“You’re standing on my rag.” Hank pointed to the floor.
Brad looked down. Under his expensive, bare left foot was a frayed gray rag Hank had been using to wipe grease off the locker hinges. Brad looked back up, a malicious grin spreading across his face. He twisted his foot, grinding the rag into the rubber floor.
“Pick it up, then.”
“Lift your foot,” Hank said.
“Make me, old man.” Brad spread his arms wide, leaning his weight forward, bringing his chin down into a fighting posture. “Come on. Show me that old-man strength. Give me a reason.”
Sam stepped forward from the weight racks.
“Come on, Brad. Leave him alone. He’s just doing his job.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Brad snapped, not breaking eye contact with Hank. “This doesn’t concern you. The janitor here wants to act tough. I’m just giving him a free lesson.”
Hank let out a slow, tired sigh. He looked around the gym. He looked at the young fighters watching, eyes wide. He looked at the heavy bags. Then he looked at Brad’s chest, right at the center of his sternum.
“I don’t have time for this, son,” Hank said quietly. “I have to finish the locker room before midnight.”
Hank bent down to grab the rag anyway, ignoring the foot on top of it. He reached out with his left hand.
It was the excuse Brad was waiting for.
As Hank’s hand came within inches of his foot, Brad moved. He was fast. Explosive. He reached down and snatched Hank’s outstretched left wrist.
“Gotcha,” Brad hissed.
He yanked the old man upward, intending to pull him off balance and toss him backward onto the floor. A simple, humiliating throw.
But Hank didn’t fly backward.
When Brad pulled, he expected the slack resistance of a startled civilian. Instead, he felt like he had just chained his hand to a concrete piling. Hank didn’t pull away. He didn’t resist the momentum. He went with it.
Hank stepped into the pull. His heavy orthotic boot slid forward, finding a perfect rooted base between Brad’s wide stance. The old man’s hips dropped in a microsecond, lowering his center of gravity below Brad’s.