Daily Drama (In American TV Shows)

Note

Let's clarify some things. It's obvious that a person with only a few months of training is no match for someone who has been training for years. Remember, this is a fictional story pushed to the limit of possibility.

Just imagine that training with someone like Case (who in his universe is like the perfect fighter) for a few months allows someone to achieve that.

Besides, PJ is the MC.

By the way, I read a very apt comment asking about the realism of having a hangover after drinking a couple of beers. Certainly, I don't even remember having hangovers when I started drinking a few years ago, even as a dumb teenager drinking to what were surely unhealthy levels, but for the sake of the plot, that's what happened with Diane.

Basically, another one of those points that I will write, and you will have to simply take as true.

Without further ado, enjoy.

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The inside of Case's RV was exactly as I remembered it, except, of course, for all the photos I had seen the first time I had entered the place.

"I'll take the first shift driving. We'll get to Houston in a couple of hours," said Case, entering the RV last. "You'll fight when we get there, so start mentally preparing yourselves," he added seriously, walking to the front of the vehicle.

"You okay?" Tim asked me once Case started the engine.

"Just a little nervous," I replied after a few seconds of processing my feelings.

"Yeah, me too. First time fighting someone who isn't from our gym," said Tim, nodding as he pulled out a small book from his backpack.

"How many fights do you think we'll have?" I asked after a few minutes of driving. "Three?" I added.

"Maybe," Tim responded, closing his book on his thumb. "The only way we won't fight all three days is if we get hurt, but you'll be there," he added a second later, shrugging nonchalantly.

"You know I'm not a walking hospital, right?" I asked, amused. "I can't do much with whatever's in there," I added, pointing to a small first aid kit on the wall of the RV.

"Well, anything you do is better than what I could do," Tim declared, opening his book again.

The drive to Houston, apart from the sound of the RV's engine and a small hum Tim made while reading inside the vehicle, was silent. Taking advantage of Case's dashboard, I played by myself, though in my head, all I could think about was everything I remembered learning during training.

"We'll be there in five minutes," Case said suddenly, his words completely interrupting my train of thought.

Putting one of the chess pieces I was playing with back on the board, I took a deep breath and nodded.

"It's a boxing gym. You know the rules," Case said a couple of minutes later, finally stopping the RV in front of a surprisingly large gym. "I don't know the level of the place, but it's the biggest gym that agreed to a sparring session with us," he added a moment later, indifferently.

"The biggest?" I asked, interested. "How many gyms did you call?" I added.

"All the registered ones in nearby cities," Case responded, remaining completely expressionless.

"Okay," I murmured, surprised.

"That doesn't matter. We're here so you both can fight outside your comfort zone," Case declared, furrowing his brow. "Depending on what you show in these days, more fights will come with time," he continued seriously.

"It sounds good," Tim murmured. "So, we just have to fight and win," he said to me, amused.

"Just fight and win," I said, nodding as if the statement were ridiculously obvious.

"Come on," Case ordered after a few seconds of silence, urging us to follow him out of the vehicle.

Given the hours we had been on the road, it was already starting to get dark outside, but since Houston is a much bigger city than Medford, the streets were fully lit by dozens of public streetlights even before night had completely fallen.

"Hey, I'm Case Walker. I spoke with the head coach, Martin Sanchez, a few weeks ago?" Case asked an older man who was behind the counter when we entered the gym.

The gym, as could be seen from the street, was easily three times larger than the gym at home. With a mirror covering the entirety of one wall and visibly expensive equipment scattered around the place, the gym was full of people training, with music playing from somewhere.

"That would be me," responded the man, who we now knew was Martin Sanchez, removing small glasses from the bridge of his nose. "Ah, yeah, the fighters from Medford, right? How was the drive?" he asked, stretching out his hand for a handshake.

"Not bad," Case responded with a barely visible smile on his face, taking the man's offered hand.

