Dave / Harry's P.O.V.
The UFC judges come 5 minutes before they should, some of them sitting down, some of them standing and leaning on the wall, but all of them have their arms crossed and look like they take no bullshit.
"Arnold, you better not have brought us all here for nothing, you know we never have time for anything, anyway." one of them says, honestly looking kinda bored and my anxiety levels go up even more than they were before.
"Davis, just shut up and trust me on this, okay?" coach says, exhales a short breath and looks at me, smiling.
"Let's go then, shall we?"
Go? What the fuck? Go where?
I frown. "Go where?" I whisper to coach and he gives me a weird fucking look.
"Didn't I tell you? Oh, must've forgotten, my bad. You're fighting a UFC champion in about ten minutes to show you're good enough and all."
I stop in my track. "I'm what?" I screech. "How could you forget to tell me that?"
He glares at me. "Oh, don't make a fuss about it now. It's not like you won't win."
I stare at him in disbelief. "What do you mean? Of course I won't win! I'm supposed to fight a UFC champion!"
The judges begin to give us weird looks, all 8 of them and coach gives me a look that says "shut up".
I glare at him but shut my mouth and continue walking.
Who the fuck does he think I am? Some fucking professional? Even if I was, I probably wouldn't win against an UFC fighter.
Fuck me, he's probably gonna kill me in the ring.
I gulp and gather all the power I have to keep walking towards something that will make me the biggest fucking idiot ever.
"Which category is he again?" one of the judges ask and coach answers:"Middle weight."
"And how tall is he?" the same one asks, and I leave the coach to answer him. "Six feet three."
"And who am I fighting?" I ask, afraid of the fucking answer.
Another judge turns toward me. "Oh, Arnold didn't tell you?"
I shake my head. He stammers, not really knowing how to answer my question. "Hm, well, I hope this doesn't come as too big of a surprise, but he was the only british fighter who was at home today and felt like coming here."
I still didn't get the fucking answer, and it's not effecting my heart rate well. "Okay, so who is he?"
Coach throws an arm around my shoulders. "Michael Bisping. Don't worry, you'll do just fine."
My fucking legs stop working. "You're fucking with me."
This must be some kind of a terrible fucking joke.
"No, you're actually fighting Michael, but since we know how this situation is, with him being at the top and you not even in the league yet, well, we agreed that if you last 10 seconds, you're in." another one of the judges smiles at me.
Okay, so maybe this isn't a joke and I'm actually fighting the best middleweight UFC champion in a few minutes.
How the fuck did I get myself in this?
Fuck. I'm gonna fucking die.
I shake my arms and force myself to take deep breaths. Then, we reach the part of the gym with the ring and I'm a second away from actually shitting my pants.
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