Damon walked the line, his steps steady, his mind locked in.
Fans reached out, hands stretching past the barricades, desperate to touch him, to be part of the moment. Officials moved swiftly, keeping the crowd at bay, ensuring the walkout stayed smooth.
As Damon reached the checkpoint, an official gestured toward his shirt. Without hesitation, he grabbed the hem, pulled it over his head, and tossed it into the sea of screaming fans.
The crowd erupted. A new wave of cheers, deafening in its intensity.
The official wasted no time. He ran his hands down Damon's shoulders, across his chest, checking for anything out of regulation.
He checked Damon's mouthpiece, nodded in approval, then checked his cup by making Damon pat it.
Finally, the Vaseline. A thick layer smeared across his cheekbones, his brow, ensuring his skin would be slick, minimizing cuts.
Damon stood still, letting it happen, his expression unreadable.
