Malcolm moved in fast and grappled her, using classic Greco-Roman grappling styles. The unexpected move completely flummoxed Margo. She staggered backward, trying to extricate herself from wrestling holds she didn’t have the strength or technique to break.
”Hey! What is this?” She tried stamping on Malcolm’s instep. He picked her up, leading to chuckles from across the gym. Interested spectators had halted all pretense of continuing any workouts.
Kit suppressed a grin, wisely deciding that laughing at her would be a mistake. Wordlessly, he separated them. Margo stood glaring and huffing for breath. Malcolm offered a polite bow which she ignored icily.
”All right,” Kit said, stepping off the mat once more, “let’s see what else you can do.”
She turned that alley-cat glare on him-and Malcolm came in fast. But this time he didn’t catch her off guard. Margo snapped out a beautifully executed snap kick, lifting her knee and extending her leg so fast it was difficult to follow the motion. Her foot brushed Malcolm’s cheek. That kick would’ve scored wonderfully on the sporting circuit. If she’d kicked him in the nose or forehead, she might even have rendered him unconscious.
Unfortunately for Margo, neither Malcolms nose nor his forehead were in the right spot. He kept coming. Margo’s heel sailed straight over his shoulder. Before she could snap back from the unexpected move, she found herself on the floor, in exactly the same position as before with Malcolm between her knees.
”It’s not fair!” she wailed. “That would’ve knocked him out!”