The mood in Team Whittier's van was electric, buzzing with post-fight energy as they rode back from the facility.
Damon sat near the front, quietly listening to his teammates, who were chatting excitedly, speculating about the next fight and where Whittier might take them tomorrow.
"Yo, I swear, Coach better be taking us somewhere with some food," said Miles, wiping his face dramatically as if exhausted from training. "I need something better than the crap we've been eating at the house. I want a damn steak."
One of the other fighters laughed. "Bro, all you think about is food. But nah, I'm with you. Maybe we hit up a nice restaurant, get some proper grub."
"Man, I don't care where we go, as long as it's somewhere we can blow off some steam," another fighter, a wiry guy from California, Dylan, chimed in. "Been locked in that house so long, I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm telling you, we hit the beach tomorrow, that's it, I'm bringing a football or something."
They all laughed, but then the conversation shifted, turning toward the upcoming fight.
"Okay, real talk though," Dylan said, leaning forward, "who's up next? Coach got the power to choose now. Y'all think it'll be me?"
"Nah, nah, I think Coach might pick me," said the fighter with a smirk, flexing his arms for show. "I've been ready to knock some heads. I'm thinking they'll put me up against that big Russian dude from Team Chemasov."
"Don't underestimate him, man," Felipe warned, shaking his head. "I've seen him train, and that guy's no joke. Big, strong, and skilled. Whoever goes up against him better be ready for a war."
Miles shook his head, leaning back in his seat. "Man, I don't care who's next. We already sent their golden boy packing. Logan's out, and that's a big win. Whoever they send can catch these hands too."
The conversation shifted to Damon. "Hey, Damon," Dylan called out, "you think they're gonna throw another wrestler at us? Maybe try and copy the same strategy? You took Logan out, but you think they'll adjust?"
Damon smirked, finally joining in. "They can send whoever they want. It doesn't matter. We've been training for all of it. Wrestling, striking, either way, we're ready."
"Hell yeah, we are," the others chimed in, nodding and grinning.
As the van rumbled down the road, the conversation remained animated, the fighters already looking ahead to their next challenge.
Tomorrow's break would be a momentary escape, but after that, it was back to the grind, back to the fights, and back to making sure Team Whittier stayed on top.
Ivan stayed quiet for most of the ride, a small smile playing on his lips as he listened to the others talk. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke up in his thick Russian accent.
"In Russia, we say... 'If bear chase you... you no need to run faster than bear, just faster than slowest friend,'" he said, chuckling to himself.
The van went quiet for a second, everyone staring at Ivan, confused.
Dylan scratched his head, laughing awkwardly. "Uh, cool, man. I guess...?"
The house felt a little lighter with him out of the picture, but the tension wasn't entirely gone.
Both teams eyed each other warily as they headed inside, knowing the competition was only going to get more intense from here.
Especially Brian, who glared at Damon like he had just killed his brother.
In a way, Damon did, just not literally. That knee had ended Logan's chances in the competition, and Brian wasn't about to forget that anytime soon.
Whether Brian would get his revenge was another story.
He'd have to last long enough in the tournament for them to be matched up, but that hunger for payback was clear in his eyes.
Damon noticed the glare but shrugged it off.
He wasn't going to let that kind of energy throw him off his game.
If Brian wanted revenge, he'd have to earn his shot.
They got into the house, and unlike usual, Team Whittier didn't stay up late.
With the coach planning to take them out tomorrow, they knew they needed full energy.
The chatter that usually filled the rooms was quieter tonight, with most of the team heading to their rooms to rest up.
Damon grabbed some water from the kitchen, thinking ahead to tomorrow's break.
As Damon sipped his water, he heard the sound of another glass being filled.
He glanced over his shoulder and immediately recognized the figure, dark-skinned, tall, and radiating quiet confidence. Kofi.
Kofi took a casual sip of his water, then looked over at Damon, his expression calm but his eyes sharp.
"Not bad, Damon," Kofi said in his deep voice, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "That knee was clean. Took him out cold."
He paused for a moment, taking another sip, then added with a challenging tone, "But let's see if you can keep that up. Things only get tougher from here, you know."
Kofi's words were easy-going on the surface, but there was an edge to them, like a quiet storm waiting to be unleashed.
Damon could sense the competitive energy beneath the casual delivery.