"Good," said Mr. Sanchez. "Let's see what you have here," he added, putting his glasses back on his nose and walking a few steps out of the reception area to where Tim and I were standing. "The heavyweight, obviously," the man snorted upon seeing Tim. "And the cruiserweight," he added, smiling as he studied me.

"Tim Newhouse, sir," Tim said, introducing himself and giving a handshake of his own to the man.

"Exact weight, son?" the man asked, accepting Tim's handshake.

"Two fifteen," Tim responded immediately, making the man nod.

"Son?" asked Mr. Sanchez, letting go of Tim's hand and moving in front of me, studying me once more, this time more closely.

"PJ Duncan, one ninety-two," I responded quickly with a small but friendly smile, also taking his hand in a handshake.

While our hands were connected in the handshake, during the brief duration of the grip, I could feel Mr. Sanchez studying my hand, moving his thumb over my knuckles.

"All good?" Case asked a second later, his arms crossed.

"Good," responded Mr. Sanchez, nodding with a small smile.

"Great. Where do we get ready?" Case asked.

"In that corner, the locker rooms are there, and if you need them, we have plenty of wraps and gloves," said Mr. Sánchez, pointing to a spot in his gym.

"Thank you," said Case, shaking the man's hand again with a firm grip.

As the three of us walked to the corner Mr. Sánchez had pointed out, I immediately felt the penetrating stares of the gym's locals. Trying to imitate Case, who walked beside us without showing any emotion, we reached the corner.

"Go get changed," Case ordered, facing us with his arms crossed.

The locker room, like the gym, looked pristine, completely well-kept, with lockers that seemed to shine on their own.

I could feel my nerves growing in my chest with every second, my palms sweating, and without being able to help it, "We could use some of these lockers at home. Do you think if we win, we can take some?" I joked.

"I don't see why not," Tim responded, snorting. "Everything is going to be okay, just stick to what you've learned and you'll be fine," Tim added, surely noticing my nerves.

"Yeah yeah" I murmured, nodding, putting on a fake calm face.

Tim and I didn't take long to get ready, basically changing our pants for sports shorts and our shoes. When we returned outside the locker room, Case was organizing some items on a chair in the corner: the wraps, gloves, and some heavily used mitts.

"Tim, you're up first. Come on," Case said, preparing a pair of wraps from the chair.

With practiced movements, Case prepared Tim with his wraps and gloves. A moment later, using the mitts, they began to warm up.

"Your opponent weighs ten pounds less and is half a head shorter than you," Case said while quickly moving the mitts to guide Tim's punches. "But don't be fooled by your physical superiority. He has a record; you don't," Case continued, tilting his head.

"Got it," Tim said seriously.

"Good, warm up," Case ordered, stepping back.

A couple of minutes later, Mr. Sánchez, accompanied by a tall guy also prepared, whistled at Case, nodding.

"It's time," Case said, studying the man next to Mr. Sánchez intently.

Tim, completely losing his friendly smile, nodded twice quickly, taking off his shirt and walking to the ring.

"Start warming up, PJ. It's going to be quick," Case said with a furrowed brow.

"All right," I said, puzzled by Case's confidence, starting to stretch my joints.

Apparently, something common in all gyms, when Tim and his opponent stepped into the ring after talking to their coaches, the other people in the gym quickly surrounded the ring, excited for the fight.

Another older man, surprisingly dressed as a referee, stepped into the ring alongside Tim and the other man. In a low voice, he gave them instructions, making both fighters nod and bump fists.

Shouts of excitement and support began to sound in the gym. Mr. Sánchez was standing in one of the corners of the ring, immersed in whispering things to his fighter, while Case simply stood with his arms crossed behind Tim.

The older man dressed as a referee asked if they were ready, and a moment later, he started the fight. Along with his command, a bell in the gym rang loudly.

"Come on, Tim!" I shouted among the sea of voices in the gym, possibly my own voice lost among the rest.

