Damon sat in the locker room, his eyes fixed on the mirror as he mentally prepared himself for the weigh-in. Suddenly, a knock came from the door, breaking the silence.
He stood up, thinking it was his turn to go out and weigh in. He walked to the door, his heart beating slightly faster with anticipation.
As he opened the door, he expected to see one of the event staff or a fellow fighter. But instead, he saw a guy he had never seen before, carrying a large box in his hands.
The box was about the size of a big suitcase, but not too big to be carried by one person.
The guy looked at him with a neutral expression. "Mr. Cross, I have this from Mr. Steele," he said, his voice firm but polite.
Damon was confused. Who was Mr. Steele, and what was in the box? But unconsciously, he stretched out his hand, taking the box from the guy. It was heavier than he expected, but he managed to hold it steady.
"Thanks?" Damon said, unsure of what to say.
The guy nodded and turned around, closing the door behind him. Damon was left standing there, holding the box and wondering what was going on.
He turned around, placing the box on the table in front of him. The box was a typical cardboard box, with a simple lid on top.
Damon sat down on the bench, his eyes fixed on the box. He was curious about what was inside, but he didn't want to open it yet. He wanted to wait until he had a better idea of what was going on.
As he sat there, he heard the muffled sounds of fighters talking and laughing outside the locker room. He felt a sense of isolation, sitting there alone with the mysterious box.
Damon's eyes widened as he realized who Mr. Steele was - the guy who came in earlier to tell them about the weigh-ins.
He remembered thinking that Mr. Steele looked like a rich guy, with his fancy suit and confident demeanor.
Damon stood up, feeling a sense of curiosity. If Mr. Steele had sent him a box, then everyone else must have gotten one too. He wasn't special, so why did he get a box?
He walked over to the box, ripping off the packing tape with a loud tearing sound. As he opened the box, he saw that it was filled with fabric.
He reached in and pulled out a pair of shorts - MMA shorts, to be exact. They were black in color, and looked like they were made of a comfortable, stretchy material.
He also pulled out a pair of underwear, which made him even more confused. Who sends someone underwear? He didn't know what to make of it.
He dug deeper into the box and found a mouthguard and gloves. He already had his own, but these looked like high-quality spares.
Damon was confused and grateful at the same time. He didn't know what he was going to do with all this gear, but he appreciated the thought.
His mind wandered as he pondered the mystery of the box. Did everyone else receive a similar package, or was he the only one?
And if it was just him, how did they know about his lack of gear? Had Joey's brother mentioned it to someone? He didn't dwell on the thought for too long, his attention drawn back to the contents of the box.
His gaze fell upon the underwear, and he decided to change into it.
He removed his old underwear, noticing the holes and frayed edges. They had been with him for a while, and he knew it was time for a replacement.
He slipped on the new pair, feeling the soft fabric against his skin. The fit was perfect, and he wasn't surprised - they already had his body measurements, so estimating his size wouldn't have been difficult.
As he looked at his old underwear, now discarded on the floor, he couldn't help but think about how he had been putting off buying new ones.
It wasn't something he thought about often, but now, faced with the reality of his worn-out garments, he realized he had been neglecting his own needs.
He didn't bother putting his old clothes back on, knowing that the weigh-in was approaching.
He would need to wear only his underwear, and the thought of wearing his fighting gear or all his clothes would have been embarrassing.
Instead, he stood there, wearing just the new underwear, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.
Just as he was lost in thought, a knock on the door broke the silence. It was a gentle tap, but it echoed through the room, signaling that it was time to go.
Damon took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. He knew the weigh-in was just the beginning, and he needed to be prepared.
As he stepped out of the room, Damon couldn't help but feel a sense of awkwardness. He was walking around in his underwear, and it felt weird.
Other fighters were walking back to their assigned rooms, and he couldn't help but notice their glances.
He felt embarrassed, his face growing hot with discomfort. He remembered watching a weigh-in on TV once, where the fighters had worn underwear, even the women. But it was different when you were the one doing it.
He tapped the guy who was leading him on the shoulder. "Hey, is it fine being in my underwear?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
The guy chuckled a bit. "It's cool, don't sweat it. Just don't wear anything that can mess with the weigh-in. Heck, you can even go in naked if you want."
Damon sighed in relief, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He didn't need to worry about what he was wearing.
They arrived at a door, and the guy stood waiting. Damon waited too, his heart beating slightly faster with anticipation.
Then, a knock came from the door. It was a gentle tap, but it echoed through the hallway.
The guy turned to him and nodded. "It's time," he said, his voice firm but friendly.
Damon opened the door and stepped into a hall with seats. The room was mostly empty, with only a few people scattered about.
He scanned the space, his eyes landing on a platform at the front of the room. Everyone's gaze was fixed on him, and he felt a surge of nervousness.
He made his way up to the platform, his footsteps echoing off the walls.
A man in a black shirt stood waiting, pointing towards the scale. Damon stepped onto the cold surface, feeling a slight chill run through his feet.
The man in black began to adjust the scale, his movements swift and precise. Damon waited, his eyes fixed on the man's hands as he worked.
Finally, the man turned to face him, a microphone in hand. "125," he announced, his voice clear and loud.
Damon's gaze followed the man's to the empty seats, where a camera was set up. He realized they must be live-streaming the weigh-in on social media.
The man's voice echoed through the hall once more. "125 for Damon Cross, he makes weight."
He looked around the room, taking in the scattered faces. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with this level of public scrutiny, but it was done now.
With a quiet sense of satisfaction, Damon turned and walked back the way he came, leaving the platform and the staring eyes behind.