Page 6 of Code Name: Grit

“You haven’t had formal training.” His expression remained neutral, but I caught the assessment in his gaze. “Theory and application are different.”

I knew more than he thought, but I’d play along. “Fine. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow, zero seven hundred. There’s a training room set up in the boathouse’s lowest level.”

“I’ll be there at zero eight hundred,” I countered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

When I enteredthe training room the following morning, Grit was already there, warming up.

He noticed me and stopped. “Right on time.”

“Unlike some, I don’t feel the need to arrive an hour early,” I said, setting my water bottle down.

He tossed me training gloves. “Let’s see what you know first.”

“Mom’s version of self-defense was ‘hit them where it hurts and run,’” I explained, slipping them on.

“Smart woman.” He circled me slowly. “The best fight is the one you avoid. But when you can’t…”

When he lunged, I reacted instinctively, pivoting to redirect his momentum while slipping past him.

“Your mother taught you well,” he said, nodding.

For the next thirty minutes, we worked through defensive techniques. His teaching style was methodical but intuitive, adapting to how I processed information.

“You’re a quick study,” he said after I broke free from a hold.

“I’ve always been a good student. I could read at three.”

He held up focus mitts. “Show me what you’ve got.”

My first strike lacked conviction.

Grit shook his head. “Don’t just go through the motions. Intent matters. Imagine it’s someone threatening your mother.”

Just like he’d meant with his suggestion, my next punch carried real force.

“Better,” he said. “Again.”

We moved through combinations—jab, cross, hook. Each strike became more fluid than the last.

“Time for ground techniques,” Grit said after a water break. “Most confrontations end up on the floor.”

He demonstrated the basic mount position. “I’ll go slow.” He gestured for me to lie back. “The key is hip movement and weight distribution.”

I positioned myself beneath him, trying to focus on the technique rather than our proximity.

“Now,” he said, “bring your hips up and turn.” He demonstrated the motion. “Use your legs for leverage.”

I executed the escape, nearly unseating him. “Like that?”

“Perfect. Again.”

We worked through various ground positions—each requiring close contact, his hands guiding my movements.

“Your turn,” he finally said, lying back. “Mount position. Show me how you’d control an opponent.”

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