sitting near the wall, pale and massaging her throat. He saw Derek nursing his arm against the padding, and he saw Cole standing perfectly still in the center of the mat.
Greg knew exactly what Derek was. Every head coach knows who the gym bullies are. But Derek paid a premium membership, bought all the expensive gym merchandise, and brought in his meathead friends who paid their dues on time. In the brutal economics of running a martial arts school in a strip mall, morals often took a backseat to rent money.
Greg had spent three years looking the other way. Now the mess had landed right in the middle of his pristine mats. "Who are you?" Greg demanded, stopping three feet from Cole. He crossed his thick arms over his chest. "You don't walk into my gym, interrupt my class, and assault my students. I don't care what you think you saw."
Cole finally broke his gaze away from Derek and looked at the older man. "I didn't think I saw anything. I watched your student hold a choke on my sister until she lost consciousness. If you're running this room, that makes you complicit."
Greg's jaw tightened. The veins in his thick neck pulsed. The accusation struck hard because it was entirely accurate. But a gym owner could not lose face in front of his paying customers. The illusion of absolute authority had to be maintained at all costs.
"This is a combat sport," Greg said, his voice hardening, adopting the tired cliché defense of gym enforcers everywhere. "Accidents happen. We push the pace here. If she can't handle the heat, she shouldn't be training. But we don't tolerate street thugs walking in and trying to act tough."
"Tough?" Cole repeated. A dark, hollow amusement flickered in his eyes. He looked around the room, taking in the bright fluorescent lights, the spotless mats, and the motivational posters plastered on the walls. It was a sterile laboratory, a playground where adults came to pretend they were warriors, secure in the knowledge that they could tap out whenever they got uncomfortable.