Each with their own guard up, they approached the center of the ring. Tim, with his hands more open, took advantage of his superior height, while his opponent covered the sides of his head completely in a typical boxing guard.

"Blow his head off, Mark!" someone shouted in a moment of clarity among the crowd, cheering for the local.

Unable to help it, as my gaze wandered to whoever had shouted that, suddenly all the noise in the gym died down. When I looked back at the ring, only two of the three people who had been up there were still standing.

Tim, who along with the completely surprised referee, was still standing. Slowly, he removed his mouthguard. "You count here, sir," Tim's calm voice resonated in the gym amid the now sepulchral silence.

Fortunately, my friend was a kind and not at all prideful person. His words weren't rude; otherwise, no matter how good a fighter Case was, we were outnumbered more than seven to one.

"No, it's over," the referee said quickly, snapping out of his stupor.

Immediately, Mr. Sánchez and another person from the gym stepped into the ring to help the person on the ground.

"PJ," Case called out loudly.

"Yup," I murmured, moving through the crowd. "Let me check him," I said, stepping into the ring after giving Tim a friendly tap on the arm as I passed by.

"Son—" Mr. Sánchez was saying, raising his hands to keep me away.

"He's practically a doctor," Case interrupted Mr. Sánchez.

Without waiting for anything else, I leaned over the man on the ground to check on him.

"I don't see anything concerning," I murmured after a quick physical check. "But if he shows any symptoms—headache, dizziness, anything—he needs to go to the hospital."

"Yeah, I know, son," Mr. Sánchez said, slightly amused. "How old are you again?"

"Sixteen," I responded, noticing how the person on the ground was slowly regaining consciousness. "He's coming back," I added, stepping away to let the locals help him.

Returning to Tim at the edge of the ring, I smiled, assuring him everything was fine. "I looked away for a second, and it was already over. What experience did you gain from that fight?" I joked, giving my friend a friendly tap on the arm.

"He faced me with his guard down," Tim responded, shrugging.

"PJ, come here," Case ordered, still with his arms crossed below the ring.

Nodding quickly, I stepped down from the ring, leaving Tim, who approached the other people still in the area, surely to thank them for the fight.

"Let's finish your warm-up," Case said once I was next to him.

Following the same routine as Tim with Case, while my friend took a shower in the gym's facilities, a few minutes passed before Case finally stopped. "All right, get your head together," Case ordered, pressing the mitts against my face. "Your fight won't be as easy as Tim's. Don't let that get to your head," he added seriously.

Honestly, I didn't understand how Tim's victory could get to my head, but seeing Case's seriousness and knowing him in general, I knew better than to ask those kinds of questions.

"Come on," Case said, tapping the side of my face.

Nodding, I followed Case to the side of the ring. On the other side, Mr. Sánchez was standing next to a young guy, at least a few years older than me, whispering something in his ear while the guy stared intently at me.

"He's more prepared now; he has more to prove," Case whispered to me, holding the back of my head. "He's going to wait, guard up, jabs to the body, waiting for an opportunity," he continued seriously. "Wait until you can set a trap, and then you strike."

Silently, I nodded, allowing Case to put in my mouthguard.

As I stepped into the ring, nodding slowly to myself, trying to clear all thoughts from my mind, I walked to the center of the ring where I met the referee and my opponent, who still hadn't taken his fixed gaze off me.

"We'll treat this as a professional fight, so you know the rules: no low blows, keep it above the belt, no hits behind the head, I don't want you using your head, elbows, or shoulders illegally, and when I say 'break,' separate and take a step back before continuing to fight," the referee said in a low voice, holding a shoulder on each of us. "Understood?" he asked a second later.

"Yes," we both responded at the same time.

"Let's have a clean and fair fight," the referee said, patting our shoulders. "Fist bump," he ordered, and we followed his command immediately.

In my corner, Case was again standing with a completely serious expression and his arms crossed. Raising my guard, I focused on the center of the ring.

Moving my hands, keeping them in my guard, I lightly tapped the top of my head when the bell rang.

