He pulled up his fight highlight reel on somebody’s phone at one point, narrating his own knockouts like a sports announcer. And the small cluster around him laughed at all the right moments, the right moments. The way people laugh when they’re humoring someone rather than genuinely entertained. I watched it from a distance, sipping lemonade, saying nothing, wanting nothing more than to get through the afternoon without incident.
Around 5, the sun dipping low enough to gild everything gold. Tyler’s voice rose above the general chatter of the party. That particular pitch when they’ve had just enough alcohol to mistake volume for charisma. Anybody here think they can beat me? he called out, arms spread, grinning at the crowd like he already knew the answer.
Come on, anybody. I’ll go easy. Nobody answered. A few uncomfortable laughs. Somebody’s dad shook his head and turned back to the grill. The silence that followed wasn’t respectful. It was the silence of people who found him exhausting, but didn’t want the confrontation of saying so out loud.
That silence seemed to bother Tyler more than an outright challenge would have. He scanned the crowd, and I felt it before I saw it. The exact moment his eyes landed on me, standing near the drink table with my lemonade, unremarkable, unbothered. “What about you, Colonel?” he said, and the crowd’s attention shifted toward me like a tide changing direction.
He’d taken to calling me that as a joke months earlier, a mocking little nickname because Malik had let it slip once that I served. And Tyler had decided it was funny. A woman with a rank nobody in the neighborhood took seriously. You’re always so quiet, so calm. I bet you think you could take me.
I didn’t answer. I took a sip of my lemonade. He crossed the pavement toward me, unzipped the small gym bag he’d apparently brought for exactly this moment, and pulled out a pair of MMA gloves, red and worn from use, and dropped them at my feet. They hit the concrete with a soft thud that somehow silenced the entire block.
String lights swayed overhead. Somebody’s phone came up, already filming. Felt every eye on that street turn toward us at once. Come on, Colonel Tyler said loud enough for everyone to hear. That same performative grin plastered across his face. Put your money where your mouth is.
I haven’t said a word, I said quietly. Exactly. He shot back, playing to the crowd now, feeding off the attention. You never do. You just walk around acting like you’re better than everybody. Like you know something the rest of us don’t. So show us.
Or is the tough guy act just for civilians who don’t know any better? I felt Malik’s eyes on me from across the yard, frozen mid throw, football forgotten in his hands. I felt Gregory’s presence, too, drifting closer, phone already raised, that same amused superiority on his face. The look of a man who fully expected this to end in his son’s favor and wanted documentation of it.
