#daniel cormier

my favorite Islam video ever idc…

They're so fun together 😭 I love khabib's pronunciation and laugh sm

It started on a regular Tuesday morning at training. Abubakar walked in looking like someone had stolen his protein shake.

"Brother, what's wrong with your face?" Islam Makhachev asked, wrapping his hands.

"Nothing."

"You look like you ate a frog," Tagir observed.

"I look..like I look," Abubakar muttered, dropping his bag with more force than necessary.

"Then why do you look so sad?" Usman pressed.

Abubakar was quiet for a moment, clearly debating whether to share. Then it burst out of him: "My wife's favorite fighter is Islam."

The gym went silent.

"Me?", Islam Mamedov offered hopefully.

"No, him! Mister double champ, walks on water, saves puppies while being the best fighter - if you ask my wife", Abubakar nervously motioned towards Islam Makhachev.

Islam Makhachev looked up, confused. "..what?!"

"My WIFE," Abubakar repeated, each word heavy with betrayal. "Her favorite fighter. Is YOU."

"How do you know this?" Shara asked carefully.

"She commented on his Instagram last night. His fight highlight video. Said he's the best fighter in the world." Abubakar pulled out his phone and showed them. "Look. THREE fire emojis."

The group crowded around to see.

Sure enough: "Best fighter in the world 🔥🔥🔥"

"Brother," Islam said, trying not to smile, "she's not wrong—"

"DON'T," Abubakar warned. "Don't you dare be smug about this."

"I'm not being smug!"

"You're SMILING!"

"It's just—she has good taste in fighters, that's all—"

"SHE'S MARRIED TO A FIGHTER! TO ME! I'M RIGHT THERE!"

Tagir was grinning now. "So your wife thinks Islam is better than you?"

"She didn't SAY that—"

"She kind of did though," Usman pointed out.

"With THREE fire emojis," Ikram added helpfully.

Abubakar glared at all of them. "You all think this is very funny."

"It's a little funny," Shara admitted.

"Wait until it happens to you," Abubakar said darkly. "Then we'll see who's laughing."

"Brother, my wife thinks I'm the best," Islam said confidently. "This is not a problem I will have."

"Mine too," Tagir agreed. His wife adored him. Every day, she told him he was cute. Which basically means favorite fighter.

"Same," said Usman with all the confidence in the world.

Abubakar looked at each of them with something like pity. "Sure. Keep thinking that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Islam Mamedov demanded.

"Nothing. Just... you should maybe check."

"There's nothing to check! My wife loves me!" Shara laughed nervously.

"I didn't say she doesn't love you," Abubakar said. "I said check who her favorite FIGHTER is."

The seed of doubt was planted.

But they all laughed it off, gave Abubakar grief for the rest of training, and went home confident in their wives' loyalty.

(...)

The next morning, the energy at the gym was completely different.

Islam Makhachev walked in looking like he'd seen a ghost.

Tagir came in two minutes later, also subdued.

Then Usman. Then Umar. Then Islam Mamedov.

Each of them quiet. Each of them with the same shell-shocked expression.

Abubakar was already there, stretching, watching them file in with grim satisfaction.

"So," he said casually. "How did everyone sleep?"

Silence.

"Anyone want to share what's wrong?"

More silence.

Finally, Islam Makhachev spoke, his voice hollow: "My wife's favorite fighter is Volk."

"What?!" Shara jerked back.

"She said his fight IQ is 'unmatched.'"

"Brother - you beat that guy. Twice?!" Amru protested.

"Apparently - eh -I can't even follow that logic! - I got lucky, I guess??" Islam was now openly miserable.

"Lucky," They all echoed, shell shocked.

A long, heavy silence for their defeated brother.

And then...

"...I thought you were her favorite," Abubakar said, barely hiding his smile.

"Brother. Cruel." Umar scolded, his eyes dutifully planted to the floor.

Tagir cleared his throat. "Well, if it makes you feel better, my wife's favorite is DC."

"DC?!" several voices repeated.

"But he's retired," Usman said weakly.

"That's what I said! She said greatness doesn't expire! And she said he was very polite, and had great sense of humor."

"That has nothing to do with fighting?" Amru pointed out.

