Trying harder not to like it.
"Good. Now we'll work on breaking holds. When someone grabs you from behind..."
She moves with unexpected speed, slipping behind me and wrapping her arm across my chest in a surprisingly competent restraint.
In a blink, she has me flat on my back, straddling my hips, eyes lit with triumph.
"Like that?" she asks.
My hands are braced on the mat beside me, fighting every instinct not to grab her.
"You've done this before," I observe, easily breaking her hold but genuinely impressed.
She steps back, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I might have picked up a few things."
She's gloating.
"Brat," I mutter.
She laughs, light and reckless. I sit up slower than I need to, watching her stretch her arms and bounce on her toes like she's just getting warmed up.
"Again," I say.
This time, it's not instruction. It's a challenge.
"Why didn't you mention you already had training?"
"You didn't ask." She shrugs, her green eyes challenging.
Fair point. I had assumed, based on her profession, her wealth, her apparent fragility. Another misconception to add to the growing list.
"Show me what else you know," I say, curiosity replacingsurprise.
She launches into a series of basic defense maneuvers, each executed with reasonable competence. Her technique isn't perfect. She telegraphs her moves and relies too much on speed rather than leverage, but she's clearly put in the hours. For someone of her build facing a larger opponent, she's actually chosen effective techniques.
I correct her form occasionally, demonstrating proper hand placement, better angles for maximum impact. She takes the instruction well, adapting quickly. After twenty minutes, we've established a rhythm, moving through various scenarios with increasing complexity.
"Ready to try sparring?" I ask, noting that she's barely winded despite the workout.
"Absolutely." Her eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm.
"I'll hold back," I warn, mindful of her recent injuries.
"Don't bother."
I smile inwardly at her bravado. She's good for an amateur, but there's a vast difference between training sessions and actual combat experience. Still, I admire her confidence.
We circle each other on the mat, her movements fluid and measured. She strikes first, a quick jab that I easily deflect, followed by an attempt to sweep my legs that I sidestep. Her recovery is impressive though; she doesn't overcommit, maintaining her balance and defensive posture.
"Not bad," I acknowledge, launching a slow, controlled counterattack that tests her reflexes.
She blocks, counters, then uses my momentum to slip around behind me again. This time when she moves in, I'm ready. I catch her arm, using her own momentum to redirect her, but she adapts, shifting her weight unexpectedly.
For a split second, her technique actually works. I'm off-balance, not expecting the counter. My instincts kick in, and I roll with the motion rather than resist it. We hit the mat together, my training automatically ensuring I take the brunt of the impact. She ends up straddling me, her hands pinning my shoulders, her face flushed with exertion and triumph.
"Surprised?" she asks, a smirk playing on her lips.
The moment stretches between us, charged and electric. She releases my shoulders and starts to move away, but I'm not ready to concede the match. This isn't about proving anything now; it's about proper training. I catch her wrist, use my core strength to shift our positions, and suddenly she's beneath me on the mat, her eyes wide with surprise.
