Damon bounced out of his chair the mont Pedro hit the mat. He didn't need to see the replay. It was clean. The kind of knockout that ended argunts and made statents.
The fighters from Team Cross erupted behind him, yelling and clapping, so even jumping out of their seats.
"Good job, Max!" soone shouted from the back.
"Let's go!"
Max turned in the cage, arms wide, and let out a yell as he beat his chest. He climbed the fence, screaming at the top of his lungs, soaking in the noise. The adrenaline, the pressure, the doubts, it all spilled out in that mont.
Damon let himself smile. He walked calmly toward the cage as the officials gathered around Pedro, who was sitting up now, blinking and nodding that he was okay.
Damon didn't say anything dramatic. Just a quiet, "That's how you shut people up," mostly to himself.
The cage door opened, and Max jumped down, still amped up. He turned and hugged Damon without hesitation. Damon patted his back once before pulling him away by the shoulders.
"You listened," he said. "You kept your head, adjusted, and you found your mont. That's all I wanted. Proud of you."
Max just nodded, still catching his breath.
As the announcer stepped in to read the official decision, Damon stepped aside, letting his fighter take the spotlight.
The team filed in behind him, clapping and slapping Max on the back as the cage filled with energy.
Team Cross had their second win. And this one didn't need judges to tell the story.
Damon glanced across the cage, locking eyes with Ivan. He didn't say a word, but the look was enough.
Calm, collected, and confident. Ivan had done a lot of talking in the early days, questions about Damon's coaching experience, doubts about his approach, subtle jabs about his age and his career outside of coaching.
Now, two fights in, both wins for Team Cross.
Ivan didn't react much, but the tightness in his jaw was there.
His team had just taken another loss, and montum was already starting to shift.
This wasn't just a show anymore. It was starting to look like a clean sweep if sothing didn't change.
Damon kept his expression neutral but firm as he turned away, walking with his team. He wasn't celebrating too loudly, he didn't need to. The scoreboard spoke for itself.
Damon thought about the fight as the noise died down and the adrenaline faded.
Max had delivered, and he showed grit, power, and the heart to bang with anyone in his division. But Damon wasn't blinded by the win. He saw the cracks.
Max had taken too many clean shots. His guard slipped when he got wild.
He lacked defensive movent, and more importantly, there was still no real threat of grappling.
That wouldn't always be a problem, but when it was, it would be massive. Against a smart opponent who knew how to mix things up, Max could be exposed.
Damon wasn't expecting him to beco a high-level wrestler overnight.
That wasn't realistic. But Max needed at least enough to survive, enough to stall when taken down, enough to scramble back to his feet, enough to avoid panic when things hit the mat.
Even a basic understanding of framing, hip movent, and wall-walking could make a difference.
He made a ntal note right there, after recovery, they'd drill fundantals.
Defense, clinch breaks, takedown prevention, just enough to build a safety net.
If Max wanted to keep banging and climbing the ranks, he needed that foundation.
Damon had seen too many fighters stall their careers over one missing piece. He wouldn't let that happen here.
And the announcer stepped forward, microphone raised as the crowd quieted down in anticipation.
"Ladies and gentlen, after an incredible display of heart, grit, and striking, this bout goes to the winner by knockout…"
He paused, drawing tension for the caras.
"…at four minutes and thirty-nine seconds of the second round…"
A beat passed as both fighters stood still.
"Declaring the winner by knockout and moving on foward... Max Taylor!"
Max raised both fists as his teammates sward him. Damon clapped once, calm but proud, before stepping forward and giving Max a quick handshake and a pat on the back.
Pedro stood still, nodding to himself. His coach consoled him, offering words only he could hear.
Respectfully, Max made his way over, tapped Pedro on the shoulder, and offered a quiet handshake. Pedro nodded, accepting it. It was a war, and they both knew it.
As Damon led Max and the team out of the cage, the victory sank in. Two fights. Two wins. Montum was on their side.
Damon couldn't help but glance at Ivan across the cage.
Ivan stood still, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
But Damon had been around long enough to recognize the small signs, the shift in posture, the tight jaw, the quick look away.
Ivan wasn't taking this well. And why would he? He had talked a lot. Loudly, too.
Especially trying to downplay Damon's career by putting down his past opponents and calling them trash.
Now two of his fighters were out. Two losses back-to-back.
Damon didn't smirk. He didn't gloat. But the thought sat clean and sharp in his head, 'I'll keep feeding you L after L.'
He turned back to his team, placing a hand on Max's shoulder as they walked out of the cage together.
At this point, only six fights remained before the semifinals in both weight classes.
Damon knew the numbers, if his team kept winning, there was a strong chance the bracket would turn into his fighters facing each other. It was a strange thought.
He leaned back in the locker room chair, watching the team still buzzing with energy from Max's win.
The idea of coaching one fighter to beat another on the sa team felt awkward. It raised questions.
Who would get more attention in training? How would he keep it fair? Would he split the sessions, or coach both at the sa ti without giving away too much?
But beyond that, it also ant sothing else, if the final four in both divisions ca from his team, the season was his.
Officially. Unarguably. No matter who lifted the trophy in the finale, the coach's win was already sealed.
He didn't smile, but the thought was satisfying.
Imagine Ivan's reputation if he lost all fighter.... all as on even the coach challenge.
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