Luke Riley came in from the side. He got two hands on the belt, found the knot, and stripped it off her waist in one hard pull. He held it up by the tail so the red thread caught the window light. Then he walked to the trash can by the front door and dropped it in.
The room made a noise. Not a laugh—something lower and shorter—and then nothing at all for three full seconds.
Tanya Burke was on her feet again. Two of the women beside her were already standing. Martin Keenan came out from behind the desk.
"Mason, that's enough."
"It's a costume, Martin. I'm helping her out of it."
For Mason Clark, this was Sunday. Sunday was the day the room filled up with people who had paid nothing. A full room was an audience. An audience was the only thing that had ever made him feel exactly the right size. Four years undefeated. His face six feet tall on the wall. A girl had walked onto that barefoot, in a dead man's clothes, and told him she only needed her grip. He had been told no by a doctor, a promoter, and a wife. He had never once been told no on his own mat.
He turned in a slow circle with his arms out, playing the whole room. "Okay, okay, let's be fair about it." He pointed at her. "She says she just needs her grip. Fine, there's no grip now. No gi, no belt, nothing to hold on to." He grinned. "So, let's see what's left."
"Mason—" Martin said.
"Three of us." Mason held up fingers as he counted. "Me, Jake, Luke. One at a time so it lasts. You stay on your feet through all three, and I get on my knees right here on camera. I apologize to you in front of every person in this building, and your little clinic runs."
Somebody whistled. Jake Dawson laughed out loud.
"And if she doesn't?" Kyle Morrison had come down from the office. He had his phone in his hand, and he was not smiling.
"If she doesn't, she walks out that door and never comes back. That's it. That's the whole deal."
Gianna looked at the trash can by the door. "One thing," she said.
"What?"