Damon crouched slightly, arms out for balance. Ivan mirrored him, his gaze locked and unblinking.
The Russian’s wet shirt clung to his torso, muscles tense but still. Damon could hear José behind him: "Stay low, coach. He’s all upper body."
They stepped forward at the sa ti, the beam wobbling under the added weight.
The water below was dark, dotted with little ripples from the wind. A fall here wouldn’t just cost pride, it would feel like hitting ice.
The first clash was all pressure. Damon shoved forward with his shoulder, testing Ivan’s balance.
Ivan gave ground, then snapped back with a counter-push that made the beam dip under Damon’s right foot.
Damon adjusted, knees bending, arms flaring for stability.
From the sidelines, Chase was yelling, "C’mon, Ivan! He’s soft!"
Ronny fired back instantly, "Shut your mouth, Dunham! You couldn’t balance on a bar stool!"
Damon tried again, this ti faking a hard push to the left before switching to the right. Ivan bit, shifting too far, Damon saw his chance.
He drove forward, chest-to-chest, trying to force him sideways.
For a second, it worked. Ivan’s heel skimd the beam’s edge, and the crowd roared.
But Ivan wasn’t done. He twisted his hips, letting Damon’s montum roll past him, then dropped his weight into Damon’s shoulder.
The shift sent Damon’s center of gravity tilting the wrong way.
He windmilled an arm, fighting for balance, but Ivan stayed on him, pressing just enough to keep him off-line.
One more shove, calm, deliberate, and Damon’s foot slipped.
The cold water swallowed him up with a splash big enough to drench the fighters on the nearest dock.
Shouts and laughter erupted from both sides, though Ivan’s corner was louder, Chase practically jumping in celebration.
"Five-second bonus to Ivan!" Ronan’s voice cut through the noise. "Back to your lanes for the final sprint!"
Damon surfaced, hair plastered to his face, the shock of the chill punching through his skin. José reached down to pull him out, shaking his head but grinning. "That was close, man."
"Too close," Damon muttered, spitting lake water.
They sprinted for the last stage: the waist-deep drag through water, pulling a weighted sled with their team’s flag.
Damon grabbed the rope and leaned into it, legs churning against the resistance. But Ivan’s bonus had already bought him a lead.
From the shore, fighters scread encouragent, Ayo was practically hanging over the fence, roaring for Damon to dig.
But Ivan was relentless. Each step he took sent the sled grinding forward, the flag bobbing above the water. Damon was closing in, but every second mattered.
Ivan reached the finish post first, slamming his team’s flag into the holder with a victorious yell.
The air filled with cheers from his corner, the sound carrying over the lake.
Damon dragged his own sled in monts later, planting the flag without ceremony. His team still clapped for him, but the win was Ivan’s.
Ronan clapped both coaches on the shoulders, grinning like he’d enjoyed every second of the misery. "Winner of the Coaches Challenge... Ivan Novak! And that ans his fighters each get a nice little bonus check, courtesy of the show. Damon’s guys, sorry, better luck next season."
The fighters from both sides laughed, teased, and shouted as the two coaches shook hands.
Damon didn’t care about the money, he never did, but the competitor in him hated losing.
Ivan knew it, too. His smirk said it all.
Damon looked at him, the water still dripping from his hair. He couldn’t wait for their match.
This wasn’t a fight, not really, but in his head, it was still a loss.
He made a quiet promise to himself that when it mattered, he’d make Ivan pay for it.
While it wasn’t serious, it was competitive, and that was enough for Damon.
He wanted to win everything, fights, gas, challenges, it didn’t matter.
The urge to dominate was wired into him, and this just gave him one more reason to push harder.
But for the caras, he didn’t want to seem petty.
Even if he was, Damon forced a small smile and let out a short laugh as he stepped forward.
He shook his head like he’d just been caught in a friendly prank. "Good ga," he said, reaching out to shake Ivan’s hand.
Ronan broke the mont with a grin that was far too wide to be innocent. "Well, since winners get rewards... there should be punishnt for losers."
That got an imdiate chorus of groans and protests from Damon’s fighters.
"Aww, co on!" Ronny shouted.
"That’s not in the rules!" Max added, pointing at Ronan like he was trying to argue a foul in a street ga.
Theo just shook his head, muttering sothing under his breath in German, while Ayo raised his hands like he was surrendering to the idea already.
Ronan just kept smiling. "Too late. I already cleared it with production."
For fans watching at ho, the rivalry was becoming one of the season’s quiet highlights.
It wasn’t personal, at least, not yet. There were no shouting matches, no trash talk, no public insults to clip for social dia.
It was pure competitiveness.
Both Damon and Ivan simply wanted to one-up the other, no matter the setting.
So fans loved that it felt like two professionals pushing each other instead of playing for drama.
Others joked online that they wished the Coaches Challenge had been more "fun," because neither man seed to care about laughs or spectacle.
They were locked in, eyes only on winning, even if it was just a lake sprint for bragging rights.
Luckily, the fighters had made the spectacle fun with their constant comntary.
From the dock to the shore, they’d kept up a stream of trash talk, laughter, and reactions that carried over the water.
Ronan had expected as much. After watching Damon and Ivan for weeks, he knew neither man was going to clown around for the caras.
They were too locked in, too focused on proving themselves through performance rather than words.
So, he’d let the fighters run wild with the banter, knowing it would keep the energy high while the coaches stayed stone-faced in their own battle.
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