"Don't expect logic in these things," Usman commented bitterly.

"What about you, Usman?" Abubakar asked sweetly.

"...Islam."

"Oh?", Islam Mamedov looked up hopefully.

"No, me", Islam Makhachev smiled lightly, "Right?"

"She cried when he lost that one time," Usman said flatly. "Real tears. I didn't even know she followed MMA that closely."

"Did she cry when you lost your fight the other time?" Ikram asked.

Usman's silence was answer enough.

Islam Mamedov raised his hand like a student in class. "My wife really admires Volkanovski's fight breakdown videos."

"The Volk again?! The short guy?!" Islam Makhachev said.

"She subscribes to his YouTube channel. Has notifications on."

Umar spoke quietly from the corner: "GSP."

Everyone turned.

"What?" Tagir asked.

"My wife thinks GSP is the greatest fighter of all time. She has a POSTER. In our house. Of Georges St-Pierre."

The gym was silent for a moment, processing this information.

"Brother," Abubakar said finally, "that's... that's rough."

"She says he had the most complete game," Umar continued, staring at the floor. "That he was classy and well-rounded. I asked if I was well-rounded. She said I was well-rounded in the 'cuddle department.'"

"The CUDDLE DEPARTMENT?!" Islam Makhachev burst out.

"It's not funny!"

"It's a LITTLE funny—"

"IT'S NOT!"

Amru, who'd been sitting quietly on the bench, spoke up: "My wife likes Khamzat."

Everyone stared at him.

"Chimaev?" Tagir said carefully.

"She says he's works harder than anyone."

"Does she... does she watch his fights?" Usman asked.

"Every single one. She makes me watch with her. Do you know how many times I've heard 'kill everyone, smash everyone'? Why? What did i do wrong in my life?"

"Brother, I'm so sorry," Islam Mamedov said sincerely.

Chanco had been scrolling through his phone, and now his face fell. "Oh no."

"What?" several people asked at once.

"She follows Paddy Pimblett."

"PADDY?!"

"PADDY THE BADDY?!"

"She commented on his post," Chanco said weakly, showing his phone. "Said he's 'so funny 😂' with the crying-laughing emoji."

"She thinks PADDY is funny?!" Tagir was incredulous.

"What's wrong with funny?" Chanco asked defensively.

"Nothing, but... PADDY?!"

"He's entertaining!" Chanco protested. "She likes his personality!"

"But he's not even—" Islam Makhachev stopped himself.

"Not even what?"

"Nothing. Paddy's great. Very... entertaining."

The door opened and Makkasharip Zaynukov walked in, followed by Saygid Izagakhmaev.

"Why does everyone look so sad?" Makkasharip asked, dropping his bag.

"Bad morning," several people muttered.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," Islam Mamedov said quickly. "Just training talk."

Saygid looked around suspiciously. "This doesn't look like nothing."

"It's nothing," Tagir insisted.

But Abubakar, because misery loves company, decided to share: "We're discussing whose wives have which favorite fighters."

"Oh!" Makkasharip brightened. "My wife loves Islam. Says he's the most complete fighter in the world right now."

The gym went silent.

Saygid nodded enthusiastically. "Same! My wife watches all of Islam's fights. She says his style is perfect."

Islam Makhachev, who had been looking progressively more miserable, now looked up with interest.

"Really?" he said.

"Yes! She's always saying how you make it look so easy—"

"She downloaded highlights of your fights," Makhachev added. "Shows them to her friends."

A slow smile spread across Islam's face.

"That's... that's nice to hear."

"Oh no," Abubakar muttered.

Islam was already standing up straighter, the smugness returning to his posture. "So your wives have excellent taste."

"DON'T," Abubakar warned.

"I'm just SAYING—"

"We know what you're saying!"

"—that SOME wives recognize true skill when they see it—"

"ISLAM!"

"I can't help it if I'm popular!"

"Popular?!" Tagir stood up. "My wife likes DC because he's a TWO-DIVISION CHAMPION!"

"So? I'm also a two division champion!"

"But he's a legend!"

"I'M A LEGEND!"

"That's not how legends work!" Usman interjected.

"My wife knows how legends work," Islam said smugly. "That's why she picks winners."