The guy in front of me, like me, slowly advanced to the center of the ring, keeping his arms up in a typical boxer's stance. As Case had predicted, he was covering his head completely.

Even though it was a fight with boxing rules, the rest of the martial arts Case had taught Tim and me were hard to ignore—finding moments when a low kick would do all the work or ignoring the urge to use a takedown on someone so open. Fortunately, dodging or deflecting was necessary for all martial arts.

Barely hearing the shouts around the ring, I used my fists to deflect my opponent's punches. Surely, being just distance jabs, they were quite slow and weak, practically a game. Deciding to start with my own punches, I took advantage of my opponent's tight guard to hit his arms and body in quick combos.

After doing the combo twice and attempting a third, my opponent, anticipating my movement, tried to hit my face with a cross—honestly, quite telegraphed. Dodging his punch with a step back, I immediately reacted by hitting his face with a jab that, surprisingly, made him lower his guard for a second.

With his guard down, without thinking much, I threw a cross of my own that connected perfectly with the side of his face.

Taking a few steps back, my opponent, obviously having lost his balance, lowered his guard completely until he managed to stabilize himself in one of the corners. Without wasting time after connecting the punch, I advanced as he retreated, ready to continue the punishment, but the bell stopped me.

Turning immediately to my corner, I saw Tim and Case entering the ring. Tim, smiling widely, was carrying a bench that he immediately set on the floor, along with a towel and a water bottle, while Case had nothing.

"Check your footwork and be careful when you throw your left jab," Case said immediately as I sat on the bench, while Tim wiped the sweat from my face and gave me water from my bottle. "Good job on that counterattack, but you have to be faster to connect the next punch. You had him there."

"Got it," I murmured, nodding as I took another sip of water. My eyes remained fixed on Case, absorbing every word. I still felt quite fresh, but I knew I couldn't get overconfident, especially not after Tim's fight. I didn't want to fall behind.

"He's going to come stronger this round," Case continued, his voice low but firm. "He's going to lower his guard a bit more, but don't get overconfident. Keep your guard up and keep looking for those openings. Don't rush to strike, and don't stay static. Move, make him work."

Tim, meanwhile, gave me a few pats on the shoulder. "You got this, PJ."

I nodded again, feeling the adrenaline starting to pump harder again, silencing the shouts around me that only supported my rival. The brief rest ended when the referee called us back to the center of the ring.

Focused, I got up from the bench, adjusted my gloves, and made sure the mouthguard was in place. Case gave me one last pat on the back before I headed to the center of the ring.

My opponent was already there, waiting for me. His eyes were more focused than before, and his breathing was more controlled as he tapped his gloves together. Clearly, he was mentally prepared to fight harder.

The referee briefly reminded us of the rules before giving the signal to start the second round. The bell rang, and I immediately felt the difference, resonating with Case's words in my head. My opponent moved with more aggression, throwing faster and more precise jabs, completely forgetting his tight guard from the first round.

I dodged a couple of punches, but one managed to connect with the side of my guard, making me step back, momentarily losing my balance.

"Stay alert!" I heard Case's voice from my corner.

Adjusting my guard, I focused on moving more, avoiding staying in one place by using quick and powerful jabs to prevent the other fighter from immediately following me.

My opponent kept pressing, but now I was more aware of his patterns. I noticed things like how every time he threw a jab with his left, he slightly lowered his right, how his breathing changed when he mentally prepared to attack with a combo, or the position he moved his body into when he was about to advance or retreat. They were small things, but enough.

I waited for the right moment. When he threw another jab, starting to move his body to take a step back, I deflected his punch with my right and countered with a body hook. The impact echoed in the ring, and I felt his body slightly give in to the blow. I took the opportunity to throw an uppercut that connected with his chin, making him stagger.

The crowd's cheers intensified, but I stayed focused, filtering out the noise. I knew I couldn't let the emotion take over. My opponent tried to recover, but now he was on the defensive. I advanced, throwing a series of quick punches that forced him to retreat to the ropes.

