Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of gloves hitting pads filled the training center, a metronome of controlled violence. I was working on a combination Katz had introduced earlier in the week—left jab, right cross, duck, pivot, liver hook. My body moved with a fluid precision, the soreness in my ribs finally reduced to a distant memory, replaced by the satisfying burn of exertion.
Next to me, Kat and Bianca were doing their own training. Or rather, Kat was training with a laser-like focus, her gray t-shirt darkened with sweat, executing a series of elbow strikes that looked genuinely lethal. Bianca, on the other hand, was mostly going through the motions, more concerned with checking her reflection in the mirrors than maintaining her guard.
"Alright, listen up!" Instructor Harry Katz's voice boomed across the mats, cutting through the noise. He clapped his hands, the sound sharp and authoritative. "It's Friday. You know what that means. Everyone, line up! Weekly dueling session!"
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The casual drilling stopped, replaced by a nervous, electric tension. Everyone lined up, forming neat rows along the edge of the mat, waiting for their name to be called up.
I glanced at the sisters standing next to me. Kat was looking forward to it, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her eyes bright and eager. She wanted to test herself. She wanted to hit something.
Bianca, however, let out a dramatic sigh, her shoulders slumping. She turned toward me, widening her eyes in a performance of fragility. "Oh god, Bradley," she whispered, leaning closer. "I don't know if I can do this. I'm terrible at sparring. What if I get paired with someone huge?"
She portrayed herself as under-confident, batting her eyelashes. "You have to give me some tips. Quickly. Just tell me what to do so I don't embarrass myself." She sought my guidance, but it felt less like a request for instruction and more like a request for attention.
Kat rolled her eyes, a full-body expression of exasperation. "Oh, give it a rest, Bianca," she snapped, not even looking at her sister. "You were throwing perfect roundhouse kicks five minutes ago when you thought that cute guy from the intermediate class was watching."
Calling Bianca out on her behavior was apparently Kat's favorite pastime.
Bianca's facade cracked instantly. She glared at Kat, her hands positioned in accusation. "Excuse me? I am expressing genuine concern here! Not everyone is a violence-obsessed Amazon like you, Kat."
"You're not concerned, you're fishing," Kat shot back. "Stop acting like a damsel. It's pathetic."
"If you're doing nothing to help, maybe you should just butt out of my matters!" Bianca hissed, her voice rising. "I didn't ask you for help, did I?"
The argument was escalating, heads were turning. Katz was busy organizing the brackets, but he wouldn't tolerate this for long.
"Enough," Brad intervened, stepping between them. I turned my gaze to Bianca. "Bianca, stop."
She looked at me, ready to defend herself, but I held up a hand. "You have nothing to worry about. I've seen your form. It's solid. The only thing you need to do is be confident in your skills." I looked her dead in the eye. "Do not lean on others for that perception. Do not play weak just to get someone else to tell you you're strong. It wastes your time and mine."
My tone was firmer than usual, perhaps a bleed-over from my captaincy at Palisades. Bianca felt a little ashamed; the color rose in her cheeks, and the flirtatious act dropped completely. She looked down at her feet, then gave a meek nod.
"You're right," she mumbled. "Thanks, Brad."
I nodded, satisfied, and turned my attention to the other sister. Kat was watching me with a guarded expression, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"And you," I said, looking at her. "Do you have a problem with me, Kat?"
Kat shook her head, but her eyes didn't meet mine. "No. No problem."
"Really?" I called her out, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "Because you don't talk to me in class. You act like a stranger in school whenever I walk by. And even here, you barely speak, and never anything apart from instructions or technical questions." I stepped a little closer. "I thought we were cool after the first lesson. So, what is it?"
Kat sighed, a long, heavy exhale that seemed to deflate her aggressive posture. She looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of vulnerability behind the stoic mask.
"It's because I feel intimidated by you, Naird," she admitted quietly.
I blinked, genuinely confused. "Intimidated?" I asked. "What do you have to be intimidated about? You're one of the best students in this dojo."
"Look at the facts," she told him, ticking points off on her fingers. "You're top of our class academically. You solved a polynomial problem in your head that took Mr. Baum three minutes to write out. You're an athlete, the captain of the basketball team as a freshman. You're a better martial artist than me—and I hate admitting that."
She paused, looking around to make sure no one was listening. "And if that wasn't enough... I heard the rumors. I heard you were also a bully who got into fights. That you put a senior in the hospital on the first day of school."
