MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon exhaled through his nose and wiped his face with a towel. He didn't speak.

He sat still, jaw tight, elbows on his knees as he watched the screen. His foot bounced once, then stopped. He caught himself.

He always stayed calm. That was something people admired in him, something even he prided himself on. But now, watching this fight unfold, that calm was wearing thin.

José was frustrating him.

Not because he was losing. He wasn't. José was doing well enough.

He had the better hands, better movement, better control of the space. But that wasn't the point.

Damon could see the cracks forming in Dorian Vega's defense, the openings hanging wide for just a second or two.

Any top fighter would have taken those chances. Damon would have. He didn't say that with arrogance. It was just fact.

But José… hesitated.

He got close, then stopped short. He landed a clean shot and stepped back instead of stepping in.

Twice now, he'd landed flush and backed off when the pressure should have increased.

Damon had watched hundreds of fights in his life, broken them down frame by frame, simulated countless styles.

He knew what winning looked like. More importantly, he knew what letting a fight slip looked like too.

It was starting to look like that.

Damon turned his head slightly, watching the assistants beside him. None of them spoke either.

They felt it too, that tension in the air when a fight was still under control, but only barely.

He wasn't angry at José. He knew nerves played a role.

Being under the lights, fighting in front of cameras and coaches, knowing your future depended on a single result, that pressure changed men. But it didn't mean he could excuse it either.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

"Take the damn shot when it's there," he muttered under his breath. No one heard him.

The round hadn't ended yet. There was still time. José wasn't done, and Dorian wasn't winning.

But Damon needed more than point control and footwork. He needed proof that José could finish the job when the opening came.

Otherwise, the next opponent wouldn't hesitate to take him out.

The final thirty seconds of the round dragged with no clear shift in control.

Both fighters circled cautiously, each waiting for the other to make a mistake that never came.

Their exchanges grew shorter, less aggressive, filled with half-committed jabs and faint kicks that barely touched.

José moved forward with small steps, feinting with his lead shoulder, but he didn't pull the trigger.

Dorian answered with a low kick that brushed against the calf, then returned to the center, hands tight around his chin.

They traded two more jabs, both landing lightly, but neither followed up. The rhythm stalled.

From the outside, the crowd of fighters watching from the benches sat quietly, unsure of who had done more.

Even Ronan, leaning against the side wall, glanced at his watch with mild impatience.

The clack of the ten-second warning snapped through the gym.

José twitched his right hand as if to throw, but stepped back instead. Dorian took a step forward, then stopped. Another glancing jab.

Another shuffle. Neither of them pushed. The opening bell had started with urgency. It was ending with restraint.

Then the horn rang.

The referee stepped in between them with an open hand, and both fighters dropped their guards, breathing hard.

José turned and walked to his corner without looking back. Damon was already up, towel in hand, shaking his head as he stepped toward the cage.

José sat down heavily on the stool, sweat running down his chest and arms as he sucked in deep, unsteady breaths.

His chest rose and fell faster than before, and though he kept his eyes on Damon, his shoulders told the story, he was feeling the pace now.

Damon stepped in close, towel in hand, wiping at José's arms while the cutman checked him over. He didn't yell, but his tone was direct and sharp.

"You're letting him stay in the fight," Damon said. "You had him open twice, once when he dropped his hand after that inside leg kick, and again when he circled off the cage. You saw it, you hesitated. You've got to trust yourself, José. Don't wait for the perfect shot. You've got enough power that even a clean two-piece could end this."

José nodded, still breathing hard, his eyes flicking to the floor for a second before locking back onto Damon's.

Damon continued, more measured now. "That said, you're doing a few things right. You're checking kicks better this round. You're keeping your chin tucked, he's throwing that overhand more now, but you're not giving him much. You're landing the jab when you commit to it, and when you pushed him back to the cage? That was your moment."

He leaned in slightly. "Next time, when he shells up like that, don't let him off. Go to the body, then up top. Mix it. You've got the cardio for another round, I know that. But you can't coast."

He stepped back as the buzzer warned for corners to exit. "Breathe, reset, and stop waiting. You lead this round."

José stood up with a short nod, exhaled hard through his nose, and gave Damon a quick fist bump before turning to face the center of the cage again.

On the opposite stool, Dorian Vega sat with a focused, almost eager look on his face.

He wasn't breathing as hard as José, but there was sweat dripping down his chest and arms, and his gloves rested on his knees as he leaned forward.

His mouth was slightly open as he took controlled breaths, nostrils flaring with each inhale.

Ivan crouched in front of him, calm but serious. He spoke low and slow.

"You're close," he said. "You see it now. His rhythm is slipping."

Dorian didn't respond. He just nodded, eyes fixed on Ivan.

"He backs up straight. Every time you feint high, he freezes. Keep showing him that left hand, but don't throw it right away. Make him bite, then take the leg again. Break his base down."

Ivan grabbed the water bottle, gave Dorian a small sip, then wiped his face with a towel.

"And when you get him backing up to the cage like you did earlier, do not follow in a straight line. You almost ate a hook doing that. Step off center, then fire."

Dorian exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

"You want to finish this? You've got to be sharp. No sloppiness. Keep your balance. Pick the shots. You're not tired, he is."

Ivan tapped him on the shoulder. "Now go finish what you started."

Dorian stood up slowly, not rushing. He took a few steps forward, rotating his neck, rolling his wrists, then bounced on his toes once before heading toward the center.