This time, it takes longer.
They land hits. They adapt.
And Tank?
He lets them.
When he finally subdues them, it isn’t with spectacle.
It’s with precision.
A sharp move here. A controlled takedown there. Both prospects end up flat on their backs, chests heaving.
Tank steps back.
He doesn’t throw them in the pool. Instead, he nods.
“Better,” he says. “You fought like you had something worth protecting.”
The men look stunned.
“Be proud of that,” he adds. “You earned it.”
Relief and pride flood their faces.
Then Tank’s gaze lifts and lands directly on me. Almost as if he knew I was standing here the whole time.
Everything stills.
“Call it,” he says without breaking eye contact with me. “We’re done for today.”
A ripple of groans and laughter moves through the group.
“But don’t get comfortable,” Tank adds. “Same time tomorrow.”
His lips twitch.
“With me.”
A pause.
“And Foster.”
The men collectively groan like they’ve just been sentenced.
I can’t help but smile. I still don’t quite understand why they’re so terrified of working with our local… retired… fireman. Foster is super sweet and always smiling.
Tank walks over to me and accepts the bottle of water I hold out.
“Thanks,” he mutters, twisting the cap off and downing most of it in one go.
“You’re not going easy on them,” I say.
“Can’t,” he replies. “We use prospects for guard duty and added security when we need it. They have to know how to fight and how to think while doing it.”
I nod. That makes sense.
“Thanks for lunch,” I say. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I pulled out that sandwich.”
