ok, here we go, a new Dynamo League Greens!

>Coach Roma adjusted her stance, the playful grin on her lips giving way to a sharper focus. Her body lowered just slightly, like a predator ready to close in on its prey, and then she struck. Her movements were smoother now, each jab and grab weaving together like parts of a flowing dance.
>Willow darted side to side, her breath steady despite the sweat building along her brow. She could feel the difference—Roma wasn’t holding back anymore. Every strike came with purpose, every lunge had intent, but Willow’s instincts, drilled into her since childhood, kept her light on her feet.
>She shifted her weight just enough to let punches glance past her cheek, or ducked low before Roma’s arm could catch her in a lock. Her tail flicked with each dodge, her balance perfectly calibrated.
>"She’s faster than Dad ever was"… Willow thought, narrowly avoiding a shoulder tackle." But her rhythm is the same. Predict, then commit. I just need to keep moving. Let her think she’s got me cornered. Wait for it… wait for it…"
>Roma’s mind, however, was buzzing with delight. "She’s reading me. She’s not just reacting, she’s anticipating. Good—very good. But she’s too cautious. She needs the courage to strike, not just survive. Come on, Willow… show me what your dad taught you about finishing."
>The back and forth continued, a contest of reflexes and resolve. Roma’s strikes blurred together—feints, grabs, sharp lunges—all meant to corner Willow, to pressure her into making a mistake.
>Willow, meanwhile, slipped through the spaces between them, her body bending and weaving like water flowing around rocks. She hadn’t landed a single clean hit yet, but she was conserving her strength, her eyes sharp, searching for the one chance to turn the tide.
>And then it came.

Continuing the next part of DL Greentexts so it's gonna be long


>The tension in the air hadn’t vanished—it simply shifted.
>As Willow stepped onto the mat, her padded gear in place and tail flicking with anticipation, the rest of the class gathered back into their sitting spots, buzzing with quiet chatter and loaded looks.
>Aya leaned against Gwendolyn’s side, still groggy but watching with a half-lidded interest. Ronnie sat silently, arms crossed, recovering from both pain and shame, while Sailor Norm nursed his bandaged arm and tried to sip from a juice pouch with his off-hand.
>Nobody said the words “Willow’s gonna win.”
>Because nobody believed it.
>Coach Roma wasn’t just strong—she was seasoned. Her body was built from years of real battles, not drills.
>She moved like a predator and trained like a gladiator. Every student had seen her dismantle dummies, bark commands mid-spar, and laugh through blows that would knock out half of them.
>Willow? She was enthusiastic. Energetic. Trained, sure—but this was different.
>So the bets weren’t about if she would win.
>It was about how she’d lose.
>Ronnie finally spoke up, breaking the silence with a calm, detached tone. “We’re betting on the outcome. Not who wins—that’s obvious. The bet’s on how the match ends.”
>Aya groaned, rubbing her temples. “You guys seriously never learn…”
>“Shhh,” Ronnie snapped. “I say points. Roma will go easy on her. End it before Willow does something reckless.”
>Gwendolyn frowned. “I think she’ll hold her own for a bit, but then tap out.”
>“Knockout,” said Norm, grinning. “Calling it now. Coach Roma’s gonna hit her so hard she thinks she’s a literal beaver.”
>Aya blinked. “Elimination. Maybe she gets tossed outta bounds or something.”
>Ronnie nodded, counting off each bet with a mental note. “Everyone betting their lunch for a week?”
>Nods and muttered agreements followed.