I felt a cold prickle of annoyance. The smear campaign again.
"All these things make you a problem magnet, Bradley," Kat continued, her voice tight. "I don't want that in my life. Especially considering how paranoid my own father is. If he catches wind that I'm hanging out with the guy who starts brawls at school... he'll pull us out of here. He can create so many problems for me, you have no idea."
I decried this, shaking my head. "That's all rumors and malicious gossip, Kat. People talking trash because they're insecure." I looked at her with disappointment. "I thought you were better than a person who believes rumors without checking the source."
Kat pointed out, "I didn't just hear it. I also saw you fighting against that senior, Damien, that day on the court during practices. I saw you grab him."
"You saw the end," I clarified firmly. "You didn't see the beginning. It was actually Damien who started the fight. He grabbed my skull. He was crushing it. I used Krav Maga to release myself from his hold. I didn't start it, Kat. I finished it."
Kat made an 'ohh' face, her eyes widening as the pieces fell into place.
"Oh," she said softly. "I... I didn't know that. I'm sorry, Brad. I shouldn't have assumed."
She apologized to me, but the tension in her shoulders didn't leave. "But... even after all that, even if you are the good guy... my Dad still does not condone Bianca and me hanging out or consorting with boys. Especially boys who have 'reputations'. He's... intense."
"So you're just going to let him dictate your reality?" I told her, unable to keep the challenge out of my voice. "If you live by what your father believes all your life, then you may as well never step out of the house. You're smart, Kat. You're strong. Why are you letting him hold the leash?"
Kat took this as an insult. Her chin went up, her eyes flashing. "You don't know anything about my life, Naird! Don't you dare presume to tell me—"
"I'm not telling you to rebel for the sake of rebelling," I clarified, cutting off her rebuke. "I'm saying you need to grow your own mindset. You need to decide what kind of social relationships you want to have, away from your father's influence. If you want to be friends, be friends. If you don't, don't. But make sure it's your choice, not Mr Stratford's."
She opened her mouth to retort, but the words died in her throat. She looked at me, really looked at me, and I could see the gears turning behind her eyes. I had struck a nerve, but it was a necessary one.
"It's Dr Stratford" she whispered.
"What?" I asked beckoning her to say it loudly but was cutoff by a loud call.
"Bradley Naird!" Katz's voice rang out. "Front and center!"
At this point, my name was called up for the duel.
"Think about it," I said to Kat.
I stood up and left her sitting there, looking thoughtful and conflicted, as I walked onto the mat to face my opponent.
I stepped onto the center of the mat, the rubberized surface cool beneath my bare feet. My ribs gave a phantom throb, a warning from my body to take it easy, but my mind was already locking into combat mode.
Opposite me stood a man in his thirties. He was built like a linebacker who had leaned out—broad shoulders, heavy arms, but he moved light on his feet. He wore a faded college hoodie he was currently peeling off to reveal the combat suit.
"Name's Casey Jones," he said, rolling his neck with a sickening crack. He offered a hand, his grip like a vice. "Try not to cry if I hit you, kid. Harry said to go light, but accidents happen."
"Bradley," I replied, returning the grip. "I don't cry."
"We'll see."
Katz blew the whistle.
Casey didn't wait. He lunged, closing the distance with surprising speed for a guy his size. He threw a lazy left jab, testing my reaction. I batted it away with a standard 360 defense, but his right cross was already coming behind it. It connected with my shoulder, knocking me back a step.
"You got good eyes," Casey grunted, circling to my left. He feinted a kick, then stepped in, grabbing my shirt collar. "But your feet are slow. You gotta plant better."
He yanked me forward, off-balance. I stumbled, my face nearly meeting his knee. "I moved to LA to get away from slow drivers, not to fight slow kids."
He was dominating the rhythm, using his weight to bully me around the mat. I realized quickly that while we were both technically beginners in Krav Maga, he had a lifetime of athletic experience behind him.
"You move well for a beginner," I gritted out, regaining my footing and slapping his hand away from my collar. I circled away, analyzing him. "Athletics background?"
Casey chuckled, throwing a low kick that I barely checked with my shin. "Used to be. Assistant Athletics Director and Conditioning Coach at a D2 college back East." He threw a one-two combination, forcing me to turtle up. Thud. Thud. His punches were heavy. "Budget cuts. Politics. Figured I'd try the West Coast."
He pressed the advantage, driving me toward the edge of the mat. "So now I'm here, beating up teenagers in a strip mall dojo." He swept my lead leg. I hopped, barely staying upright.
