A Different Kind of Fight

Logan Drake's name flashed on Colton Hayes's phone screen, buzzing insistently on the worn kitchen table. The hour was late, and something about the timing twisted a knot in Colton’s gut—made his hand hesitate before answering. The kitchen's gloom seemed to lean in closer, waiting.

"Logan," he answered, keeping his voice casual, an undercurrent of curiosity evident. "Burning the midnight oil again?" The forced casualness felt like shadowboxing—familiar movements against an invisible opponent.

The voice on the other end was stripped bare. "Colton, it's done. PMG cut me loose from Jolt Fighting." Each word fell between them like spent brass on concrete, heavy with finality.

"PMG? What the hell are you talking about? How can they cut you loose from Jolt?" The abrupt news of Logan Drake's firing came barreling out like a bullet from a gun.

"Apparently," Logan's bitter laugh carried none of its usual warmth, "I'm still under contract with them. Some fine print I never saw coming." The admission carried the weight of a man who'd just discovered the ground beneath his feet was quicksand.

"Contract? Since when were you ever—" Colton caught himself, the pieces clicking into place like a shoulder being reset. "Jesus, Logan."

"Listen," Logan rushed on, his words tumbling over each other like fighters against the cage, "I'm not calling to drag you down with me. Jolt's still your shot. The contract's there, waiting. Don't throw it away because of this."

Colton leaned back in his chair, a brief silence hung in the air before Colton's rough laughter broke through. "You think I signed that contract already? Hell, Logan, you think I’d actually sign that contract?"

The surprise in Logan's voice was almost tangible. "You... didn't sign? But Colton, this is your chance. Your way back again."

"My way back?" Steel entered Colton's voice, the kind that had carried him through twenty years of warfare in the cage. "Logan, you're not hearing me. I'm not walking away from Jolt—I'm standing with you. There's a difference. I've fought for belts, for purses, for my name in lights. But integrity? That's not negotiable. If they'll dispose of you like this, none of us are safe."

The kitchen seemed to hold its breath as Logan absorbed these words. When he spoke again, his voice carried a tremor of something between gratitude and disbelief. "You're sure about this? It's not going to be an easy road."

Colton glanced at the collection of fight photos on his wall, each one a chapter in a story written in sweat and blood. "When have I ever taken the easy road? We'll figure this out together. Maybe it's time we remind these corporate vultures that not everything comes with a price tag."

"You know," Colton’s voice had found new strength, "maybe Grizz saw something in us we didn't see ourselves. Have you reached out to him yet?"

The name hung between them like smoke in still air. "No," Logan admitted, "but maybe it's time. His chapter in this story isn't finished either."

Through his kitchen window, Colton watched as the storm clouds that had loomed throughout the night slowly began to drift apart, giving way to the first hints of early morning. "Let's shake the foundation," he said, feeling the familiar surge of pre-fight energy coursing through him. "This industry needs a wake-up call."

"No more playing by their rules," Logan agreed, and Colton could hear the smile returning to his voice. "We write our own playbook now."

"Looks like we've got ourselves a fight," Colton said softly, the words carrying the weight of a contract more binding than anything written on paper.

After they hung up, Colton remained at his kitchen table, the phone dark and silent before him. The atmosphere felt different now, charged with possibility rather than dread. He'd been in enough fights to know when one was worth taking, when the risk of losing was nothing compared to the cost of walking away. This wasn't just another bout—it was a revolution wrapped in loyalty, a stand against the machinery that had ground down too many good people.

Tomorrow would bring its own battles, but tonight, in the quiet of his kitchen, Colton Hayes felt the familiar calm that came before his biggest fights. This time, though, the victory wouldn't be measured in belts or bonuses, but in the preservation of something far more valuable—the integrity of a sport he'd given his life to, and the loyalty of friendships forged in its crucible