Damon drove himself back to the hotel, the sky already starting to dim. The road was quiet, smooth, and empty enough to let his thoughts drift.
He kept one hand on the wheel while the other rested on his lap. His body was tired, but his mind was sharp, still going over the day.
He couldn’t help but smile a little.
The fighters had shown up. They trained hard, followed instructions, and didn’t give him any drama.
That was a win in itself. Coming into this, he hadn’t known what to expect.
He figured there would be a mix, different styles, different attitudes, and different mindsets. That part didn’t surprise him.
What had stuck with him more was the fact that so of these guys were older than him.
A few of them had been fighting for years, maybe even longer than he had been in the ga professionally.
So had more life experience, longer amateur records, more traditional training backgrounds.
And yet here he was, coaching them.
That thought stayed with him.
Would they take him seriously?
It wasn’t a question that ca from insecurity. Damon wasn’t doubting his place.
But he understood the dynamic. Not every fighter respected a coach just because of a résumé.
So wanted to test it. So needed to see it. Titles didn’t guarantee respect. It had to be earned, every day.
He knew that from his own career.
As the car reached the hotel entrance, Damon slowed down and pulled into a parking space near the front.
He shut off the engine, leaned back in the seat for a second, and stared at the dashboard.
That question had followed Damon ever since he signed on to coach. It was there when he arrived, and it was still there when he walked into training that morning.
He was young, younger than so of the fighters in his group. In this line of work, that could go two ways.
So would respect the accomplishnts, others might look past them and only see the age.
That kind of thinking could break a coach-fighter dynamic before it even started.
But today proved that wasn’t the case.
His team respected him. Not just because of what he said, but because of how he carried himself.
Maybe the titles helped, undefeated, two-division champion, main event experience. Those things mattered.
They reminded people that he wasn’t just a face on posters, he’d done the work. Fought the wars. Earned everything.
But what mattered more to Damon was that he didn’t feel like he was fighting for control.
He wasn’t in a power struggle with his own team. No one tested him with sideways comnts or attitude.
They listened, asked questions, and showed up to work. That mattered more than anything.
He knew he still had things to learn. Coaching wasn’t just about running sessions or calling out combos.
There were layers to it, managing personalities, balancing training loads, handling emotions before fights. He’d figure that out along the way.
But he also knew he had sothing to give.
He had real knowledge. Fight experience. The kind you only get by being in the cage when everything’s on the line. And he was ready to share it.
As he grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and stepped out of the car, Damon felt settled. This job wasn’t easy, but it already felt right.
Who knew, maybe when all of this was done, and he finally decided to hang up the gloves, coaching would be the next step.
It wasn’t sothing he thought about often, but today had made it feel possible. And not just possible, natural.
For now, though, he still had a team to lead.
Damon already had soone in mind for tomorrow’s pick. The first fight would be middleweights, and there was no doubt in his mind who he wanted to represent their side.
José Alvarez.
The man was sharp. Calm under pressure. Focused. Damon had seen a lot of good fighters break down during sparring, especially when things didn’t go their way.
José didn’t. He adjusted. He used feints, picked his shots, and read patterns like a veteran.
Damon wanted to see him in a real fight, under lights, with caras, with everything on the line.
He also trusted him.
In sparring, José had shown high fight IQ. He wasn’t just talented, he was smart. That was what Damon valued most.
Anyone could throw a punch. But knowing when to throw, why to throw, and how to draw the right reaction—that took more.
José was a little older than Damon. It didn’t matter.
Experience was experience. In fact, watching him fight reminded Damon of soone he had studied a lot over the years, Underson Gold, the Brazilian spider.
Long reach, calm stance, precise counters. José wasn’t copying him, but the style was familiar.
Damon had never fought Underson Gold. Their careers never crossed paths.
But during the last few years, when Damon had been sharpening his ga and filling gaps, he’d watched dozens of the legend’s fights.
Studied the rhythm. Picked apart the timing. José didn’t have the sa flash, but the control, that was there.
Tomorrow, he’d make it official.
And he was confident in the pick.
Damon got into the hotel room just past nine.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag near the door, and headed straight to the bathroom.
A hot shower helped cut off the edge of fatigue from training oversight. Once done, he threw on a clean shirt and joggers, ran a towel through his hair, and stepped back out.
The room was quiet.
There wasn’t much to do here, just a TV, a couch, and whatever you brought with you.
Damon sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through the channels. Mostly reruns.
A few news reports, so old fights, and a docuntary playing on mute in the background.
He didn’t focus on any of it. Just let the screen run while he leaned back and let his body rest.
After a while, he checked the ti and picked up his phone. It wasn’t too late back ho. He tapped Svetlana’s na and waited as it rang.
She answered quickly, voice soft but clear. "Hey."
"Hey," Damon said, his tone lighter now. "Everything good over there?"
"Yeah. Ava’s already in bed, but not fully asleep. You just made it."
Damon smiled. "Perfect timing."
Svetlana turned the cara toward Ava, who was curled up on the bed with a stuffed toy under her arm. Her eyes were half-shut but she still blinked toward the screen.
"There’s daddy," Svetlana whispered.
Damon leaned in. "Hey, bug. You gonna sleep for mommy tonight?"
Ava gave a slow nod, mumbling sothing under her breath.
Svetlana laughed. "That ans yes."
They talked for a little while longer small things, updates, nothing heavy.
Damon didn’t want to talk about training or fights. He just wanted to hear his wife’s voice and see his daughter one more ti before ending the day.
Eventually, Ava drifted off, and Svetlana shifted the cara back to her.
"I’m proud of you," she said.
Damon nodded. "Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow after we pick."
"I’ll be waiting."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
The screen went black. Damon set the phone down, turned off the TV, and laid back on the bed.
Tomorrow, the season would really begin.
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