Legends and Longshots

The first rays of morning light sliced through the slatted blinds of Logan Drake’s cramped office, casting uneven stripes across the chaos within. Papers lay scattered like fallen soldiers in a losing battle—on the desk, the floor, even a chair shoved into the corner. The whiteboard on the wall looked like it had been through a war, covered in a chaotic mess of names, arrows, and circled question marks. It was the kind of organized chaos that only its creator could make sense of.

Logan sat slouched in his chair, a picture of exhaustion. His tie hung undone around his neck, the ends frayed from being yanked loose too many times. His rumpled suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and the shadows under his eyes told the story of another sleepless night. This wasn’t just fatigue—it was the weight of ambition, the price of trying to do something no one else believed in.

Grizz leaned casually against the doorframe, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space. His red bandana sat snug over his head, partially covering his long, unkempt gray beard that cascaded down his chest. Deep lines etched his weathered face, the eyes beneath heavy brows carrying the weight of a man who’d seen too much but still had plenty left to prove. His boots creaked as he shifted his weight, the faint sound cutting through the quiet hum of the air conditioner.

"Kid," Grizz drawled, his voice as rough as gravel, "looks like a damn hurricane tore through here."

Logan didn’t bother looking up. "This hurricane’s name is Strike Force," he muttered, his tone heavy, "and it’s a category 5."

Grizz chuckled, low and rumbling, as he stepped inside. Pulling out the chair opposite Logan, he dropped into it with the ease of a man who’d been here before. He glanced around the room, taking in the disarray with a bemused shake of his head.

"Alright," Grizz said, settling in. "What’s the plan? Who’ve you reached out to so far?"

Without a word, Logan rifled through the mess on his desk and grabbed a crumpled sheet of paper. Coffee stains marked its edges, and the writing—hurried, uneven—spoke to the desperation of its creator. He slid it across the desk to Grizz, who picked it up and scanned the names.

"Well, hell," Grizz muttered, scratching his beard as his eyes flicked across the list. "You’ve just about contacted everyone in the damn industry who’s still got a pulse."

Logan leaned back in his chair, his exhaustion catching up to him. "Yeah, I know," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. "But this is going to be big. I just... I know it."

Grizz set the paper down, folding his arms across his chest as he fixed Logan with a skeptical look. "It ain’t gonna be nothin’ if you don’t get fighters signed," he said bluntly.

Logan dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, letting out a long sigh. "I know that too, Grizz."

The room went still, the soft rumble of traffic outside the only sound to cut through the quiet. Grizz stroked his beard, his sharp eyes narrowing in thought. Then, a slow smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I think I know where to start," he said, breaking the silence.

Logan’s head lifted, curiosity flickering through his exhaustion. "Who?"

Grizz leaned forward, his tone almost teasing. "The Golden Boy."

Logan blinked, disbelief flashing across his face. "Glenn Sterling?" he asked, his voice incredulous. "You’re joking, right?"

Grizz chuckled, shaking his head. "Not just Sterling. Colton Hayes too."

Logan groaned, his head falling into his hands as he rubbed his temples. "Jesus Christ,

Grizz, I’m trying to build a tournament, not open a retirement home."

Grizz laughed, the sound rough and unbothered. "Look, kid. If you want people to care, you need names. Sterling and Hayes might be old, but they’re still money. People recognize them. You need a hook to get eyes on this thing."

Logan stared at him, his expression a mix of exhaustion and reluctant consideration. Finally, he exhaled sharply. "Fine," he said, his voice laced with resignation. "You’re the expert. We’ll start with them. But if this backfires, I’m blaming you."

Grizz grinned as he stood, adjusting his bandana with a confident tug. "Fair enough. But listen, Logan—don’t just aim for the future. The past is what gets people’s attention. It’s the hook that brings ‘em in. Respect the business enough to sell it right."

Logan leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the whiteboard on the wall. Among the chaotic scrawl, one word stood out, circled and underlined multiple times: LEGENDS.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, Grizz’s words echoing in his mind. The past is what gets people’s attention.

Grizz moved toward the door, his boots thudding softly against the worn carpet. Before he left, he turned back, his expression serious but not unkind. "Alright, kid. Let’s go make some history."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Logan sat alone in the quiet office. His eyes lingered on the whiteboard, the word LEGENDS staring back at him like a challenge. He muttered to himself, his voice barely audible, "One step closer."

But the weight in his tone betrayed his doubt, the question hanging in the air: Closer to what?