I turned forty-five degrees and faced Blake Haron.
“Mr. Haron,” I said, keeping my tone level, measured, and conversational:
“My son is thirteen years old. He has been training for six months. You deliberately pulled him into a full-contact demonstration to flatter your sponsors on video. I’d like an apology to my boy, and I’d like the two hundred and forty dollars I paid for this month’s membership refunded to my card right now.”
Blake blinked, then threw his head back and let out a sharp, derisive snort that sprayed saliva across the mat:
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“An apology?!” Blake sneered, his eyes sweeping over my patched flannel work shirt, my calloused plumber’s hands, and the dirt ground into the seams of my faded jeans:
“Listen to me, grease monkey. Your kid is soft. He’s timid, he has zero killer instinct, and you're just one of those coddling, single-parent blue-collar crybabies who can't accept that his boy needs to get beat down to become a man!”
