Page 13 of 4th Degree

“You probably had plenty of concussions; you were just too stubborn to acknowledge them.”

“And for jiu-jitsu, our training was completely different,” I continue, bypassing her comment, even though it's probably true. “We do way more drilling and teaching nowadays. Back then, most of my time was spent live rolling. It was a learn-as-you-go kind of thing.”

She's wide-eyed as she tries to imagine it. “That…sounds bizarre. There were no classes?”

“We had classes, just not as many as we have now. But beyond that, our new moves came from stumbling upon them during live rolls, or having our teammates share something they picked up somewhere. There was no internet, no YouTube where we could research a technique by looking up a tutorial. I used to have to rent VHS tapes of old matches and watch them over and over again to try to pinpoint the details. No one except our main coach was breaking down moves the way I break them down for you guys.”

She's silent, mulling over the picture I just painted for her. I never really stopped to think about how much the game has changed in the twenty years I've been in it, so I'm a little lost in the memories right now, too.

It means I don't expect it when she asks, “What's a VHS tape?”

It takes me a second to drag my head back to reality. And then another.

“Are you serious?”

For a moment, we only stare at each other. Her expression is one of confusion, whereas mine is one of shock. Shock at my own age, at what her question signifies, at the difference in our general life experience.

I think I'm on the verge of an existential crisis when I see the corner of her lip twitch.

She's fucking with me.

“Smartass,” I growl, though it sounds slightly impressed to my ears.

And she hears it, because her half-smirk blooms into a grin.

“You calling me old?” I ask.

She doesn't even flinch. “I would never disrespect my coach like that,” she quips, looking every bit the troublemaker.

“You are a smartass,” I repeat, reaching up to tug a strand of hair that's escaped her crazy post-training hair.

I don’t even realize what I’ve done, until I hear Skylar suck in a startled breath at the touch. It hits me then I’m way too close to her, because there’s no way I should be able to see the golden flecks in her eyes.

No reason I should want to find out how many there are.

I pull my hand back and awkwardly cough into it, then quickly stand from the couch and return to the reception desk. I have no idea what to say, or how to get back on topic. What had she asked me?

“So, what I’m hearing is…” Skylar says, and I let out a breath of relief. When I finally meet her eyes again, she looks completely normal, not uncomfortable at all—besides the slight color in her cheeks.

“That we should bow to you for your instruction?”

My lip twitches with a grin. “I’m saying you have no idea how much easier it is to consume the sport’s technical knowledge nowadays.” I pause for a second, nodding. “Also yes, you should be bowing to my greatness.”

Her laugh rings out, and two things become clear to me…

One: I wish I could bottle that sound and play it on repeat.

And two: that's not a normal thought for a coach to have about their student.

6

SKYLAR

When I walk into the arena on Friday night, it's with a riot of emotions.

Not working tonight feels weird. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t work a Friday night. Normally, there’s no way I call out of work, but then one of my coworkers asked to swap my shift tonight with her shift on St. Patrick’s Day, and it was a no-brainer to accept. The fact that it opened up my night and made it possible to come to the fights tonight was just a bonus.

A very exciting bonus.

---