"Ready?" he asked.
"Not even a little," Vivian admitted. "But I'm doing it anyway."
Arthur smiled—the kind of smile that carried thirty-eight years of history behind it. "That's the only kind of ready that ever counts," he said.
He wrapped the belt around her waist slowly, tying it the same way he had taught her when she was seven years old, small hands struggling with the same knot back then.
"Your mother tied this belt on you the first time," Arthur said quietly. "Seemed right that I finished the job today."
Vivian blinked back tears, steadying her breath. "Let's go make her proud," she said.
Outside the equipment room, Eleanor Voss waited with her cane. Walter and Ruth stood beside her.
"Nervous?" Eleanor asked when Vivian emerged.
"Terrified," Vivian admitted.
"Good," Eleanor said. "Anyone who isn't scared before a fight like this hasn't understood the stakes." She placed a hand briefly on Vivian's shoulder—an old teacher's gesture, brief but heavy with meaning. "You are not fighting for revenge today," Eleanor said. "You are fighting for every person in that room ever told they didn't matter. Fix your stance," Eleanor added one more time. "Everything else will follow."
Ruth squeezed her hand once, tears already threatening. Walter simply nodded, unable to trust his voice just yet.
On the other side of the gymnasium, in a much smaller closet, Derek sat alone, staring at his own hands. He had won every match of his career walking out to cheering crowds; today, he could hear a very different kind of crowd through the thin wall.
His phone buzzed: a text from his father. Whatever happens, remember who you are.
Derek stared at the message for a long moment, something bitter rising in his chest. He was starting to realize he had never actually known the answer to that. He set the phone face down and stood up, rolling his shoulders once, twice. Whatever came next, he decided he would at least walk out there as himself—for maybe the first time in years.
The gymnasium buzzed with noise as Vivian walked out onto the floor. The Golden Years class rose together in the front row. Harold clapped so hard his hands turned pink. Dotty had brought a small handmade sign reading simply: Go Vivian!
Across the mat, Derek stood waiting, his earlier confidence noticeably thinner than a week ago. The crowd had read Delia's article; every one of them knew exactly what they were watching now.
Sheriff Thornton stood near the entrance, arms crossed, watching closely. Delia sat near the front row, laptop still open. Even Marcus stood near the edge of the mat: no longer in Derek's corner, not quite ready to sit with the crowd.
Otis Reed stepped to center court with a microphone, addressing the packed gymnasium. "Folks, this was supposed to be a friendly demonstration," he said, his voice slightly unsteady. "Given everything that's happened this week, we're running it as a sanctioned exhibition match instead. Full rules, full safety standards." He glanced toward both competitors. "Ready?" he asked.
Derek nodded once, jaw tight.
Vivian took a slow breath, feeling the weight of the belt around her waist. "Ready," she said.
The gym fell into a silence so complete you could hear the scoreboard humming. Otis raised his hand, then dropped it. "Begin."
The match began fast. Derek opened with a combination that had won him three national titles: quick and aggressive, testing her reaction time immediately. Vivian stepped back, absorbing the rhythm of it, letting her body remember what five years of stillness had tried to make her forget.
The crowd gasped as Derek's foot swept close to her shoulder. She rolled with it, redirecting the force instead of blocking it head-on.