I saw the opening. He was over-committing to the forward pressure.
"Current employment?" I asked, dodging a grapple attempt.
"Looking," Casey admitted, slightly winded. He paused for a breath, his guard dropping an inch. "Why? You hiring?" his tone almost mocking.
"Actually, yes," I said.
I stepped into his space. I used my Ambidextrous talent to switch stances seamlessly, confusing him. I threw a left palm strike to his chest, not to hurt, but to create distance.
"I'm the captain of the Palisades High basketball team," I said, pressing forward. "We need a coach."
Casey rejected it outright, laughing as he parried my strike. "High school? Hell no." He grabbed my wrist, twisting it. "I coached college football, kid. I'm not dealing with helicopter parents and pubescent drama."
He wrenched my arm behind my back. The pain in my shoulder flared, but I used the momentum. I spun with the torque, just like I had with Damien, stepping behind him and attempting a rear naked choke.
"We're not drama!" I argued, tightening my grip on his neck. "We're the best team you will ever coach. We just won the Junior High championship."
Casey was strong. He didn't panic. He grabbed my forearm and pulled down, tucking his chin to protect his airway. He slammed his elbow back into my gut—right into the cracked ribs.
White light exploded behind my eyes. My grip loosened. Casey spun out, shoving me hard. I slid across the mat, gasping for air.
"You got guts, kid," Casey said, looming over me. He wasn't smiling anymore. "But you're delusional. High school is a dead end."
I pushed myself up. My ribs were screaming, but the fire inside me was hotter.
"Give us a chance," I wheezed, getting back into my stance. "One practice. Just watch."
Casey looked at me, assessing. He cracked his knuckles. "You really want this?"
"I do."
"Alright," Casey challenged. "Beat me. You put me on the mat, fair and square, I'll come watch your little team practice. You lose, you stop asking."
I nodded. "Deal."
From this point on, Brad fought seriously. I stopped trying to match his strength. I activated Master Strategist. I analyzed his pattern. He was a brawler. He liked to close distance, grab, and overpower. He led with his right shoulder. He was heavy on his front foot.
Casey came at me, a bull rush. He threw a wide haymaker.
I didn't block. I ducked under it.
"Too slow!" I yelled.
I popped up on his blind side. I didn't strike; I disrupted. I kicked the back of his knee—the common peroneal nerve point Katz had taught us. Casey's leg buckled.
"Damn it!" he roared, spinning around, swinging wildly.
I was already moving. I danced out of range, then snapped back in. I feinted a strike to his eyes, watching him flinch and raise his hands. That was the trap.
I dropped my level. I wrapped my arms around his waist, driving my shoulder into his center of gravity while hooking his lead leg with mine. An Osoto Gari takedown, adapted for the street. It was blatant plagiarism from Judo but Krav Maga improved it.
"Leverage, Casey!" I grunted, pouring every ounce of my strength into the drive. "It's not about size!"
I twisted. He tipped. For a second, he hung in the air, a look of pure shock on his face. Then, gravity took over.
WHAM.
Casey hit the mat hard, the breath leaving him in a whoosh. I didn't let up. I followed him down, pinning his arm with my knee and holding a fist inches from his face.
"I win," I panted, sweat dripping from my nose onto his shirt.
The gym went silent. Even Katz had stopped watching the other matches.
Casey lay there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, winded. Then, his chest started to heave. He wasn't choking; he was laughing. A deep, belly chuckle.
"Okay," he wheezed, tapping the mat. "Okay. You got me."
I stood up and offered him a hand. He took it, pulling himself up with a groan. He rubbed his lower back.
"You fight dirty," he said, but there was no malice in it. "I like that."
"Does that mean you'll come?" I asked.
Casey agreed. "A deal's a deal. I'll check your team out. But if they suck, I'm walking out in ten minutes. And I'm charging you for the gas."
"Fair enough," I said, grinning.
We walked off the mat to grab our water bottles. I exchanged numbers with him, punching my digits into his blackberry.
"Tomorrow. 3:30 PM. Palisades High Gym," I told him. "Ask for Bradley Naird."
"Naird," Casey repeated, looking at the contact name. "Alright, Naird. Let's see if your team has as much fight as you do."
I watched him walk away to grab a towel. I had a coach. Or at least, a prospect. And judging by the way he handled himself, if I could get him on board, the seniors wouldn't know what hit them.