She sat on the edge of his bed. She didn’t say anything for a long time. Then she stood up, walked to the hallway closet, and took out her purse.
Elijah sat up.
“Where are you going?”
“To get your explanation.”
“Grandma, don’t—”
But Wanda Moore was already out the door.
And somewhere across town, inside a gym that smelled like leather and ego, Brock Anderson was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
—
Wanda Moore pushed open the glass door of Anderson Elite Combat Academy at 4:47 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon.
The gym was everything she expected. Mirrored walls, heavy bags hanging in rows, a competition ring in the center. The smell of sweat and leather and something chemical — probably that spray they use on mats to pretend they’re clean.
Fourteen students were mid-drill. All white. Every single one.
Brock Anderson stood in the center of the ring, shirtless, wrapping his hands. He saw her reflection in the mirror before he saw her face. A black woman, 62, gray hair, walking into his gym like she had an appointment.
He didn’t even turn around.
“Hey, you lost? Door’s behind you.”
Wanda stopped at the edge of the mat. She didn’t step on it. Not yet. She set her purse strap higher on her shoulder and spoke clearly.
“I’m looking for the owner. My grandson was a student here. Elijah Moore.”
Now Brock turned. Slowly. He looked her up and down the way a man inspects something stuck to his shoe.
“Elijah.” He said the name like it tasted bad.
“Yeah, I remember him. Tall kid. Couldn’t throw a jab to save his life.”
“He paid $300 for this month. You kicked him out with two weeks left. I want to know why.”
Brock tilted his head. A grin spread across his face. Not a kind one.
“Why? Because I run a gym, not a daycare. And I don’t owe you, him, or anybody an explanation.”
He took a step closer.
“Especially not some old black woman who walks in here like she owns the place.”
