Whittier returned with an 8-pack of beers in hand, a wide grin on his face as he handed them out to the guys.
Damon raised an eyebrow, thinking about how alcohol might not mix well with training, but before he could say anything, Ivan leaned over, patting him on the shoulder.
"We don't drink to get drunk, we drink to relax," Ivan said in his thick accent, flashing a toothy grin.
Damon chuckled and shrugged, taking the can offered to him.
He wasn't much of a drinker, but the day was meant to unwind, and after the fight, a beer didn't seem so bad.
They all gathered by the lake, their fishing rods in hand.
Whittier was already showing them how to tie the knots, cast the line, and patiently wait.
Miles, as usual, was struggling with even getting the bait on the hook.
"Man, this ain't it," Miles grumbled, fumbling with the fishing line. "Why does this feel harder than training?"
"Probably 'cause you're thinking too much," Dylan called out from the other side of the dock, his line already cast out into the water. "It's supposed to be relaxing, not rocket science, bro!"
Ivan, who had already mastered the technique in minutes, chuckled, casting his line with a smooth, practiced motion. "In Russia, we fish to survive winter, not for sport."
Damon, still figuring out his own line, glanced over at Ivan. "Didn't know you were a pro at this too."
Ivan shrugged. "Everything is competition in Russia."
As the group settled in, some cast their lines while others were still trying to figure out the basics.
Whittier sat nearby, sipping his beer and occasionally tossing out instructions. "Remember, it's all about patience. You're not gonna catch something right away. Feel the line. When you feel a tug, you pull."
The jokes started soon after.
"Dylan's over there like he's gonna catch Moby Dick," one of the fighters joked, pointing at Dylan, who was intensely focused on his line like he was trying to will a fish into biting.
"Hey, I'm out here to get the big one, man," Dylan shot back, pretending to reel in something massive. "Y'all will be jealous when I come back with a 50-pound fish."
He had watched everyone else, and it seemed easy enough, cast the line, wait, reel it in. How hard could it be?
Felipe, the Brazilian fighter, was standing nearby, already with his line cast out. "You gonna show us how it's done, huh?" Felipe asked with a teasing grin, his accent thick but playful.
Damon smirked. "Something like that. I think I've got it figured out."
Felipe chuckled. "Better than me. I've been out here for an hour and all I've caught is this," he said, holding up an empty hook. "Not even a nibble."
Damon rolled his eyes, more at himself than at Felipe, as he cast his line into the water.
The splash was satisfying, and he felt a sense of calm wash over him.
He settled into the rhythm quickly, standing beside Felipe and watching the water ripple.
"Maybe you'll get lucky," Felipe said, shaking his head. "I think all the fish are scared off after Ivan caught that monster."
"You just have to think like a fish," Damon quipped, mimicking a deep philosopher's tone.
Felipe laughed. "Ah, is that the secret? No wonder I'm struggling."
The two stood in comfortable silence for a while, the occasional chatter from the rest of the group filling the background.
Damon glanced over at Dylan, who was now on his third attempt to cast his line without getting it tangled, and shook his head.
At least he wasn't the only one who was new to this.
After a few minutes, Damon felt something, a faint tug on the line.
He blinked, not sure if he imagined it. He glanced over at Felipe, who raised an eyebrow.
"Feel something?"
"Maybe..." Damon replied, his grip tightening on the rod.
Then there it was again, a stronger pull this time. Damon's muscles tensed, instinctively bracing himself like he would in a fight.