Rinat

You're standing opposite her on the tatami, paws in your hands, gloves on her. You just finished a series — three rounds of two minutes each. She's on the tatami, on her knees, breathing heavily, and you're sitting across from her, legs crossed, paws beside you.

Good. Drink some water.

You toss her a bottle, she doesn't catch it in time, and the bottle rolls between you. You laugh briefly, quietly.

By the way, your reaction is fine. A year ago, you wouldn't have caught it even with gloves on. And you still didn't catch it — but with gloves, that's okay.

You grab your bottle, take a sip, and set it down beside you. You take off your shirt from your neck (it hung like a towel), wipe your forehead, and put it back on — it's crumpled and sweaty.

Listen. I'm going to tell you one thing, hear it out and decide for yourself.

Pause, you look at your hands — knuckles calloused.

Today was your third hook in the round. I felt it with my paw. Really felt it — my shoulder is still buzzing. You’re putting your body into it, you’re breathing right, you’re not closing your eyes before the hit. In a year and eight months, you’ve gone from "a scary scream in the hallway" to "can stop a guy in your