"YOUR WIFE PICKS VOLK!" Abubakar shot back.

Islam's smile faltered. "That's... different."

"HOW IS IT DIFFERENT?!"

"Volk is also very good—"

"BUT NOT YOU!"

"Brother has a point," Shara said reasonably.

Islam glared at him. "What about you? Who's your wife's favorite?"

Shara shifted uncomfortably. "She likes Khabib."

"KHABIB?!"

"She respects his legacy. And his humility."

"His humility?!" Islam Makhachev looked offended. "What about MY humility?!"

"What humility?" Abubakar muttered.

"I'M VERY HUMBLE!"

"You just spent five minutes gloating that multiple wives think you're the best!"

"Because I AM the best! That's not gloating, that's FACTS!"

Khabib, who'd been sitting in the corner watching this entire exchange with the serene detachment of someone above such petty concerns, finally spoke.

"You are all acting like children."

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Of course this bothers you," Khabib continued. "But is pointless to be upset. What matters is that your wives love YOU. Respect YOU. Support YOUR career."

"Easy for you to say," Abubakar muttered. "Your wife obviously picks you."

"Obviously," Khabib agreed calmly.

"Must be nice," Tagir said.

"It is."

"See?" Khabib gestured to himself. "This is confidence. This is security. This is not needing validation from—"

"Coach," Ikram interrupted carefully, "have you actually ASKED your wife who her favorite fighter is?"

Khabib paused. "I don't need to ask. I know."

"But have you ASKED?"

"Why would I ask something I already know the answer to?"

"Maybe you should," Ikram suggested.

"I don't need to."

"Just to be sure—"

"I am sure."

"But what if—"

"IKRAM. I am the Eagle. I am undefeated. I am the greatest lightweight of all time. Obviously I am my wife's favorite fighter. This is not a question."

"If you're so sure," Abubakar said slyly, "then asking won't hurt."

"I'm not asking because I don't need to."

"Sounds like you're afraid to ask," Islam said.

Khabib's eyes flashed. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"Then ask her."

"I don't need to!"

"Because you're AFRAID!"

"I AM NOT AFRAID! I just—this is stupid conversation. Stupid concern. My wife and I have perfect understanding. I don't need to—" He pulled out his phone. "Fine. FINE. I'll ask her right now just to prove how stupid you all are being."

He typed quickly, hit send, and put the phone down.

"There. Happy?"

"Very," Abubakar said.

They waited.

Thirty seconds passed.

Khabib's phone buzzed.

He picked it up. Read the message. His expression didn't change, but something in his posture stiffened.

"Well?" Islam Makhachev asked.

"She says..." Khabib spoke slowly, carefully, "...that she loves watching me fight."

"But?" Tagir prompted.

"No but. That's it."

"Khabib."

"She loves watching me fight!"

"That's not the same as being her FAVORITE," Abubakar pointed out.

"Is close enough!"

"What did she ACTUALLY say?" Ikram asked.

Khabib was silent.

"KHABIB. What did she say?"

He sighed. Showed them the phone.

The message read: "You're amazing, of course! But if we're talking pure excitement to watch... probably Khamzat? His fights are always so intense! But you are more technical and dominant! Different kinds of greatness! ❤️"

The gym exploded.

"KHAMZAT AGAIN?!"

"THE BORZ?!"

"BROTHER!"

Khabib stood up, his face carefully neutral. "She said different kinds of greatness."

"She said KHAMZAT!" Tagir was delighted. "She picked KHAMZAT!"

"She said I'm more technical."

"But LESS EXCITING!" Abubakar crowed. "You're BORING to her!"

"I am NOT boring!!"

"Compared to Khamzat you are!" Ikram snickered.

"I am the GOAT!"

"A BORING GOAT!" Usman snorted a laughter and ducked quickly as a fist flew his way.

Khabib looked like he wanted to throw something. "This is... I'm going to train. I'm going to train so hard that—"

"You're retired." Islam Makhachev pointed out.

"THEN I'LL UNRETIRE!"

"Because your wife thinks Khamzat is more exciting?"

