Mia finished the wrap on her left hand, started on her right. The tape unrolled cleanly. The weight of it familiar. The small ritual of it. Something she hadn't fully realized she'd missed.
She thought about Connie driving down from Delwood. 72 years old. The same drive she had made years ago, bringing Sandra to train. The same gym, the same mats. A different generation.
"Did you know," Mia said, not looking up from the wrap, "that she never watched my mother's final match in person? She was sick that week. She watched the video afterward."
Foss was quiet.
"She's never told me that," Mia said. "But I found the video when I was going through Mom's things. And in the corner of the frame, you can see the seat where Connie should have been sitting. Empty."
She smoothed the last piece of tape down. Looked at her hands.
"She never mentioned it," Mia said. "Not once. She just showed up the next weekend and kept training me."
Foss was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's very Connie."
"Yes," Mia said. "It is."
She stood up and moved to the center of the mats. "Let's work on the clinch," she said.
It was late on the ninth night when the other thing happened.
She was at her desk, going over match footage Foss had given her of Dara Vas, when her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She almost didn't answer it.
She answered.
"Is this Mia Callahan?"
A man's voice. Measured. The voice of someone who had made many strategic phone calls.
"Yes," she said.
"This is Warren Hartwell."
She sat very still.
"I hope I'm not calling too late," he said, in the tone of someone who was not concerned about that at all. "I wanted to reach out personally. I understand you've signed up for our regional competition."
"I have," she said.
"Wonderful. We're very proud of that event. It's something the family has supported for several years."
A pause. He was letting the context establish itself. The money behind the competition. The name on the building. The reach.
"I also understand there may have been some friction between you and my son recently."
"There has been," she said.
"Reese can be..." Another pause. "...spirited. I apologize if that's caused you any inconvenience."
Inconvenience.
She sat with that word.
"Inconvenience," she said. Her voice was even.
"I wanted to call because I believe in direct communication," Hartwell said. "And I think, in this situation, it might be worth having a direct conversation about your plans going forward at Harrove."
She understood exactly what he was doing. It was done well. No explicit threat. Just the weight of a man with resources, making contact to let you know he was aware of you.