Lachlan
My first amateur MMA fight was nothing like I had imagined. The crowd roared in anticipation, the smell of sweat and adrenaline thick in the air as the cage door slammed shut. I stood in my corner, fists clenched, trying to push down the raw, jittery fear that was gnawing at my gut. My opponent, a larger, more experienced fighter, stood across from me, glaring with cold, calculating eyes.
The bell rang, and we were off.
I moved cautiously at first, circling the cage, trying to gauge the movements of the opponent. my legs felt like lead, my heart pounding in my chest. A few quick jabs were thrown in my direction, but I ducked, narrowly avoiding the blows. For a moment, I thought I could do this—control the fight, stay calm, take my time. But that moment didn't last long.
The first punch landed square on my jaw.
A sharp, brutal pain shot through my skull. The impact rattled my teeth and threw my vision into a dizzying blur. The crowd's roar grew distant, muffled, as I tried to focus, but my body seemed to betray me. My arms felt dead, and my legs felt like noodles. My opponent smelled weakness, and like a predator, he moved in quickly, relentlessly.
Another strike. And another. The hits came fast, hard, and they kept coming. My body was a canvas of bruises, each blow a new brushstroke of pain. My face felt like it was on fire, each punch adding fuel to the growing burn. I staggered back. I could feel my body heat up, deep inside, something stirred. The crowd's deafening noise seemed to fade into a low hum as my focus narrowed. I wasn't done. No way. Not yet.
I fired back, as if my arms were moving on instinct, throwing jabs and hooks, each punch not perfect but enough to get my opponent's attention. The hits were landing, but they weren't enough to stop the onslaught coming from across the cage. I was outmatched, outclassed, and possibly in way too deep.
He comes at me like I murdered his family, throwing a jab that I barely dodge. My mind is screaming, Focus! Move! Get in the rhythm, but his hands are everywhere. A right hook clips my jaw, and a jagged shock of pain shoots through my skull. For a second, the world spins. My legs wobble beneath me, and my vision fades in and out. I hear the crowd scream, but it's muffled, like I'm underwater again. I blink, trying to clear the fog, but the next punch lands—a sharp slap of leather on flesh.
Fuck, he's fast.
I want to crumble. I want to just drop right here. I want it to stop. But I can't. I won't. I taste blood, my own blood, and I know it's only going to get worse from here. I've been hit before, but nothing like this—nothing like this brutal barrage. I want to push him away, create some space, but he's right there, breathing down my neck. He's taunting me. Can't take it, huh?
I stagger back, dazed. My head's pounding. My arms are heavy. But my mind... it snaps.
I throw a wild hook, a desperate, sloppy strike, and for a split second, it lands. He flinches, just for a moment, and that's enough. I rush in, no thinking, just moving on instinct. I catch him with a jab to the gut, and it doesn't feel like much, but it slows him down. I can feel him breathing hard, his weight shifting, just like mine. He's not invincible. He's just a man.
Then it comes—he charges in, overconfident. His hand shoots out for another wild punch, but this time, I'm ready. I duck under, feeling the heat of his fist whip past my ear. I grab his arm, my fingers slipping around it with the desperation of someone who knows they're running out of time.
I twist, and the momentum of his attack takes him right where I want him. My legs shoot up, catching his neck and shoulder. I don't think—I just do.
I lock it in.
I hear the crack of his joints in the quiet seconds that follow, feel the pressure building in his arm. His body tenses, and I know I have him. His breath hitches, and for a second, we're both frozen. There's no escape for him now. My heart's pounding in my throat, but there's no fear left—just the cold clarity of the moment.
The world narrows to that arm, bent at a sickening angle, and I pull harder, my whole body using every ounce of what's left in me. The crowd fades away again, but I'm not listening anymore. I can hear him—his breath, the whimpering grunt as he tries to pull free. But he can't.
The tap comes, fast and frantic. The pressure releases for just a moment, and the referee's hands are on us, but it doesn't matter. I've won.
My legs are shaking, my body is a collection of bruises, aches, and cuts, but I don't feel victorious. I feel nothing. I feel like I've accomplished nothing, Too close, not good enough.
I'm greeted by Chiron raising my arm up in victory. It doesn't feel like I won.
I can barely hear them through the ringing in my ears. The adrenaline is still buzzing through my veins, but it's fading, leaving behind the raw ache of my body. I'm sitting on the edge of the bench, trying to catch my breath, trying to stop the world from spinning. My face is swollen, my lip split, and I'm covered in a layer of sweat and blood that's not my own. The pain in my limbs feels like fire, but I don't mind it. At least it means I'm still here.
Chiron and Ria are standing nearby, their voices a soft, comforting murmur in the haze of my exhaustion. Chiron's got this steady, calm presence about him, always the one to see through the chaos. Ria, on the other hand, is pacing a little, her eyes wide with something between pride and worry. They're both looking at me with approval, but all I can think is I should've done better.
"You fought well, Lachlan," Chiron says, his voice low and gravelly. "Some mistakes but good all and all." He places a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm, but there's an understanding in his eyes. He's seen this before. "First fight of many."
Ria nods in agreement, but her gaze lingers on me, assessing. "You're a beast in that cage, Lachlan. That armbar was sick."
I don't meet their eyes. Instead, I stare at my hands, the same hands that felt so clumsy just minutes ago. The blood under my fingernails makes my stomach churn.
"I wasn't good enough," I mutter, barely audible. The words come out like they've been lodged in my throat, choking me. "I got hit too much. I wasn't fast enough. I almost lost."
Ria's brow furrows, and she takes a step toward me, but I shake my head, pushing the thoughts down. "No," she says softly, "You didn't almost lose. You won. And you showed heart. That's what counts. You did really damn well."
Chiron's quiet for a second, then speaks, his voice just a touch more serious than usual. "Listen, Lachlan… no fight goes perfect. You're always gonna have things you wish you'd done differently. But you can't get stuck on the 'should'ves.' You did what you needed to do to win. That's enough for now."
I let out a bitter laugh, but it's empty. " Not enough for me."
Ria frowns, her lips pressing together. "I get it, you're hard on yourself. But you've got to let this go, at least for tonight. You can't keep looking at what you didn't do right—you've got to see what you did do. That's how you grow."
I shake my head again, and Chiron steps closer, crouching down in front of me so we're eye-to-eye. His gaze is piercing, but not unkind. "You're going to face worse. A lot worse. But that's how you get better. How you learn."
I don't say anything for a long time. The locker room feels distant, like I'm still standing in that room, alone with the echo of the punches that came too fast, too hard. The words that ring in my ears Pitiful. I know they're trying to reassure me, but right now, none of it feels like enough. My body aches, but worse than that, I feel the weight of knowing what I still haven't learned, the gaps in my game that were so obvious in that fight.
"I don't want to just win," I say, my voice hoarse. "I want to be better. I should be better."
"You will be," Chiron says, the certainty in his voice softening the blow. "But you can't rush it. You've already taken the first step. Now you need to be patient."
I let their words settle, but I can't shake the feeling that I should've been more tonight. The fight was mine, but it wasn't clean—it wasn't perfect. And for a second, that burns more than the bruises.
"I'll keep pushing," I mutter, barely convinced, but saying it anyway.
"Good," Chiron says, standing up, "Because that's all any of us can do."
I take a deep breath, standing up slowly, my body aching in protest. I still feel like I'm dragging myself through a fog. But their words are there, hanging in the air.
I won, sure. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.