>>148973890
>With a smooth, practiced step, he closed the gap. One hand wrapped behind Ronnie’s shoulder, the other gripping around his waist in a wrestler’s clinch. Ronnie squirmed, trying to slip out, but Norm had leverage now. His body twisted, shifting weight from heel to toe, and lifted.
>Ronnie felt the mat leave his feet.
>No no—
>With a wide, looping motion, Norm began the slam—lowering them both toward the floor, but guiding Ronnie’s body down first. It wasn’t violent, but it was fast, and it ended with Ronnie’s back pressed against the mat and Norm’s arms locking around his upper body in a tight hold.
>“Just breathe,” Norm said gently, almost like a big brother. “I’ll go easy.”
>The grip tightened. Norm's forearm locked beneath Ronnie’s chin, not enough to choke, but enough to control. His legs shifted to pin Ronnie’s lower half, anchoring him in place.
>Coach Roma called out from the side, “Grapple position established! Clean technique, full points for control.”
>Ronnie squirmed, teeth gritted.
>This was bad.
>He’d misjudged everything—his speed, his reach, even his physiology. All that confidence, that little boost of remembering his claws and teeth—it had lasted a minute. Maybe less.
>And now?
>Now he was stuck, his back on the mat, being slowly folded into submission like a napkin at a dinner party.
>"Think, Ronnie. Think fast. Desperate measures time…"
>He took a breath.
>And prepared to gamble.
>Ronnie squirmed beneath Norm’s grip, trying every slight angle, every twitch of resistance, but the sailor’s technique was solid—tight, experienced, relentless. The mat felt like a trap door, and the weight on top of him might as well have been steel.
>His breathing quickened.
>"I could teleport," he thought.
>The idea flashed across his mind like a spark. Just twist the coordinates—shift a few centimeters sideways—and I’d be out of the hold in a blink. Nobody would even know.
>But something stopped him.