His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” I shrugged with an ambivalence I didn’t feel. “Just looking forward to kicking your arse.”
He smirked, assuming this was banter, and pointed at my belt. “You need a few more stripes before that happens.”
Oh, I was so ready to pulverize him.
Fyfe, as it turned out, was a hard taskmaster. He’d split the group up by age and then levels. We were a small class of twenty, with the kids at the front, teens in the middle, and adults at the back.
In the row in front of me were two guys and a woman. One guy wore a white belt, so he was a newbie, the other a green belt, and the woman a blue belt with red tape on the ends, which meant she was close to advancing to red.
Lewis and I, the only other two black belts other than Fyfe, stood at the back. The first half of the session, it was easier to ignore his presence. If only because Fyfe’s style of warm-up was utterly exhausting, and I was feeling those three weeks I’d missed training. The stretching was nice. Or it would have been if I hadn’t felt Lewis watching me. I tried to focus on how much I enjoyed stretching and decided I really needed to get back into Pilates too. Once I had my routine at the bakery down, I could start incorporating some home sessions.
After stretching, however, Fyfe hammered us. My thighs burned from tuck jumps, my core from the multiple variations he had us do for the plank, and I was out of breath at one point from running back and forth across the hall.
Finally, once he was assured we were warmed up (and frankly ready to kill him), Fyfe began splitting us up so we could practice patterns.
Lewis tried to talk to me in those moments, and I told him to be quiet.
He had the audacity to appear hurt.
Then, with twenty minutes of class left, we broke into sparring.
Fyfe approached Lewis and I once the kids and teens were started. “I’m thinking, Callie, I could introduce you to Sharon.” He gestured to the woman who wore the blue belt. “And you could spar with her.”
“I want to spar with Lewis,” I insisted. “The two black belts against each other. It’s only fair.”
Fyfe cut Lewis a look.
Lewis nodded, though he glanced at me warily when he did.
A few seconds later, everyone was paired up. No one wore sparring gear, so we weren’t supposed to hit hard. Usually sparring gear was only worn at competition and grading. Or at least, that’s how it had always been at the classes I’d taken previously.
Reluctantly, I bowed to Lewis as he bowed to me.
He’d barely straightened when I struck out, but Lewis was fast and blocked the straight punch. His eyes widened slightly as I struck again and we were suddenly a blur of jabs, strikes, and blocks. Lewis didn’t back down, though I saw the slight confusion in his expression at my fierceness. He kept coming at me, and I had to turn to avoid hitting the wall. I used the moment to pivot on my heel and strike out with my other leg in a back kick. It almost hit him, but he darted out of the way, yet too close to my zone. I threw an elbow strike that brushed his ear.
“What the fuck, Callie?” he muttered, using his palms to block my incoming hook punch, his feet to block my front kicks, sidekicks. And then he went on the offense, though he held himself back, merely trying to hold me off with his longer legs and greater power. Muted power. I knew in the back of my mind that if Lewis let go, he could really injure me, if I allowed him past my defenses.
The tank beneath my dobok was drenched in sweat, my suit coming loose from my belt, my breathing hard and fast. I was vaguely aware the rest of the class had stopped to watch us.
“What is going on?” Lewis asked quietly, his own breathing a little fast, shallow, but unfortunately nowhere near as labored as my own.
“You really want to know?” I asked, letting all my hurt and fury blaze from my eyes.
Lewis lowered his arms. “I really want to know.”
In answer, I dropped to the floor and kicked out at the side of his ankles, hitting his weak spot. It was a move my dad taught me years ago. And it was forbidden in tae kwon do. You were not allowed to hit below the waist.
Lewis’s back slammed onto the mat. He was uninjured but stunned.
“Foul! Unsportsmanlike conduct!” Fyfe yelled from across the room, storming toward me, anger darkening his expression. And disbelief. “What are you doing, Callie?”
A smidgen of guilt flickered through me.
But then I remembered Carianne’s little visit to the bakery this morning.
I knew the rules. As a black belt who knew better, my deliberate attack on Lewis was grounds for removal from a class.
