The bus ride was quiet. Johnny “Blood” Hanes stared out the window as the city turned to hills and the hills turned to nothing but open road. His duffle bag, still half-packed from the morning, rested against his leg. His nerves buzzed. He tried not to show it. After all, he’d scrapped his whole life — since he was six years old — but this was different. This was pro.

  Fifteen years old and drafted by Team Juice. Only 1% of scrappers made it to this level. Fewer stayed.

  The facility came into view: a massive building, painted a bright crimson red with the team logo — a juice box with a fist punching through it — plastered on the front. Johnny felt his stomach twist. This was it.

  He stepped off the bus, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and made his way to the door. Before he could even knock, it swung open.

  A man stood there. Stocky, built like an old wrestler, with a thick brown beard and piercing blue eyes. He wore a Juice hoodie and cargo shorts, and he walked like he had a permanent limp. This had to be him.

  “Johnny Hanes,” the man said, grinning. “Blood, right?”

  Johnny swallowed. “Yeah. You Coach Doug?”

  “Yup,” Doug said, stepping aside. “Come on in, kid. Welcome to Juice.”

  The training room smelled like sweat and ambition. The mats covered most of the floor, faded red and white, and banners from previous championships lined the walls. Johnny spotted a full-size cage on the far side — a throwback to when Juice tried their hand at MMA — and a series of benches where four guys were sitting, watching Johnny like hawks.

  “Hey fellas,” Doug said, clapping his hands. “Got your new teammate here. Johnny ‘Blood’ Hanes.”

  The first to stand was a wiry kid with perfectly gelled hair and a jawline that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. “Danny Harold,” he said, extending a hand. “Pretty Boy.”

  Johnny shook it. Danny squeezed hard. Johnny squeezed back harder.

  The second was a giant of a man, around 6’5” and built like a truck. His cauliflower ear told the story of his years on the mat. “Jack Jones,” he rumbled. “Sledgehammer.”

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  The third was the polar opposite — lean, smooth, with a sharp gaze. “Nod Jackson,” he said. “Fancy.”

  Johnny shook his hand, but his eyes landed on the fourth guy. The room seemed to give him a bit more space. Broad shoulders, thick frame, and a quiet confidence about him.

  “Kent Flame,” he said simply. “Fireman.”

  Johnny froze. The Fireman. The guy who was fighting in the main event of the Scrap-Off next month against the former world champion.

  Kent just gave him a small nod.

  Doug clapped his hands again. “Alright, enough pleasantries. Blood, let’s talk rules. You probably know ‘em, but I wanna make sure you know ‘em our way.”

  Johnny dropped his bag and listened close.

  “Pure grappling. No strikes. None. You throw a punch, you’re done. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Takedowns are three points. Clean takedowns. If you plant a guy on his back and control him, that’s three. You let him up, and he escapes, that’s a point for him.”

  Johnny nodded.

  “Reversals — you know what those are, right?”

  “Yeah. If I’m on bottom and I flip it on him — two points.”

  “Good. Near submissions — three points. I mean close. If his face is turning purple or his arm’s about to snap, that’s three. You finish it, match is over.”

  “Pins?” Johnny asked.

  Doug grinned. “That’s what they say you’re good at. Both shoulder blades touch the mat — match is done. Doesn’t matter if it’s ten seconds in or ten seconds left.”

  Johnny could feel the other guys watching him.

  “In a duel match — which is one-on-one like you’ll do on cards — you got four rounds. Two minutes each. In a tournament, it’s three rounds. Tie goes to sudden victory. First point scored wins. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Doug leaned in a bit. “There’s five weight classes. You’re in 125. You’re the first Juice scrapper in that weight class in three years.”

  Johnny’s stomach dropped. “Why’s that?”

  Doug laughed. “Because we couldn’t find anyone good enough. You’re the first one worth drafting. So don’t blow it.”

  After an hour of paperwork, Doug led Johnny to the mats.

  “Alright, let’s roll.”

  The guys lined up. Doug pointed. “Blood, you’re in with Pretty Boy.”

  Danny grinned, already taking off his shirt. His physique was insane — thick muscles and veins, like he lived in the weight room. Johnny swallowed hard.

  “Ready?” Doug asked.

  “Ready.”

  “Scrap!”

  Danny shot like a cannon, going for a double-leg takedown. Johnny sprawled, hooked his arm, and spun behind for the two-point reversal.

  Doug laughed. “Nice!”

  Danny growled and exploded to his feet, getting his escape point.

  It went like that for two minutes. Danny stronger. Johnny faster. When the round ended, Johnny had won 5-4 on points.

  Danny looked pissed. “Rematch.”

  Doug shook his head. “Nope. Blood’s got work to do. Everyone hit the showers — except you, Blood. You and me gotta talk.”

  Johnny sat on the mat, still catching his breath, as Doug knelt beside him.

  “Look,” Doug said. “You’re talented. Quick. Smart. You pin guys fast. But that’s not gonna work up here. These guys don’t get pinned fast. You can’t just be a hammer. You gotta be a craftsman.”

  Johnny nodded.

  “I’m not throwing you to the wolves yet,” Doug continued. “The other four — they’re all scheduled for the Semi-Annual ESPN Scrap-Off in three weeks. One duel match each.”

  Johnny’s eyes widened. “They’re on a card?”

  Doug nodded. “Danny’s got some chump. Nod’s got a dude ranked like 200. Jack’s fighting a freakin’ ex-MMA guy. But Kent…” Doug whistled. “Kent’s fighting number four in the world. Former champ. That’s the main event.”

  Johnny felt his throat tighten. “Damn.”

  “And you,” Doug said, standing, “ain’t fighting. Not yet. You ain’t ready. Give me three months of training. Then I’ll get you a match. Sound fair?”

  Johnny exhaled. “Yeah. Sounds fair.”

  Doug grinned. “Good. Now hit the showers. Tomorrow, we build you into a scrapper that can actually hang in this room.”

  As Johnny headed for the showers, he could hear Danny grumbling to Nod. “Kid just got lucky.”

  But Johnny didn’t care.

  He was here.

  And he wasn’t leaving.