Kindling the Past, page 12
A voice came over the microphone. “Better late than never. Please welcome Regional Chief of Instruction, Master Ty Trahem.”
Applause bounced off the walls of the field house as if a rock star was being introduced. I even saw a couple people standing on chairs to see better.
Master Trahem focused forward and walked toward the head table, all while everyone stood and fell into synchronized clapping. The metal bleachers seemed to vibrate with it.
He made it to the head table and greeted the other masters.
The room fell back to normal, and the competition continued.
Finally, our judges called us to line up. I realized how many were in the ring, the maximum number. I took a breath. At least I knew Master Trahem wouldn’t come over and watch the ring, maybe just a little from afar. He always judged the entire day, though I had the feeling he could get out of it if he wanted to. He would likely be busy in a ring in a few minutes.
“Charyot,” my center judge called, “kyongne.”
The line of competitors bowed.
“Please slide back out of the ring,” the judge said. “We’re ready to begin forms.”
As soon as we moved, he called the first name. I hoped I was one of the first to go. The agony of waiting was worse than performing, like waiting for Chris to find me. Part of me would rather be fighting him. At least I was doing something.
“Good luck.”
I looked over my shoulder. Master Trahem was standing right behind me.
“Just don’t kill anyone in sparring.” He squeezed my shoulder and walked away. My God, I loved when he touched me.
“Kindle Ayres,” the center judge called.
I forced my concentration away from Master Trahem. “Yes, sir,” I said and walked to the center of the ring.
Thankfully, I could do my form without thinking about it. Then I made the turn in the form that faced me toward the stands.
Master Trahem was there, two rows up, watching me.
I managed not to fall, managed to keep going and finish my form. What was he doing? Was there no ring available for him to judge?
“Bahro,” the center judge called.
I stood at attention and waited for my scores. The highest possible was nine, based on the philosophy that no one can truly reach perfection.
I fought very hard not to smile when I received a nine from all three judges. I bowed and stepped back, out of the ring. Master Trahem was still there. He nodded a congratulations.
Then I had to wait through the rest of the forms competition. A couple of the girls received a nine from one of the corner judges. No one else received all three.
Sparring was fun, and in comparison to facing Mr. Schmidt or Master Trahem in a match, easy. My competitors seemed to move so much slower.
“And in first place,” the center judge said when I won another match, as he held up my gloved hand.
I shook hands again with the girl I’d just sparred, the one from Orlando, and then turned to put my gear away in my bag.
Master Trahem was clapping. He was still there. He even stayed through the trophy presentation.
As soon as the center judge dismissed us, the tournament director placed us in rings to judge. By the time I started filling out the paperwork for a group of Tiny Tiger girls, Master Trahem was already running a ring of white and orange belt little boys.
The day flashed by—ring after ring after ring. I kept glancing over to Master Trahem to make sure he seemed all right, not that I could do anything if he didn’t. He did seem okay. His judging seemed just as commanding as usual. Between groups of competitors, I even saw him accept a hug from a woman, someone I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen before. And then some people walked directly in the way, and I couldn’t see him anymore.
I focused on what I was supposed to be doing. The rest of the day, if I had a second, I watched the Jacksonville students compete, not Master Trahem.
In the afternoon, Mr. Schmidt found a spare minute to come over and congratulate me. His grin was brighter than the shine of the lights off my trophies.
Finally, finally the end of the day came. I’d skipped my opportunity for lunch, so I was famished and trying to remember if I’d passed a McDonald’s on the way here. There was no way I could wait two hours until I got home to eat.
Closing ceremonies were short, just a thank you from the tournament host and a bow out. Being a higher rank, Mr. Schmidt was lined up closer to the head table, closer to Master Trahem. As everyone started to scatter, I noticed them talking, probably about how the students had done. Mr. Schmidt always helped keep an eye on everyone.
I went back over to the ring I’d judged last to grab my stuff. Carrying my bag and two big trophies was awkward.
“Need help?” Master Trahem had snuck up behind me again. He was the only person who could do that and not make me jump.
“No thank you, sir. I have it.”
He rolled his eyes and took my bag off my shoulder. I followed him toward the locker rooms. Didn’t he have something better to do than help me carry a bag? He usually socialized with Master Cornwell and Master Mendel. Maybe he wasn’t feeling up to it.
“Good job, by the way,” he said. “I knew you’d do well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And you didn’t even kill anyone.”
I smirked.
“Though I think that one girl was a little teary-eyed, the one you kicked in the head three times in a row. That may have been the fastest match I’ve ever seen.”
“My contribution to making the day go a little faster.”
He grinned.
“You didn’t eat lunch,” he said. “You must be starving. There’s a restaurant just up the road I always go to.”
Anna told me a couple tournaments ago that they had taken Mr. Schmidt out to dinner to talk about how the students had done. It was the closest to socializing Master Trahem got with students, and only with Mr. Schmidt. He was obviously inviting me along this time. I could afford one dinner at a decent restaurant, especially since he insisted on paying me what he did.
