Unspoken criticism filled the air as Demaien walked through the curtains and into the backstage area..
His teammates stood waiting, their expressions mixed, some disappointed, some indifferent.
A few offered nods of acknowledgment, but no one spoke right away. The tension lingered.
Damon stepped forward first, meeting Demaien's gaze before shaking his head. "Good match out there," he said, voice steady but unreadable.
Demaien let out a short, bitter laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. "Ahh, I got my ass handed to me there," he admitted, the frustration evident in his tone.
His body still ached from the relentless kicks, the failed takedowns, the sheer gap in experience that had been laid bare under the bright lights.
Before anyone else could respond, the locker room door burst open, slamming against the wall.
Tommy Hughes stormed in like a thundercloud, his face red with barely contained fury.
The room instantly tensed, everyone bracing for the inevitable storm.
His eyes locked onto Demaien like a hawk spotting wounded prey.
His mouth opened, the scolding already forming on his tongue, but before he could let it out, Victor stepped in.
"You did your best, lad," Victor said, his tone calm but firm, cutting Tommy off before he could start. "Go wash up. No point standing here listening to all this."
Demaien hesitated, glancing between the two men, then nodded.
He wasn't in the mood for whatever Tommy was about to say.
Without another word, he turned and walked off toward the showers, his posture slumped but relieved to escape the confrontation.
Tommy's jaw tightened as he turned to Victor, his glare sharp.
This feckin' guy. Always in his damn way.
Who did he think he was?
Tommy had been in this game long before Victor stepped in, and now he was actin' like he ran the place. Like he knew what was best for the team.
But Tommy didn't say a word. Not yet.
He just stared at Victor, the tension between them heavy in the air.
Tommy shifted his glare from Victor to Damon, his expression hardening even further.
His voice, laced with frustration and a sharp edge, cut through the tense air.
"If ye lose, that's it," Tommy said, his thick Irish accent making every word hit like a hammer. "Everything's gone. The whole damn tournament, the pride of Ireland, all of it, it rides on you now."
His tone wasn't motivational. It wasn't encouraging. It was pressure, plain and simple. A demand. A command.
"Ireland's already been embarrassed enough today," Tommy continued, stepping closer. "Demaien's out. The lightweight division is gone. We ain't got the numbers like some of these other nations. We only had two. Now we're down to one."
He jabbed a finger toward Damon's chest. "So don't feck this up. You hear me?"
The room was silent, eyes darting between Tommy and Damon. The weight of his words settled in the air like a thick fog.
Damon stared at Tommy, his expression unreadable.
He let the words hang in the air, absorbing them, but there was no visible reaction.
No anger, no frustration, just that calm, collected look that had become his signature.
Not in amusement, not out of disrespect, but in the way a man does when he hears something so predictable that it doesn't even faze him.
"Pressure, huh?" Damon finally said, his voice steady. "That's all you got for me?"
Tommy's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. "It's not pressure, lad. It's reality. You lose, and Ireland's done."
Damon tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading into something quieter, something more dangerous. "I don't need you to tell me what's at stake," he said, his tone casual but sharp. "I know what I'm here to do. And I don't need a speech to remind me."
Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, but before he could say anything else, Damon took a step closer.
"I get it. You're pissed. You put your faith in Demaien, and it didn't work out. Now you're looking at me like I'm some last hope, like I have to win because there's no one else."
Damon's eyes locked onto Tommy's, unwavering. "But here's the thing, you think I'm fighting for you? For some tournament ranking? For whatever pride you're talking about?"
He shook his head. "I'm fighting because I want to fight. Because I want this win. Not for you. Not for anyone else. Just me."
Silence. No one in the room moved.
Then, Damon exhaled and rolled his shoulders, his usual calm demeanor settling back in. "So don't waste your breath, Tommy," he said, stepping past him. "Just watch."
And with that, he walked off toward the locker rooms, leaving Tommy standing there, fists clenched, fuming, but with nothing left to say.
Damon didn't mean to be disrespectful, but he couldn't bring himself to care about Tommy's lectures on Irish pride, not when the same people preaching it had turned a blind eye to Collin NcGyver's antics for years.
For all the weight they tried to put on his shoulders, he didn't see how any of this was supposed to shape him.
He wasn't some kid coming up the ranks, desperate for validation. He had already fought his way to the top on his own terms.
If they thought he needed their approval to prove something, they were dead wrong.
Damon liked the idea of fighting for his birth country, there was pride in that, sure, but it wasn't everything. It wasn't the only thing keeping him in this.
Unlike some of these guys, he didn't need the national team. He was already established. Already in line for a title shot back in the UFA.
And, if he was being honest, he had power here.
Maybe they didn't like to admit it, but the reality was clear.
If Collin could duck training, humiliate the team, and still be in the national team officials' good graces, then why should Damon act like they controlled his every move?
He wasn't going to be their obedient pawn. He'd play this game his way.