"Break!" shouted the referee, forcing his way between us before I could reach my opponent.

Following the instructions immediately, I took a step back, keeping my guard high. My opponent seemed more tired now, his breathing heavier, and his eyes weren't fully focused on me. I knew I had to keep the pressure on; I was close to finishing it.

When the referee allowed us to continue, I approached again, this time more cautiously. I threw a test jab, followed by a cross that he managed to block at the cost of his guard. My direct hit to his forearm had definitely numbed his arm, making him instinctively stretch it out. In that moment, without hesitation, I threw a hook to the chin that connected with force.

The impact was enough to make him drop to his knees.

"One!" Blocking my path, pointing and urging me to one of the corners of the ring, the referee began to count.

"That's it, PJ!" I heard Tim, amidst all the noise in the gym, shouting from my corner.

"Two! Three! Four! Five!" continued the referee.

But before he could raise the next finger, my opponent managed to get up. Obviously still affected, he quickly recovered.

After making sure my opponent could continue, the referee signaled for us to keep going. But before I could even take a second step toward the center of the ring, the bell rang again, announcing the end of the round.

"Good job, but don't relax," Case said immediately when I returned to my corner, adjusting my gloves. "He's hurt. Keep the pressure on, but don't expose yourself. He's going to be reckless. One good punch is all he needs to take you down."

I nodded, taking another sip of water. My muscles were starting to burn, but it was nothing unbearable. The next round was the final one.

When the bell rang for the final round, I stepped into the center of the ring with a surprisingly clear mind.

Once again, like in the gym back home when Diane visited, for a second my vision cleared, and the rest of the world muted and slowed down. My breathing echoed in my head with every inhale and exhale. I could feel goosebumps filling my arms as the referee signaled us to continue fighting.

Moving my hands slightly to the sides of my face, without thinking much, I lowered my guard a bit on my left side. In that moment, I could see the muscles in my opponent's right arm tense and his pupils dilate.

In one fluid motion, I dodged with surprising ease the punch aimed at my head while twisting my torso, adding all the mechanical power to a perfectly aimed punch under his ribs, directly to the liver. The impact was brutal, so much so that I could feel his body give in to the pain.

Taking a step back, dodging a punch with no power behind it, I managed to see the pain reaching my opponent's brain. Bending his knee, with the other hitting the floor, he furrowed his brow in pain.

Immediately, the referee intervened, stopping the fight. After a few seconds, "It's over," he decided the fight couldn't continue.

Unlike the end of Tim's fight, the excited shouts in the gym didn't quiet down. Whistles mixed with applause and oddly cowboy-like cheers rang out as I stepped down from the ring, where Case and Tim were waiting with approving smiles and crossed arms. "Good job," Case murmured, giving me a light pat on the back.

I nodded with a tired smile, feeling the adrenaline slowly dissipate as I stepped off the ring. My body was exhausted, every muscle burning with effort, but the feeling of victory kept me standing. Tim handed me my water bottle, which I accepted immediately, taking a long sip before letting out a deep sigh.

"That was really good, man," Tim said, laughing breathlessly, giving me a light punch on the shoulder. "Incredible liver shot," he added, mimicking the movement of the punch.

Smiling at Tim, I glanced at the ring one last time as the local team checked on my opponent, making sure he was okay. He was now on his feet, swaying slightly but with a firm expression. When our eyes met, I gave him a slight nod, which he returned with a similar gesture before being helped out of the ring.

"Come on, go take a shower," Case ordered, urging me to move through the people still gathered around the ring.

"Great fight, son. Congratulations," said a strangely cheerful man, a sentiment that was repeated as we made our way to the corner we had been given.

"No one congratulated me after my fight," Tim murmured beside me with fake annoyance.

"To get congratulated, you have to have actually fought," I responded sarcastically as I took off my gloves and wraps.

