Chapter 3 - THE PROVOCATION
The heavy steel door clicked shut behind Evan, leaving the gym in an tense, suffocating quiet.
Damon slowly stood up from his knees. He turned around on the blue mat, adjusting the sleeves of his gray work shirt, and looked at Blake Haron.
Blake was leaning against the padded wall corner, wiping sweat from his forehead with a small hand towel, a smirk still fixed on his face.
"Apologize to my son," Damon said calmly. "And refund the two hundred dollar quarterly training fee."
Blake let out a sharp, mocking laugh, tossing the towel onto a nearby water cooler. He took two steps forward, puffing out his chest and looking Damon up and down—taking in the grease-stained jeans, the faded flannel, and the scuffed work boots.
"Apologize?" Blake scoffed, turning to glance at the parents in the bleachers for validation. "For what? Teaching your kid how to take a punch? This isn't a daycare, plumber. Your boy is weak. He's soft, and frankly, so are you for coddling him."
Damon didn't raise his voice. His expression didn't change. His hands remained hanging loosely at his sides, his thumbs resting lightly against the seams of his jeans.
"He's thirteen," Damon said softly. "You're a grown man wearing fight shorts."
A few muffled whispers broke out among the mothers in the front row.
Blake’s face flushed red. His ego, inflamed by the presence of his students and their parents, couldn't tolerate the quiet disrespect in the older man's tone. He pointed a taped index finger directly into Damon’s chest.
"You think you know better?" Blake sneered, stepping right into Damon's personal space. "You think running some PVC pipe makes you tough? Step onto the mat and prove it. Or take your refund and walk out like a coward."
Damon looked down at the finger near his chest, then looked back up into Blake’s eyes.
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"Are you sure about that?" Damon asked softly.
Blake laughed, shaking his head arrogance. "Full contact. No gear. Let's see what you've got, old man."
