The arena was massive.

  Johnny could barely keep his mouth from hanging open as Team Juice walked through the private entrance of the ESPN Scrap-Off. The ceiling was so high it felt like a dome, and the roar of thousands of fans already buzzing in anticipation filled the air like electricity. Banners for some of the top scrappers in the world hung from the rafters, and the mat — a bright white canvas with the ESPN logo — sat in the middle like a gladiator pit.

  “Damn,” Johnny muttered.

  Kent, walking beside him, chuckled. “First time at a real card?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny admitted. “Place is insane.”

  “Get used to it,” Kent said. “Someday you’ll be scrapping in one of these.”

  Johnny swallowed hard. The weight of that truth hit him. He was still weeks away from even getting his first match. Meanwhile, his team — Danny, Nod, Jack, and Kent — were about to walk into the biggest card of the year like it was just another day.

  “Alright, fellas,” Coach Doug called, motioning them toward the tunnel that led to the warm-up room. “We got three hours before the card starts. First match is Danny’s. Let’s get him ready.”

  The warm-up room smelled like stale sweat and adrenaline. Thick mats covered the floors, and different teams occupied sections of the room. Team Juice settled in, and almost immediately, Danny Harold started peacocking.

  “Yo,” Danny grinned, cracking his neck. “I’m gonna put this dude out in the first round.”

  “Focus,” Doug snapped. “He’s only four ranks below you. He’s not a scrub.”

  Danny snorted. “Larry Balls? Yeah, okay. Dude’s got a gimmick name. He’s cooked.”

  Johnny knew Larry Balls by reputation — a 22-year-old scrapper who fought out of Tennessee. His nickname was Super Boy because of his flashy Superman-themed singlet, but the guy could wrestle. Johnny didn’t love Danny’s overconfidence.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Kent leaned over. “What’s your prediction, Blood?”

  Johnny shrugged. “If Danny stays disciplined? He wins easy. If he showboats…”

  “…He blows it,” Kent finished.

  Thirty minutes later, it was time for walkouts.

  The team lined up in the tunnel as ESPN’s cameras flooded the arena. The lights dimmed, and the announcer’s voice boomed.

  “Fighting out of Knoxville, Tennessee! Ranked number 109 in the world — Larry ‘Super Boy’ Balls!”

  The crowd gave a decent pop as Larry walked out in his red, white, and blue Superman-style singlet. He looked sharp. Focused. This wasn’t his first big stage.

  Danny, still oozing cockiness, bounced on his heels. “Dead man walking.”

  The announcer spoke again.

  “And his opponent! Fighting out of Los Angeles, California! Ranked number 105 in the world — Danny ‘Pretty Boy’ Harold!”

  Danny strutted out of the tunnel like he was a movie star. Shirtless, flexing, his bleach-blonde hair slicked back. The crowd’s reaction was mixed — some cheers, but a lot of boos. Danny fed off it.

  He had a signature look — a pink silk robe and a matching pink snapback hat that said Pretty Boy across it. As he passed the crowd barrier, he smirked, pointing at his own name on his hat.

  And then it happened.

  A fan — a kid, maybe 16, wearing a Super Boy T-shirt — lunged forward and snatched the hat off Danny’s head.

  Danny froze, disbelief washing over his face. “Yo!”

  The kid grinned, taunting him. “Super Boy! Super Boy!”

  Danny lost it. “Gimme my hat, punk!”

  He lunged. Hands on the barrier, reaching over to grab the kid’s shirt. The crowd gasped as security rushed in, but Danny wasn’t letting go. “Give me my hat, you little—”

  Suddenly, Coach Doug was there. “HEY!”

  Doug grabbed Danny by the ear. Hard. Danny winced. “Ow! Coach, what the—”

  “What the hell are you doing?!” Doug barked, still yanking his ear. “You’re about to scrap on freakin’ ESPN and you’re picking fights with teenagers? Are you stupid?”

  “He stole my hat!” Danny protested.

  “I don’t care if he stole your mom, you idiot!” Doug dragged him back down the tunnel. “You’re embarrassing yourself and the team. Now shut up and get back in the tunnel. We’re restarting your walkout.”

  Danny fumed, but Doug didn’t let go. “You hear me? You wanna blow this match over a hat?*”

  “…No.”

  “Then pull your head outta your ass and go handle your business.”

  Doug finally let go and stormed off. Danny adjusted his hair, still burning with anger.

  Johnny leaned to Kent. “You think he’s gonna choke now?”

  Kent shook his head. “Maybe. Depends how mad he is.”

  The second walkout was… less glamorous.

  Danny walked out, no robe, no hat. Just his singlet. His face was still red from anger, and his cocky smirk was gone. The crowd continued to boo, and Larry Balls stood in his corner, laughing.

  “He’s already in his head,” Johnny muttered.

  Doug crossed his arms. “Yup. Let’s see if he can get out of it.”

  The ref called them to the center of the mat. The crowd noise intensified.

  “Scrappers ready?”

  Danny cracked his neck. “Let’s go.”

  Larry grinned. “This gonna be fun, Pretty Boy.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see,” Danny growled.

  The ref raised his hand. “Scrap!”

  The match had begun.

  From the corner of his eye, Johnny could see Doug. Arms crossed. Face blank. But Johnny had spent enough time around him to know what that look meant.

  Doug was pissed.

  “He’s gonna kill Danny in the back if he blows this,” Johnny muttered.

  Kent chuckled. “Yup.”

  And Johnny couldn’t help but think — if I ever get my shot… I ain’t blowing it like that.

  This was pro scrapping.

  And it was already wild.