"NO! Because— BECAUSE—" Khabib grabbed his bag. "I'm leaving. This conversation is stupid. You're all stupid. I'm going home to my wife who LOVES ME even if she has temporarily incorrect opinions about fight excitement!"

He stormed out.

The gym was silent for a moment.

Then everyone started laughing.

"Oh man," Usman wiped his eyes. "Even Khabib!"

"No one is safe," Tagir said.

"EVEN THE GOAT!" Abubakar was delighted.

Islam Makhachev's smugness returned full force. "You know what this means, right?"

"What?" several people asked, though they knew what was coming.

"Most of your wives' favorite fighter..." He paused for dramatic effect. "...is ME."

"Don't," Abubakar warned.

"I can't help being excellent—"

"ISLAM—"

"I can't help that your wives recognize TRUE GREATNESS—"

"If you don't stop talking right now—"

"Maybe you all should train harder," Islam suggested, his grin widening. "Maybe then your wives would—"

Abubakar lunged at him.

They had to be separated by three people.

From the corner of the gym, a calm voice spoke up.

"Is everyone finished being dramatic?"

They turned.

Magomed Ankalaev —Big Ank—was sitting on a bench, calmly drinking water, looking completely unbothered by the entire crisis.

"What?" Islam asked.

"You all sound like teenagers."

"YOUR wife probably picks someone else too!" Tagir said defensively.

Ank shrugged. "Maybe."

"You... you don't care?"

"Why would I care?"

"Because—because your wife should think you're the best!" Abubakar sputtered.

"She thinks I'm the best husband. The best father. The best man for her." Anka took another sip of water. "What does it matter if she likes watching someone else fight?"

"It MATTERS!" several people said at once.

"Why?"

"Because—because it just DOES!"

Ank looked at them with something like pity. "You all have too much ego. Your wife loving you and your wife thinking you're the most exciting fighter to watch—these are different things. Not same thing."

"But—"

"My wife loves me. Takes care of me. Supports my career. I love her. Take care of her. Support her life. This is what matters. If she wants to watch Israel Adesanya highlights because she likes his striking..." He shrugged again. "So what? I'm still the man she chose to marry."

There was a long silence.

"Does she actually like Adesanya?" Umar asked.

"I don't know. I don't ask because I don't care."

"But don't you want to know?"

"No. Because it doesn't change anything that matters."

Islam Makhachev looked frustrated. "But don't you want to BE her favorite fighter?"

"I want to be her favorite husband. That's what I am. The rest?" He waved his hand dismissively. "Is just entertainment for her. Not about me."

"That's... actually very mature," Shara said.

"Thank you."

"I hate it," Abubakar declared. "I hate how reasonable that is."

"That's your problem, not mine," Big Ank said peacefully, and went back to his water.

The others looked at each other.

"So," Ikram said carefully, "are we all going to be mature about this like Ank?"

"NO!" everyone said immediately.

"We're going to train harder," Tagir declared.

"We're going to fight better," Usman added.

"We're going to become UNDENIABLE," Abubakar finished.

"This is stupid," Ikram said.

"You're only saying that because your wife picks you," Islam Mamedov pointed out.

"Well... yes." Ikram smiled happily. Ikram's wife would pick Ikram as her favorite everything.

"Then you don't get to judge us!"

"Fair enough." He turned with the piece of a man that knows that his wife adores him.

Islam Makhachev, still riding high on being multiple wives' favorite, grinned. "While you all train to catch up to me—"

"ISLAM!" several voices warned.

"—I'll be over here, being naturally excellent—"

"WE'RE GOING TO KILL HIM!" Abubakar announced.

"GET IN LINE!" Tagir added.

Makkasharip and Saygid, still confused about what they'd walked into, slowly backed toward the door.

"We're just... going to train in the other room," Makkasharip said carefully.

"Good idea," Saygid agreed.

They fled.

(...)

Khabib drove home in silence, his jaw tight.

His wife's words kept replaying in his mind: "Probably Khamzat? His fights are always so intense!"

INTENSE.

As if Khabib's fights weren't intense.

As if complete domination wasn't INTENSELY impressive.

He pulled into the driveway, sat in the car for a moment, then pulled out his phone.

He found Khamzat's number.

The phone rang three times before a cheerful voice answered.

