Inside supply closet, Lena sorted gloves for youth program donation.

Old but usable:
six pairs.
four shin guards.
two headgear.

Cassidy:
“Where going?”

“Youth center.”

“The one with belt?”

“Yes.”

Cassidy picked glove.

“This one smells like death.”

“Trash.”

She tossed.

For twenty minutes, they sorted.

No fighting talk.

Lena told about Bernice refusing throw out plastic containers.
Cassidy told about Susan mailing protein bars she hated.

Ordinary conversation.

Then Amaya came looking.

“Ms. Brooks?”

“Yes?”

“Coach Gavin says ask if you can show body defense Saturday.”

Lena stared.

“Why me?”

“He said because you agreed to history panel, not coaching, so ask.”

That was careful.

Amaya:
“You don’t have to.”

Lena considered.

“Five minutes.”

Amaya’s face lit.

“Really?”

“Five.”

Cassidy:
“That’s how it starts.”

Lena pointed.

“Quiet.”

Saturday youth class, Lena wore gym clothes, not uniform.

No belt.
No announcement.

She showed:
how to keep elbows connected.
how to turn body shot.
how to frame without panic.

Cassidy was demonstration partner.

Lena:
“Hit light.”

Cassidy jabbed body.

Lena redirected.

Again.

Then she showed difference between absorbing and bracing.

Amaya tried with partner.

Lena corrected.

Five minutes became twelve.

At twelve, she stopped.

Gavin:
“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Everybody learned.”

“Yes.”

“You could—”

“No.”

He smiled.

“Okay.”

Cassidy did not ask either.

That was important.

After class, Amaya:
“You’re good teacher.”

Lena:
“Thank you.”

“Will you do again?”

“Maybe.”

Not no.

Cassidy heard.

Said nothing.

That afternoon, Lena sat in empty bleachers after shift.

Keisha joined with coffee.

Cassidy was across gym stretching and could hear only pieces.

Keisha:
“You like it.”

Lena:
“Don’t.”

Keisha laughed.

“Kids.”

“Kids are different.”

“Why?”

“They don’t have careers in my hands.”

Keisha’s expression softened.

“You still think I was in your hands.”

Lena looked.

“You were partly.”

“I was twenty-six.”

“You were hurt.”

“I said continue.”

“You weren’t thinking clear.”

“Neither was coach. Neither was doctor.”

Lena:
“Exactly.”

Keisha:
“So you alone?”

“No.”

“But you carry alone.”

Silence.

Cassidy looked away.

Not hers.

Later, Keisha approached while Lena was in office.

“Don’t tell her I talked.”

Cassidy:
“Then don’t.”

Keisha smiled.

“Fair.”

She:
“I’ve been trying get her back around youth coaching for years.”

“Don’t use me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good.”

“Everybody.”

Cassidy groaned.

Keisha:
“She listens to you because you annoy.”

“Great.”

“No. You force old feelings.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It can be.”

Keisha:
“Just don’t turn her healing into your project.”

Cassidy:
“I won’t.”

She meant.

The next week, national promotion informed Cassidy she would get one more fight under current deal, but title eliminator path paused.

Opponent undecided.
Date six weeks.

Not immediate.

She needed rebuild.

Monica Feld found new manager:
Dana Whitcomb, thirty-nine, former fighter, direct.

First meeting:

“I don’t care about Lena story.”