“Okay, sir,” I said.
He stopped at the door to the women’s locker room. “I’ll meet you upstairs in a few minutes.”
I took my bag. “Yes, sir.”
He was still standing there when the locker room door closed behind me.
Chapter 14: DINNER
I took an extra minute to take my hair down out of its braid, rinsed a little, and reapplied some vanilla spray. I had to wait in line to use a sink, which took a while. Then I rushed through changing my clothes. From my hurrying and the showers being run, the locker room was sweltering.
While coming and going from tournaments, we were supposed to dress nicely, so I’d pulled out my favorite slacks and blouse, from when I worked data entry jobs. The blouse was a little low-cut. I usually wore a tank top underneath. It was so hot I couldn’t fathom it, and I didn’t want to start sweating when I’d just worked so hard to erase evidence of my long day.
I hurried out of the locker room as I tucked the tank top in my bag, and before I went upstairs, I threw my jacket on to cover better.
Master Trahem was standing by the main doors, but not Mr. Schmidt. Mr. Schmidt was usually quick at changing. Maybe he’d gone ahead to get a table.
Master Trahem turned at my approach. He’d changed into jeans and a sweater, not dress blues like the rest of the high ranks.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Sorry I took so long, sir. The locker room felt like a fight club.”
“Looks like you won the fight.” He took my bag off my shoulder and held the door for me. We walked out to the parking lot.
“No dress blues today, sir?” I teased. He could definitely get away with it. Who was going to tell him different?
“I barely made it here at all. No way was I wearing a damn suit.” He seemed on edge, not angry, just...off. I didn’t ask why he’d decided to come today. He would tell me if he wanted to talk about it.
I unlocked my car. He put my bag on the back seat, and I set my trophies on top. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with them. They were a little big to pack every time I moved, and if Chris ever found them, it would just urge him on, make him want to hit me that much harder. I would likely have to throw the trophies away.
Back door closed, I faced Master Trahem. “Which way to the—”
“The parking’s limited. We should take one car. The college has security. Your car will be fine.”
A confined space where I had to sit close to him. Perhaps this wasn’t a wise idea. But what was I supposed to say?
He held the passenger door of Anna’s Chrysler for me. It still had that new car smell—he didn’t drive it very often.
He sat in the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“You drove your car today,” I said. “Is it supposed to rain?”
“Packing a uniform in a backpack is a pain in the ass.”
But I’d seen him do that lots of times. I didn’t ask further. Perhaps he just didn’t want to drive his motorcycle that far.
The five-minute drive to the restaurant was quiet. The parking lot wasn’t that full. Maybe fewer people than usual had decided to come here after the tournament.
We walked up to the restaurant. The parking lot lights were barely bright enough to illuminate the wood siding of the building. He held the restaurant door open, and a hostess greeted then led us to a booth.
From behind me, Master Trahem’s hand brushed my neck as he took my jacket. I held my breath and hoped I didn’t look flushed when I turned around.
He sat in the booth and set my jacket on the seat next to him. I’d planned on wearing my jacket, using it to conceal the low cut of my blouse. But I couldn’t ask for it back. It was warm in here. He would think I was nuts.
I sat down on the seat opposite him.
“What can I get you to drink?” the hostess said.
Master Trahem looked at me. It took me half a second to realize he was waiting for me to order first.
“Water, please,” I said.
“Sam Adams, in the bottle.”
The hostess smiled at him. “I’ll put that order in for you. Your waitress will be right out.”
“Thank you.” He said it as he looked through the menu.
She left.
“Do you ever drink anything other than water?” He was now looking at me.
“I like water, sir.”
I swore he smirked as he turned back to the menu.
“Of course,” I said, “I usually only drink water that came from an iceberg. Maybe from the Alps, if I’m slumming it.”
He laughed, his Ty laugh, not the Master Trahem one.
We looked at our menus. The salads were usually in the front of the menu, but of course, this place had to be different. I flipped through the entire menu to find them in the back. It wasn’t that I particularly liked salads, or even that I was trying to be careful of what I ate in front of a man. Salads were simply the cheapest thing on the menu. This time I was considering something a little more than the house salad, maybe something with some chicken in it. I was starving.
Several minutes passed. I kept waiting for Mr. Schmidt to show. Obviously, he hadn’t come ahead. Maybe he had to make a stop first?
Finally, I asked. “Could Mr. Schmidt not come, sir?”
He didn’t look up. “I don’t know.”
Now I was confused.
Maybe Master Trahem knew Mr. Schmidt had something else to do so hadn’t asked him? But then he would know why he couldn’t come.
The waitress came with the drinks. “Are you ready to order?”
Master Trahem looked at my menu, at the salads, then to the waitress. “She’ll have the filet, medium.”
I opened my mouth to disagree.
He turned to me. “And a baked potato? Or do you like fries better?”
