I watched him climb the stairs.
Mom spotted him before he reached their row. Dad saw him and waved him over as if Keaton showing up at a tournament in Stockton made perfect sense. Mom moved her bag off the seat next to her, and a second later, he sat down with them.
A volunteer called my division.
Coach Pete pointed at the mat. “That’s you. Mouthguard in.”
I shoved it in and followed him over.
My first opponent was shorter than me and had a thicker build through the shoulders. His coach stayed close, talking the whole time while the kid bounced on his feet and tugged at his sleeves.
Coach Pete grabbed my arm before I stepped onto the mat. “He’s going to come at you fast because he thinks fast is the same thing as smart. Don’t let him drag you into that.”
I rolled my shoulders back. “Got it.”
I took a breath and kept my focus where it belonged.
The ref waved us in.
We bowed, slapped hands, bumped fists, and began.
The kid immediately reached for me, trying to grab my collar and sleeve before I could move. I broke free from the first grip, caught his hand, and circled around before he settled down. He pushed into me, so I let him think he had the advantage, then changed my direction and pulled him off-balance.
We hit the mat hard.
He tried to scramble up. I stayed heavy and pushed him back down. He shoved at my shoulder and tried to get a knee in, but I shut it down before he could build on it.
“Good,” Coach Pete barked from the sideline. “Stay on him.”
I adjusted and kept pressure on him as he turned and fought for space. The kid got frustrated and became erratic. That was enough. I moved behind him, locked in the choke, and tightened.
He tapped my arm.
I let go and sat back, breathing heavily as the room rushed into focus again. The kid stood up. I followed, and the referee raised my hand.
My head tipped up before I could stop myself.
Keaton was still there with my parents; all three were smiling at me.
Winning should’ve been the part that affected me.
It wasn’t.
It was that he came.
I sawmy parents and Keaton over to the side, waiting for me.
Mom smiled the moment she saw me coming. “There’s my champion.”
Dad checked out the medal in my hand. “Not bad.”
I snorted. “Not bad?”
Keaton’s mouth twitched.
Mom was already digging through her purse. “Hold on. I want a picture.”
“I’m sweaty.”
