It was a garbage kick. It was flashy, useless against anyone who knew how to step into the pocket rather than back away. But the blue belts murmured in awe, and Trent smirked, adjusting his belt with a sharp, performative tug.
"All right, line up."
The voice belonged to Graham Foster, the head instructor. He emerged from the back office holding a clipboard and a half-empty mug of coffee. Graham was in his late thirties, sporting a fading athletic build that was rapidly surrendering to a diet of fast food and administrative stress. He walked with a slight limp, an old knee injury he probably talked about too much.
The class scrambled to the center of the mats, organizing themselves by rank. The black belts took the front. Trent stood dead center, chest puffed out, exuding the heavy scent of Axe body spray and spearmint gum. Holland didn't move. She stayed by the heavy bags, a small, pale ghost in oversized canvas.
Graham looked up from his clipboard, his brow furrowing as he spotted her. He sighed, a wet, rattling sound. "Hey kid, you're in the wrong hour. Fundamentals is on Tuesdays."
The front row turned. Trent leaned over to the guy next to him, a tall, gangly black belt with acne scars, and muttered something. The gangly guy snorted, a sharp, ugly sound that echoed off the mirrors.
Holland felt a familiar crawling sensation at the base of her neck. Social anxiety. It was the great paradox of her life. Put her in a ring with a heavily padded opponent trying to take her head off, and her heart rate barely climbed. Make her the center of attention in a room full of strangers, and her stomach turned to battery acid.
"The front desk put me in here," Holland said. Her voice was raspy, quieter than she intended. She cleared her throat, hating the weakness in it.
"They said it was open mat for the second half. It's full-contact drills," Graham said, rubbing his temple. He looked at the clock. "Look, just stay out of the way. Do some sit-ups. Don't touch the heavy bags. The brackets are loose."
Holland nodded once, staring at the floor. She just wanted to blend into the painted cinder block wall. She sank to the mat, sitting in a loose lotus position, and began stretching her hamstrings.
The class commenced. It was a symphony of bad habits. As Holland pressed her chest to her knee, she listened to the rhythm of the room. The squeak of bare feet, the dull thwack of synthetic leather hitting focus mitts, the exaggerated, breathless grunts of guys trying to hit harder than their technique allowed.
Every few minutes, she felt eyes on her. Trent and his buddies were grouped near her corner. They were supposed to be running simple jab-cross-roundhouse drills, but they spent more time talking.
"Look at the form on the white belt," Trent sneered loudly, not bothering to lower his voice. Holland was currently just doing a basic hip stretch, her face pressed against her shin.
"Careful, Trent," the gangly guy mocked. "She looks lethal. Might bust out the crane kick."