Chapter 10: The Injury Scare
The air inside the dojo hung thick with the scent of disinfectant, worn canvas, and the distinct metallic tang of exertion. It was a standard Tuesday evening sparring session, the kind where the humidity from thirty bodies clung to the white walls and made the green puzzle mats slightly tacky beneath our bare feet. Coach's whistle blew sharp and sudden, cutting through the low murmur of conversation and the steady thud of bodies hitting the floor.
"Reset and drill," Coach called out, pacing the edge of the mat with a clipboard tucked under one arm. "High-amplitude throws. Let's see proper hip engagement. Move!"
Across the mat, Marcus caught my eye. Over the past few weeks, the jagged edges of our initial dojo rivalry had smoothed into something unspoken yet solid—a relentless, quiet rhythm of mutual challenge. He didn't offer any taunts tonight, no remarks about my white belt or my stature. Instead, he just gave a brief, sharp nod, his blue gi already darkened with sweat across the shoulders.
"You're up," he said, stepping into the center square.
We squared off, gripping collars and sleeves with familiar efficiency. My fingers locked onto his left lapel while my right hand clamped onto his tricep. The drill was simple: alternate throws with full resistance, starting from a standing clinch. Marcus went first, executing a clean, sharp tai-otoshi that sent me sliding across the mat, my shoulder blades slapping the foam. I rolled out, popped back to my feet, and immediately reset my grip.
"My turn," I said, catching my breath.
I secured my grips, dropping my center of gravity low as I stepped in to execute a standard shoulder throw, an ippon-seoinage. Marcus reacted instantly, shifting his weight to counter and stuff my hip. The physics of the movement shifted in a fraction of a second. Instead of completing the clean rotation, our momentum tangled. He tried to adjust mid-air, but his trailing foot caught the edge of a loose puzzle seam where two mats met.
There was a sharp, dry pop that sounded distinct over the ambient noise of the room—not the dull thud of cotton against foam, but something tight and unnatural.
Marcus hit the mat hard, his body twisting awkwardly as he landed squarely on his right shoulder. For a heartbeat, the dojo seemed to mute itself. The laughter from the spectators near the folding chairs died out instantly.
Marcus didn't get up. He rolled onto his side, his breath hitching sharply in his throat, eyes screwed shut as his left hand clamped over the top of his right shoulder. A pale sheen of sweat broke across his forehead, instantly washing out the confident flush of exertion.
Without thinking, I dropped to my knees and crawled across the intervening space, my hands hovering just above him before I forced myself to touch his good arm. "Marcus. Hey. Stay still."
Coach was already striding across the mats, his whistle swinging from its lanyard. "Hold on, give him room. Back up, everyone."
Marcus groaned, his teeth gritted as he tried to force himself up onto one elbow. The stubborn pride that defined every movement he made on these mats flared instantly in his eyes, even as his face drained of color. He shook his head, wincing violently as the movement jostled the joint.
"I'm fine," he muttered, his voice strained, words clipped short by a sharp intake of breath. He tried to roll his right shoulder back, stopped halfway with a harsh gasp, and let his arm drop limply against the green mat. "Just... slipped on the seam. It's nothing."
"You look green," I said, my voice dropping low, ignoring his attempt to push himself up. "Don't move it."
Coach knelt on his other side, heavy calloused fingers gently probing the clavicle and the top of the deltoid. Marcus flinched, pulling away instinctively, his jaw locked so tight the muscle twitched.
"Don't touch it," Marcus repeated, though the defiance in his voice lacked its usual weight.
"You're done for the night, Marcus," Coach said flatly, his tone leaving zero room for argument. He looked up, catching my eye across Marcus's chest. "Grab the ice pack from the back office. And a compression wrap."
I stood up immediately, turning toward the supply room while the rest of the class drifted back to the perimeter walls, murmuring quietly. When I returned a minute later with a plastic bag filled with crushed ice wrapped in a hand towel, Marcus was still on the mat, sitting up against the wall now with his knees drawn up, looking stubbornly down at his feet.
He didn't look up as I knelt beside him again. Carefully, deliberately, I eased the makeshift ice pack onto his shoulder, pressing it gently against the bruised joint. He hissed through his teeth at the sudden cold, but he didn't pull away this time. He let his head rest back against the white wall, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
"Thanks," he muttered, so quietly I almost missed it over the sound of the gym's overhead vents.
May you like
"Just start counting," I said quietly, repeating the old echo back to him with a faint, steady look.
Marcus let out a short, defeated exhale that sounded almost like a laugh, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. He agreed to sit out the rest of the session, holding the ice pack in place with his left hand while I stayed beside him on the mat, watching the rest of the class resume their drills.
