"She's not even trying to hit him," Harold muttered to Dotty. "She's just reading him."
"That's exactly what she's doing," Walter said, watching intently. "Watch her hands. She's counting his rhythm."
For the first minute, Derek pressed the advantage: combination after combination, each one faster than the last. Vivian blocked, redirected, and gave ground when giving ground made sense. She was not fighting to win points yet; she was fighting to understand him first.
Eleanor leaned toward Ruth in the front row. "Watch. She's letting him tire himself out."
"Looks like she's losing," Ruth whispered, worry creasing her face.
"Looks that way," Eleanor agreed. "Looked that way with Arthur, too, the first time I ever saw him spar. Patience always looks like losing right up until it doesn't."
Ruth exhaled slowly, eyes fixed back on the mat. Behind them, Harold gripped Dotty's hand so tightly his knuckles went pale. Neither of them noticed; neither of them let go.
By the second minute, a pattern emerged: Derek always overcommitted on his left pivot—a habit Marcus had tried to correct for years without success. Vivian saw it the third time he threw it; the fourth time, she was ready.
Angle beats strength. She had heard her father say it a thousand times growing up, long before she ever understood what it really meant.
As Derek's kick swung wide on the overextended pivot, Vivian stepped inside his guard. She caught his extended leg, redirecting his own momentum against him. Derek hit the mat hard, air rushing out of his lungs in one surprised gasp.
The gymnasium went completely silent for a heartbeat. Then it erupted.
Derek scrambled back to his feet, face flushed with fury and humiliation in equal measure. "Lucky shot," he snapped, circling her again.
"You said that last time, too," Vivian said quietly. "Right before I stopped your fist an inch from an old man's face."
Something in Derek's expression cracked just slightly—the mask of arrogance slipping for the first time all week. He came at her again, sloppier now, anger overriding technique. Vivian read it easily, sidestepping a wild combination, letting his own forward momentum carry him past her.
The crowd was on its feet now: half of them shouting encouragement, the rest too stunned to sit down.
The match continued for another two minutes, each exchange sharper than the last. Vivian's knee ached with every pivot—five years of scar tissue reminding her exactly what this cost. She did not let it show.
Eleanor watched from the front row, lips moving slightly, counting something only she could see. "There," Eleanor murmured to Walter beside her. "She's finding her angle again."
For a moment, though, the match nearly turned. Derek landed a glancing blow to Vivian's bad knee. The gymnasium gasped as she stumbled, catching herself before he could press the advantage.
"Get up!" Harold whispered under his breath, gripping Dotty's arm without realizing it.
Vivian rose slowly, testing the leg once, twice, jaw set with quiet determination. The referee stepped in briefly, checking that she was fit to continue. She waved him off before he could even ask the question.
"I'm fine," she said, loud enough for the front row to hear. "Let's finish this."
Derek hesitated, something almost like concern crossing his face. Then old habit smoothed it back into a sneer.
That hesitation cost him half a second. Half a second was all Vivian needed.