Trent Caldwell came down his father’s asphalt path hauling a heavy iron squat rack frame.

Three young guys in black Apex Combat Systems tank tops followed him, carrying four-ounce blue leather MMA gloves and canvas gym bags.

Trent dropped the iron frame on the grass ten feet from the edge of our wooden patio.

“Hey,” Trent yelled at our patio table.

“You girls want to see what real athletes look like?”

Emily stopped writing in the middle of a formula.

She pulled her ponytail over her right shoulder with both hands and squeezed the dark hair against her collarbone.