"All right, partner up. Six-minute rounds," the instructor yelled, clapping his hands. Sarah stood, scanning the room for another blue belt. Before she could make eye contact with anyone, a heavy hand clapped her on the shoulder.
"Let's go, Sarah. Your turn," Derek said. It wasn't a request. Her stomach tightened. Rolling with Derek wasn't training. It was surviving an ego trip.
"Sure, Derek." They slapped hands and bumped fists. The timer buzzed. Derek didn't bother with technique. He relied on his 80-pound weight advantage. Within ten seconds, he bypassed her guard, shoving her legs aside with lazy contempt, and dropped his entire body weight onto her chest.
The breath exploded out of Sarah's lungs in a sharp hiss. She framed her forearms against his collarbones, trying to create an inch of space. It was like trying to bench-press a parked car. Derek smiled, a small, patronizing curl of the lips. He wasn't sweating. He took his time, methodically isolating her right arm. Sarah bridged hard, trying to buck him off, but he floated over her hips, pinning her flat.
"Too slow," he muttered. He slid his knee onto her stomach. The pain was immediate and sharp. Sarah gasped, her core muscles burning as she tried to defend her ribs. As soon as her hands dropped to deal with the knee, Derek's thick forearm slid across her throat. His other hand grabbed the collar of her gi, setting up a cross-collar choke.
He didn't ease into it. He snapped it tight with a violent jerking motion. The pressure closed around her throat and restricted the blood flow that kept her alert. The panic was instantaneous. It wasn't the slow, methodical squeeze of a partner practicing a move. It was mean. It was a punishment.
Sarah's hand slammed against the mat. Tap, tap, tap. Derek didn't let go. She tapped again, harder, frantically slapping his shoulder. Tap, tap, tap. He adjusted his grip, pulling tighter. He drove his forehead into the mat, locking his arms out.