Daughters, Dojos, and Digital Dogfights
He's just a downgraded version of me. After wrapping up the shoot, I headed to San Francisco with Uncle Jake.
On the plane, munching a sandwich, Uncle Jake glanced at me. "Shooting schedule's all done, so I'm heading to Korea and I'll be back in 20 days."
"You got honey smeared all over Korea? Why bother flying back and forth like that? Just crash at our place."
"My honey's in Korea, yeah."
"Huh?"
I had no idea why I'd assumed Uncle Jake was single. He's only a bit younger than Dad—it's normal he'd be married by now.
"Got an only daughter too, you know?"
"A daughter!?"
"What, you think I'm some ancient bachelor...? Wanna see?"
"You've had her this whole time and never showed me?"
Uncle Jake chuckled and handed me a photo. In it, a girl about Hayun's age stood with a classy lady and Jake himself. She looked just like her dad—a total mini-Jake.
"What do you think?"
"She takes after you big time."
"Right?" He couldn't wipe the proud grin off his face.
"But damn, she's pretty. Perfect match for Beom-jun as a playmate..."
"...?"
I'd never seen Jake go stone-cold serious like that. Killer intent radiated from his eyes, making me flinch involuntarily.
"Ah, I just meant she's that pretty. No misunderstanding... And what's wrong with our Beom-jun anyway?"
"Absolutely not."
This hit my pride as Beom-jun's big bro. Sure, the kid's a little rascal, but he's got so much swagger. You could tell from his workouts alone—the little squirt was overflowing with testosterone.
A bit miffed, I pulled out my wallet and showed him Beom-jun's photo. Uncle Jake flinched at the sight of my flower-boy little bro, totally different from my build.
"Handsome, right? Our third's way better-looking than you expected."
"Ahem..."
"Be honest—you thought he was a girl for a sec, didn't you? Deadly looks, huh? The kind that gives girls heart attacks."
"...A man's gotta be manly."
Pointing at me—the epitome of manliness—he went deadpan again. His reaction was so over-the-top it actually stung a little.
"...Am I not good enough?"
"N-No, it's not that, but daughters are precious."
"What, you think I wasn't raised precious? Ten years ago, Mom and Dad doted on their firstborn like crazy."
"....."
Jake shut his mouth, staring at me like I was a criminal. Truth is, I get it objectively. Any dad who saw my Malloy fight wouldn't trust me with his daughter. That blood-soaked glee went beyond mere masculinity into something else.
I don't know what it's like to have kids. But seeing how protective Jake got, I could guess how precious they must be.
I'd always seen myself as a bit of a hedonist and non-marriage guy. Living solo was easy—no hassle, no tiptoeing around others. But there was Jake, smiling at his daughter's photo like she was his life's fuel.
Since regressing, though, I kinda got it. I'd basically carried my little squirts on my back growing up. Beom-jun, who couldn't even walk yet, was a curiosity machine—had to pick up and squeeze everything. Wouldn't sit still, kept headbutting walls and wailing like it was yesterday. Ate so much he was a pure shitting machine, but changing diapers never felt like a chore.
"You happy being married?"
"I got married to make her happy."
"...?"
"When you meet someone you want to make happy—not for yourself—then marry 'em. Family's about them making you smile as much as you make them."
I nodded, chewing my sandwich. Probably doesn't apply to everyone. He could say that because his wife gives as good as she gets.
We landed in San Francisco, said bye to Uncle Jake—who handed over the car keys and boarded his Korea flight—and I hopped in the parked car, heading home.
My clip from Logan's show had blown up, drawing a truckload of boxer retorts. Sweaty from training, I fired up the camera for a response they couldn't ignore on his podcast.
"I won amateur boxing nationals. Try beating an MMA amateur before running your mouths."
"And you think you guys fight well? What a load of crap. Under MMA rules, I'd snap your necks in under 10 seconds. Drag every boxing genius ever into my octagon one by one—it'd be a slaughterhouse opening ceremony."
"Don't believe me? Hit me up for a spar. I'll drop my gym's location. Let's stream it live."
MMA was niche back then, so folks assumed all real fighters went boxing. Hell, plenty thought boxers could smash MMA guys under MMA rules. My blanket provocation hit hard—they all flipped out.
Grinning at the chaos, I tossed my phone aside.
Young-hoon was deep in training camp for his fight, always drenched in sweat lately. "Rest is key," I told him, so after sets he'd do yoga. Our schedules overlapped, so I stretched beside him.
"You wanna get into the WFC?"
"Hngh... Keep grinding, and they'll notice eventually."
"Takes a special kind of freak for that."
"...Is effort alone not enough?"
Young-hoon flopped down, soaked. I sat too after loosening him up.
"Hmm..."
"....."
"Yeah, that's the romantic spirit. Keep grinding—I'll hook you up with a WFC ticket."
I smiled at his sidelong glance. Just being on Team Monster was a fast-track golden ticket.
My SNS was a nonstop trash-talk warzone. Boxing must've been their sore spot—unlike minor-league MMA, my provocations rippled into their world. Not that I'd box, or they'd touch MMA. It was all bark from caged puppies—SNS Yeobos fighting through bars.
Out of nowhere, a prime Gerard Tyson pic popped up.
"Win him on the street?" Likes exploded—way past reason.
I slapped a photo of Tyson on my training dummy, choked it out from behind, and posted: 10 seconds.
Did I hit a real nerve? Hate comments flooded in by the second—lifetime supply. Guess that's why puppies yap through cages.
Strutting my shit-talk was weirdly fun. Smirking through the abuse, Might and his bros eyed me weird. If some no-name talked like this, they'd ignore it—but I wielded untouchable clout in MMA. Anyone who'd seen my Callum or Malloy fights knew I backed it up.
So the desperate-for-my-loss crowd ballooned. Straight ticket power. Light heavyweight rankers thinking they'd grapple me to death—their likes skyrocketed, probably boxers.
The synergy was real: folks hunting my "killer" grappler, rankers craving the matchup. They saw me as easy money. Grappling mains left standing, probably.
Had to face them grappless till title shot. Hiding it, plus Dmitry'd bolt if I showed grappling chops—no win path visible, he'd grab the belt and ghost for 1-2 years. Warrior rep or not, he dodged stronger foes.
Interest peaked—then the call came. WFC 169 vs. #2 all-rounder Colton Bricks. Win this, get Dmitry title shot.
I booked a dinner spot to hype it, ordered brownie for dessert, snapped a pic, and nuked SNS.
Instant reaction to the nickname game—perfect.
New Year dawned; Young-hoon's fight prep had Team Monster gym buzzing. Two weeks out, he'd dropped nearly 10kg.
Bad news hit mid-workout: opponent injured, fight canned. Grinding like a dog through the cut, only for their fuckup to cancel it—that bullshit only hurts who've lived it.
Young-hoon just nodded and kept training.
"....."
Can't rage for the calm kid. Even Colin fumed briefly before patting his shoulder and resuming.
Tahar and the invited sparring partner for Young-hoon's camp just watched awkwardly. Figured Young-hoon and Colin were tight, but damn, closer than I thought.
"We'll squeeze every cent of appearance fee, right?"
Tahar nodded. Normal teams might eat shit, but Team Monster had my name value. Boxing? Maybe. MMA? They know what it means.
Then Uncle Jake called—landed in SF. I hit the showers. Time to check out my private jet.