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“Problem?” I ask.

“No problem. You just found me.”

“You telegraphed the overhand,” I state.

“I always telegraph the overhand.”

“Then why does it still land on people?” I ask.

He spreads his hands. “Because by the time they figure it out, they’ve already eaten four body shots and their brain’s running slow.”

“Noted.” I point at him. “That’s not happening with me.”

“Oh, I know.” He looks genuinely delighted. “This is going to be fun.”

Dante and I are sharp. Clinical, almost. We spend three minutes testing each other’s reactions, learning response times and habits. He’s trying to figure out what I default to under pressure and I’m doing the same to him. It’s almost like chess in fighting gear, and when Eli calls time, Dante gives me this slow, approving nod, his eyes darkening with more than just professional appreciation.

The man issmooth. I’m aware of it.

Brady’s different. We slip into each other’s rhythm easily, which is both useful and slightly alarming. At one point we’re moving in perfect counter to each other, a fluid exchange that draws Cruz to the edge of the mat.

“Yo,” Cruz calls to Dante, not quietly. “Does that look like two people who’ve never trained together before?”

“Not even slightly,” Dante says.

Brady overextends on a hook out of distraction and I slip it, take his back, get the body triangle.

“Stop listening to them,” I tell him.

“I’m not listening to them.”

“Your pink ears tell another story.”

He laughs into the mat, genuinely, and taps.

Eli runs us through cool-down stretches himself, which is the part of coaching that doesn’t require him to keep professional distance, and I’m very aware of him moving through the group, crouching to check alignment, adjusting Brady’s hip angle on a hip-flexor stretch with a hand on his pelvis, giving Cruz a correction on shoulder position with both hands on his traps. He does the same for Dante. When he gets to me, he crouches beside me in a low lunge and I watch him register my position.

“Hip square,” he says. His voice drops slightly when he addresses me specifically.

“It is square.”

“Left side’s rotating.” He pauses. Long pause. “Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

His hand settles on my left hip, thumb pressing into the iliac crest, and he adjusts the angle precisely, efficiently, and then removes his hand like it burned him. The whole thing takes three seconds. He stands, clears his throat, and goes to check Brady’s lunge depth.

Cruz catches my eye from across the mat and raises one slow eyebrow.

I give him absolutely nothing.

He grins like he won something anyway.

After, we’re all spread around the bench area, unwrapping hands, drinking water. The session’s left us loose and warm, and the mood has shifted from the focused training into the easier version of itself. Cruz sits backward on the bench with a proteinbar, tearing into it. Dante’s reworking the tape on his left hand. Brady’s staring at his phone but not really looking at it.

Eli’s at the far end with his clipboard, writing notes.

“So,” Cruz says, to no one in particular. “First group session. Thoughts.”