One step sideways.
One turn.
Space first.
And for the first time, hearing her father’s name no longer made the room afraid.
After class, Cassidy sometimes stayed alone long enough for the building to settle into silence. The old ring ropes creaked. Pipes clicked. Traffic moved outside Eleventh Avenue.
On those nights she understood why Patrick had never brought her back. The club had held both the best and worst parts of his young life. He had learned discipline there, then learned how easily men with money could turn discipline into obedience.
Cassidy chose not to inherit his silence.
She also chose not to inherit his bitterness.
The distinction became part of every class she taught. A fighter could remember what happened without living forever inside the round where it happened. You learned, adjusted, protected yourself, and kept moving.
Patrick had taught her that too, even if he never used the words.
Always.
