A ripple of laughter moved through the students.
Wanda’s voice came out steady. Low. Almost gentle.
“His instructor at school said he had natural talent. He practiced every single night in our backyard, rain or shine.”
“Every night in the backyard.” Brock repeated it slowly, nodding, performing disbelief for the camera.
“That’s adorable. Truly. But this isn’t a backyard, sweetheart. This is a professional training facility. And professional means standards.”
He pointed at the banner above the ring.
“Anderson Elite Combat Academy. Est. 2018. Elite. You see that word up there? That means not everybody gets to walk through my door.”
“He paid the same fee as everyone here.”
“And I gave him a refund.”
“You gave him nothing.”
Brock’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like being corrected. Not in his gym, not in front of his students, and certainly not by a black woman old enough to be his grandmother.
He stepped closer. Close enough to crowd her space. Close enough to make her feel small.
“Let me make this real simple for you. Your grandson doesn’t have what it takes. You don’t have what it takes. And if you don’t walk out that door in the next 30 seconds, I’ll have someone carry you out. Are we clear?”
Wanda looked up at him. She was a full head shorter. She didn’t step back.
“No.”
One word. Quiet as a church bell in an empty field.
Brock blinked. Then laughed. A sharp, forced bark that bounced off the mirrored walls.
“No? Did this old woman just say no to me?”
He spun to his students, arms wide open.
“You all hearing this? Grandma just said no to me.”
He pressed his hand to his chest in mock shock.
“Oh Lord, I’m terrified. Absolutely shaking.”
More laughter. Louder this time. Phones were out everywhere. Four, five, six of them recording.
Then something shifted in Brock’s face. The performance dropped away. The grin thinned into something harder. What replaced it was real. A cold, humiliated fury that had nothing to do with cameras.