"I guess you're right," Tim said, smiling arrogantly.

Snorting while shaking my head in amusement at my friend's behavior, I didn't notice that my opponent from just moments ago approached, still being helped by Mr. Sánchez.

"Hey, great fight. You dominated in there," the guy said, calling my attention and offering a handshake.

"Oh, hey. You fought well. It was just luck," I responded, smiling as I took his offered hand.

"None of that. You were better than me, period," he said, exhaling. "I'm Shawn Dennis, by the way," he added.

"PJ Duncan," I responded, smiling.

"PJ Duncan," he repeated, nodding softly with a furrowed brow. "Did you compete last year in the TAAF?" he asked, tilting his head. "I don't remember hearing your name."

"Uh, no," I responded immediately, having no idea what those initials meant.

"You're his first real fight," Mr. Sánchez murmured, pressing his lips together.

"What? No way," Shawn said, incredulous.

"Yeah, at least in a boxing gym outside of home," I said, slightly embarrassed.

"I lost to a rookie," Shawn practically whispered, staring blankly ahead, seemingly at nothing.

Seeing how the news had affected him, I couldn't help but feel a little bad. I didn't have the heart to tell him I had started training less than half a year ago.

"And he's sixteen," Mr. Sánchez said, amused, seemingly trying to rub salt in the wound.

"Sixteen?" Shawn asked, closing his eyes as if in more pain than my punch had caused. "I thought you were twenty, eighteen at least," he added, lowering his head in defeat.

"I'm sorry?" I murmured, not really knowing what to say.

"No... don't worry. That just means I gotta get better," he said, finally opening his eyes, making Mr. Sánchez smile proudly, as if that had been his goal with the comment. "We'll have to fight again sometime."

"That can be arranged," Case murmured, who until then had been silent along with Tim.

"Definitely," Mr. Sánchez said, smiling at Case with a strange glint in his eyes.

Shawn, still feeling the pain from my liver shot, said goodbye shortly after to go lie down for a while on the gym benches. Following Case's instructions, I took a shower in the gym's facilities.

"Let's keep in touch. Next time, we can go to Medford," Mr. Sánchez said to Case as they shared a handshake after I came out of the shower.

"Sure, that sounds good," Case responded seriously, nodding slightly.

"Son, you've got good hands. If you keep training, you can go far," Mr. Sánchez said, taking my hand in a firm handshake.

"Thank you," I responded, smiling, with no intention of mentioning that boxing definitely wasn't my chosen path for the future.

After saying goodbye to the rest of the people in the gym, we got back into Case's RV.

"We'll spend the night at a motel and head to Dallas early tomorrow," Case said, heading back to the front of the vehicle.

The trip to the hotel didn't take long. In just a few minutes, we were inside the reception of a small roadside motel near the highway to Dallas.

"One double room," said Tim, the only one with a real ID, since Case was staying in 'Daisy.' We only needed one room with two beds for Tim and me.

With the room key, Case took a shower using the motel's water. "I've got chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. Eat and sleep early. You'll need the energy for tomorrow," Case ordered after taking his shower, dressed in clean clothes.

"Oh no," I said immediately. "I say we go to a steakhouse and celebrate," I added, raising my hands. "The company's treating," I added, raising my eyebrows.

It would actually be me treating, but it was more fun to say it the other way.

"Hell yeah," Tim declared excitedly.

Sighing, Case shook his head but seemed to accept.

---

As I said before, the fights won't really be a core part of this novel, but they will certainly have their moments to shine, like in this chapter, but the stoy won't be all focused on them, more as something secondary.

Obviously I don't have much experience writing fight scenes (in fact I don't have experience writing anything in general) so I would love to read what you thought of this chapter.

Without further ado

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Author Thoughts:

As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter, not Magnus Carlsen, not Michael Phelps, not Arsene Lupin and not McLovin.

Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:

11332223

RandomPasserby96

Victor_Venegas

I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.

Thank you for reading! :D

PS: PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.