I watched my wife’s new boyfriend—a spray-tanned MMA gym owner—mock my limp and demand I sign over my house in front of his entire class.
He stepped in for a one-two combination, aiming to put my lights out early and look good for Claire. He shifted his weight, telegraphing the right cross that was supposed to end the night. That was when I reached into the dark, ripped the tape away, and flipped the switch. In sport fighting, you manage…