Both he and the waitress were looking at me. Arguing would be rude and might embarrass him.
“Baked potato,” I said to her.
“Loaded?”
“Just butter, please.”
Master Trahem ordered a steak for himself as well, and the waitress left.
I raised an eyebrow. “What if I was allergic to steak?”
“You’re just being a tightwad.” Then he added, “Have you ever had a filet before?”
“No, sir.” I reached over and straightened the ketchup bottle and desert menu sitting on the back edge of the table.
He paused. “Have you ever had any kind of steak before?”
Why did he have to ask questions like this? “No, sir.”
My mother never had money for stuff like that. And Chris got angry when he thought I spent too much on groceries, so I only ever bought things like that for him. It couldn’t be that much better than a burger anyway.
“You’ll like it,” he said. “You need some solid food after how hard you worked today.”
An opening to start talking about the tournament and the students—and not me.
“I got to see some of Parker’s sparring,” I said. “He dominated his partners. He spars so smart. They didn’t know how to handle him.”
He leaned back in his seat. “Good.”
“Jenny, Sarah, and Michelle ended up in the same ring. They took first, second, and third in forms. Michelle lost first round in sparring, but she was really happy with her forms trophy.”
“I thought they might be in the same ring.”
That was all he said. I talked about several students, and his only response was maybe a sentence. Something was definitely off. I dropped the tournament as a subject, except to add one last thing.
“Thank you, sir, for my competition fee.”
“I’m shocked you accepted it.”
“There wasn’t much I could do. You’d already included it in the check.”
“That was the idea.” He took a sip of beer.
With nothing else to say, I glanced around the restaurant. I had the feeling he was looking at me for some reason. I kept my gaze diverted—and sat straight. I was afraid if I slouched my shirt would reveal more than was appropriate.
The restaurant was a mom and pop kind of place, kind of a TGI Fridays mixed with a Lone Star, without the commercialism. The name of the place was only on the sign outside, not on the napkins or glasses or waitresses’ shirts. It was a laid-back kind of place. I saw why he liked it here, especially after a long day of being Master Trahem.
“You did well,” he finally said. “I’m so... That was the best your form has ever looked, and that’s saying something.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Were you nervous?”
“Testing in front of you is harder.”
His eyebrows lowered.
Crap. This is what I got. I should’ve forced the subject to stay on the tournament, on the students. Now I had to try to explain without sounding like an idiot.
“The judges didn’t know me,” I said. “They didn’t expect anything.”
He was still looking at me with that awaiting expression.
“You expect a lot of me,” I said. “I’m always nervous I’ll...I don’t want to let you down.”
He hesitated. “You could never let me down.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, to the gentleness in his voice. I smiled a little and glanced over at the TV above the bar, as if I was interested in sports. I wasn’t even sure what they were playing.
“You’re my best friend,” he said. “I hope you know that.”
I turned back to him. My lips parted, as if words were trying to come out, but no words seemed to fit. Then I smiled a little. “You too, sir.”
He took a breath. “And yet, I’m still sir.”
“You should be used to it. You’re sir to everyone.”
“Not to everyone.”
My voice quieted. “You’re still missing her.”
“I will always miss her, for everything she did for me. She made me love her enough to make me forget.” He sighed. “She was more than my wife. She was my friend.”
A few seconds passed, and he took a sip of beer. The low lighting shadowed his jaw line and clavicle.
“You need more friends, sir,” I said. If I was his best friend, someone who would only ever be able to call him sir, that couldn’t be good for him.
“Forward isn’t so easy.”
I hesitated. “But backward?”
“It’s like tumbling down a mountain. I’m worse off than before Anna fixed me.”
The one before.
This wasn’t right. Part of me was pissed at her, whoever she was.
“I wish I could do something,” I murmured.
He met my eyes. His pain screamed out to me. “So do I,” he said.
He looked away, out the window.
We sat quietly for a long time. I didn’t know what to do for him. Seeing Master Trahem in pain was like seeing the Rockies crumble. Behind that calm expression and straight posture, I swore I could see rocks slipping off the faces of the cliffs and tumbling down into the valley.
I sat there, allowing his quiet and trying not to look at him, to make him uncomfortable.
The waitress arrived with the food, and he seemed to break from his spell.
“Thank you,” he said to her.
“You’re welcome, sugar.”
I managed not to glare at her. She had no way of knowing we were just friends.
He ignored her flirting, turned to me, and smiled. “Does your meal look all right?”
The waitress walked away.
“You’re bad, sir,” I chided.
“What?”
I rolled my eyes. At least he was smiling, even if just a little, even if he was just faking it.
“So, this is your first steak,” he said. “I feel privileged to witness this.” He watched, obviously waiting for me to take a bite.
Gnawing on a piece of beef in front of him was not my ideal scenario. I cut a very small piece.
The taste, it was orgasmic—not that I really knew what that meant. I managed not to close my eyes to better enjoy it.
“I seem to have found your weakness,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you had one.”
