a familiar crawling sensation at the base of her neck. Social anxiety. It was the great paradox of her life. Put her in a ring with a heavily padded opponent trying to take her head off and her heart rate barely climbed.
Make her the center of attention in a room full of strangers. Her stomach turned to battery acid. The front desk put me in here, Holland said. Her voice was raspy, quieter than she intended. She cleared her throat, hating the weakness in it.
"They said it was open, Matt, for the second half. It's full contact drills," Graham said, rubbing his temple. He looked at the clock. "Look, just stay out of the way. Do some sit-ups.
Don't touch the heavy bags. The brackets are loose. " Holland nodded once, staring at the floor. She just wanted to blend into the painted cinder block wall. She sank to the mat, sitting in a loose lotus position, and began stretching her hamstrings. The class commenced.
It was a symphony of bad habits. As Holland pressed her chest to her knee, she listened to the rhythm of the room. The squeak of bare feet, the dull thop of synthetic leather hitting focus mitts, the exaggerated, breathless grunts of guys trying to hit harder than their technique allowed. Every few minutes she felt eyes on her. Trent and his buddies were grouped near her corner.
They were supposed to be running simple jab cross roundhouse drills, but they spent more time talking. Look at the form on the white belt. Trent sneered loudly, not bothering to lower his voice. Holland was currently just doing a basic hip stretch, her face pressed against her shin. Careful, Trent, the gangly guy mocked.
She looks lethal. Might bust out the crane kick. Holland's jaw tightened. She picked at a loose frayed thread on the hem of her pants. She didn't feel angry exactly, just profoundly exhausted.
The cynicism she had developed over the last 6 months of her parents' screaming matches flared up. "Let them talk," she told herself. "They're pathetic. This place is pathetic. " But the thread snapped under her fingernails. Her chest felt tight.
It was the sheer suffocating arrogance of mediocrity that rubbed against her nerves like sandpaper. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the smell of her own skin. The faint scent of the vanilla soap she used blocking out the overwhelming chemical pine of the dojo. "Hey, Sensei," Trent called out, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "We've got an odd number.
Miller had to leave early. Need someone to hold pads for the warm-up. " Holland opened her eyes. The gangly guy, Miller, apparently, was walking off the mat, waving his phone. Trent was left standing alone, holding a pair of curved red focus mitts, looking directly at Holland. Graham, distracted by a text message on his own phone, barely looked up.
Uh, just grab the new girl. Light drills, Trent. Don't break her. Holland froze. The tight knot in her stomach twisted violently.