I motioned for him to get up, and thankfully, he did, breathing hard the whole time. “What’s going on? What’s got you so distracted?” I asked as I crept forward.
He didn’t look even a little wary at my approach; he just looked irritated. I didn’t enjoy embarrassing people, but being hard was sometimes the only way to get across to someone. Especially when that someone had an ego and needed to see that they weren’t listening.
“Your technique has been shit, but being fast and aggressive usually makes up for it. But you know it isn’t always going to,” I told him bluntly.
The younger guy frowned. “My technique is shit now?”
“Your listening skills are shit. Your technique isn’t much better. There were at least three opportunities, that if you would have listened, you could have easily gotten him into a rear-naked choke or an armbar, but you didn’t listen when Peter and I were yelling. You were too focused on forcing the offensive instead of doing a little defense and then sneaking in there to get him.” I motioned toward the fence just behind him. “Back up real quick. Let me show you.”
He listened, fortunately, and went to stand so his back was to it. I stopped right in front of him and then took it even closer so that we were literally pressed completely together with one of my knees wedged in between both of his. I wasn’t wearing the stretchiest pants I owned, but I could still move in them. I always did a few squats before I bought bottoms to make sure they weren’t too constricting. I never knew when someone might ask me for help, or when I’d feel up for it.
“Right here,” I told him. “I’m you. You had him against the fence, you could have lifted your knee”—I showed him—“swiveled your hip”—I showed him that too—“and then….”
And then I threw him. Over my hip, quick as lightning, I threw him when he least expected it and scrambled back onto the floor before he realized what was happening. I grabbed his arm while he was still confused, wrapped my feet and legs around it like I had done it a thousand times before—because I had done it at least ten thousand times—and then pulled.
He tapped out so fast I’d swear I heard Peter snicker. And just as quickly as he slammed his palm across the surface of the cage, I let him go. I wasn’t there to hurt him.
Even though I had pulled more than a handful of shoulders out of sockets in my day.
Hurting people because they didn’t want to tap out wasn’t something I got a fucking kick out of, unlike some people I had known. Feeling ligaments and tendons being torn, especially with my history, was just… not for me. I liked to win but not by genuinely causing someone pain.
So I’d give it to Carlos for tapping as fast as he did.
Somewhere deep down inside, he still was thinking at least.
I squeezed his shoulder before getting up, taking in his wide-eyed stare at the rafters of the ceiling. “You know better. That shouldn’t have been so easy. Clear your head. Focus. Listen. You can do this. Just think.” And with that, I squeezed his shoulder one more time then walked back out, raising my eyebrows at Peter as playfully as possible once I was totally out. “I’m going to get water while you talk to your boy. Do you want some?” I asked Peter as I slid my flip-flops back on.
Peter was trying to hide a grin, but I knew it was there as his mouth pinched together and he shook his head and started over toward the steps I had just come down. Just as he was beside me on his way into the cage, he grinned and patted me on the shoulder. “You still got it, Len.”
Damn right, I did.
It was hard not to smile at his comment, because… it did make me feel good. Maybe I didn’t regret giving up judo for Mo—and for my fucking self—but it was nice to know I could still hang in there if I wanted to risk it. Not that what I’d done had been a risk because I had been in control, and I’d used my good shoulder.
I was still trying not to smile when I lifted my head and spotted the figure standing at the far end of the room closest to the entrance. I knew