« Yeah, yeah, got it, » Tyson muttered nervously.
Next to me, Mr. Wexler, the veteran, was practically gripping the edge of the wooden bench. « Watch her feet, » he whispered to me, not knowing I was her mother. « Just watch her feet. »
Tyson lunged first.
He threw a quick, aggressive combination of punches, hoping to overwhelm her with sheer speed and size.
Isla didn’t retreat. She didn’t cower. She absorbed his rhythm instantly. With barely a whisper of motion, she stepped inside his reach. She parried his first strike with the back of her wrist, slipping past his second punch completely.
She didn’t hit him. She just let his own aggressive momentum carry him forward, subtly guiding his arm down so that his balance completely pitched forward.
Tyson stumbled, catching himself before he hit the mat. He paused, blinking rapidly. He felt exposed. Vulnerable.
« You’re fast, » he muttered, his face burning red, trying to mask his panic.
Isla’s response was a quiet shift of stance. It was almost invisible, but Calder and Mr. Wexler both saw it. The pure discipline. The history embedded in her movements. My father’s teachings, alive and breathing in this 11-year-old girl.
Tyson came in again, much harder this time. He threw a heavy right cross, followed by a sweeping low kick.
