I step onto the mat, because that is what Lyra and I do now.
She turns slightly to address the room.
"He is much bigger," she says, glancing at me, "and possibly stronger than I am."
A few people laugh.
I lift one brow.
There she is.
"Possibly?"
"I'm being generous," she says, without even looking at me.
The laughter comes louder this time.
"Which means," she continues, "if I try to force him down, I'll lose. I need to take his balance, enter the space, and make his momentum do the work."
She reaches for my wrist.
Her touch is firm and professional, yet still enough to pull every instinct in me painfully awake.
She positions my arm across the line of her shoulder, demonstrating slowly.
"First, secure the wrist or sleeve. You need control of the arm, not a death grip."
She adj
