Doing it to a 50-lb lighter beginner during a drill was malicious. Pain flared in Rachel's jaw. Her teeth ground together. I can slip the grip, bridge left, invert his knee, and tear his ACL. A cold, clinical voice in her head whispered.
It wasn't an angry voice. It was an operator's manual. She shoved the voice down. No. You are Rachel the supply chain manager.
You tap. She tapped his shoulder twice. Tyler didn't let go. He squeezed a fraction harder, grinding his shoulder inward. "Come on." He grunted, spit flying from his lips onto her cheek.
"Fight out of it. Don't be lazy." Rachel's eyes went wide, not with panic, but with shock. In the gym setting, a tap was sacred. It was the absolute boundary that separated sport from assault. Tyler was ignoring it.
She tapped again, harder. Three loud slaps on the mat. Smack. Smack. Smack.
He held it for three more excruciating seconds before finally letting go, pushing off her face as he stood up. He looked down at her, chest puffed out. "You give up too easy." Tyler sneered. He looked over at his friends, seeking validation. They chuckled nervously.
Rachel sat up slowly. Her cheek was bright red, a heavy friction burn forming along her jawline. She touched it gingerly. Her heart rate, which had been resting at a calm 60 beats per minute despite the heavy pressure, suddenly dropped. That was the danger zone.
When other people got angry, their hearts raced. When Rachel felt a true threat, her nervous system down regulated. Ice in the veins. The noise of the gym, the rap music, the shouts, the slapping of feet faded into a dull hum. Tunnel vision set in.
She looked at Tyler. Really looked at him. She didn't see an arrogant 24-year-old anymore. She saw a skeletal structure. She saw weak points.
She noted how he stood with his weight entirely on his front leg, leaving the knee joint vulnerable. She saw the unprotected carotid arteries pulsing on the sides of his thick neck. She calculated the distance between her hand and his trachea. 14 inches. Coach Davis walked by, oblivious.
Keep working, guys. Five more minutes. Tyler clapped his hands together. All right, let's go again. Bottom position.
I'll start in mount this time. Rachel took a slow, deep breath. She pushed the safety switch back to on with every ounce of willpower she had. She lay back down on the mat. "Okay." She said.
Her voice was terrifyingly calm, but Tyler was too stupid to notice. He climbed on top of her, straddling her chest. He leaned down, placing his hands on the mat next to her ears. He was so close she could see the pores on his nose. "I'm going to take your arm this time." He whispered, a nasty, bullying edge to his voice.
"And if you tap too fast, I might not feel it right away. So, you better actually try to fight." Rachel stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzzed violently. The sanctuary was dead. The therapy had failed.
Tyler had just crossed the line from a nuisance into a hostile. And Rachel had spent her entire adult life learning exactly what to do with hostiles. Friday night was open mat. No structured drills, no lectures from the coach. Just an hour and a half of putting on the timer and sparring.
It was the proving ground. The gym was packed. The air thick with condensation dripping off the mirrored walls. Rachel sat quietly in the corner adjusting her knee sleeves. She was debating leaving early.
The incident on Tuesday had left a sour taste in her mouth. She had spent three days fighting the urge to find out where Tyler drank on the weekends and dismantle him in an alleyway. The thought scared her. It meant the box she had shoved the war into was leaking. Hey, supply chain.
Rachel didn't look up. She recognized the heavy flat-footed tread on the mats. Tyler was standing over her. He wasn't wearing his gi top. Just the pants and a tight rash guard that showed off his physique.
He looked sweaty and pumped up having just spent 10 minutes dominating the smaller blue belts. We haven't enrolled yet today. Tyler said dropping his hands to his hips. He was projecting his voice. The rest of the gym was quietly tuning in.
Tyler fighting the middle-aged white-belt woman was his favorite Friday night theater. I'm sitting this round out Tyler. I'm tired. Rachel said evenly. She kept her eyes on her hands methodically taping her fingers.
Come on. You can rest tomorrow. I need a light round. He nudged her foot with his toe. It was a minor contact but it was incredibly disrespectful.
Rachel froze. The tape in her hands stopped moving. Across the room coach Davis looked over. Just do a round Rachel. He called out lazily leaning against the cage wall.
Good cardio. Just survive. Rachel looked at the coach. She saw a man who didn't care enough to protect his paying students. Then she looked at Tyler.