"Brother! What's happening?"

"We need to talk," Khabib said coldly.

There was a pause. "Okay? What about?"

"My wife."

"Your... wife?"

"Yes. My wife. Who apparently thinks YOU are more exciting to watch than me."

Another pause, longer this time.

"Brother, I don't understand—"

"What's to understand? She says your fights are INTENSE. That you're EXCITING."

"That's... good?" Khamzat offered carefully.

"IT'S NOT GOOD!" Khabib shot back.

"Why are you yelling?" Khamzat was not really known for his patience, but this was Khabib. He could last a bit longer than usual before going insane.

"I'M NOT YELLING!" Khabib took a breath. "I'm just... explaining. Loudly."

"Okay..."

"So. Why is my wife more excited by your fights than mine?"

"Brother, I don't know! I've never even met your wife!" Khamzat almost laughed.

"But she watches your fights! She thinks they're INTENSE!"

"Most people think my fights are intense?" Khamzat pointed out, satisfied.

"But she's not MOST PEOPLE! She's MY WIFE!"

"I don't know what you want me to say," Khamzat said, sounding genuinely confused. "Sorry your wife likes watching me fight?"

"DON'T apologize, that makes it WORSE!"

"Then what—"

"Just—" Khabib struggled for words. "Just know that I'm going to prove to her that technical domination is better than reckless intensity."

"I'm not reckless!" Khamzat was offended now.

"You are VERY reckless!"

"I'm calculated aggressive!"

"THAT'S THE SAME AS RECKLESS! And another thing," Khabib continued, on a roll now, "your takedowns are sloppy. Your submissions are sloppy. Everything is just... BOOM BOOM SMASH. No finesse!"

"My submissions are NOT sloppy!" The hurt was REAL now on Khamzat's part.

"They're aggressive!" Khabib was relentless.

"THAT'S NOT THE SAME AS SLOPPY!"

They were both yelling now.

"You know what," Khamzat said, "maybe your wife likes my fights because they're actually ENTERTAINING. Maybe she's tired of watching you methodically grinding people down for twenty-five minutes!"

Khabib gasped. "GRINDING THEM DOWN IS THE POINT!"

"But is it FUN TO WATCH?!"

"YES! If you appreciate MASTERY!"

"Or maybe she wants to see someone actually finish fights in the first round!"

"I FINISHED PLENTY OF FIGHTS—"

"In your last five fights before retiring, how many went past the second round?"

"That's—that's not relevant—"

"IT'S VERY RELEVANT!"

"Technical domination is—"

"BORING TO WATCH! Apparently! According to your own wife!"

There was a heavy silence.

Khamzat sighed. "Brother, why are you really calling me?"

"Because my wife—MY WIFE—thinks you're more exciting than me!"

"And this bothers you?"

"OF COURSE IT BOTHERS ME!"

"Why?"

"BECAUSE—" Khabib stopped. "Because I'm her husband. I should be her favorite everything."

"But you can't be favorite everything. That's not realistic."

"Says who?"

"Says... logic?"

"Logic is for people who aren't the GOAT!"

"That doesn't make sense—"

"YOU don't make sense!"

There was a sound in the background on Khamzat's end. A woman's voice saying something.

"Hold on," Khamzat said.

Some muffled conversation.

Then a different voice came on the line—Khamzat's wife.

"Hello? Is this Khabib?"

Khabib blinked. "Yes?"

"OH MY GOD! Khabib! I'm such a huge fan!"

"You... what? Are you.. Misses Chimaev?" Khabib blinked.

"Yes!! And you're my FAVORITE fighter! I've watched all your fights like a million times! The way you fight is just—it's like art! Like violent art!"

Khabib sat up straighter in his car, a small smile gracing his face. "Really?"

"YES! The Gaethje fight? PERFECT. The way you controlled every second of that fight? I've never seen anything like it!"

Khamzat's was commenting something in the background, and he didn't sound too happy.

"That's... that's very nice to hear—"

"Khamzat's fights are fun and everything," she continued, "but watching YOU fight is like watching a master class. Every movement has purpose! Every position is calculated! It's BEAUTIFUL!"

Khamzat's voice came through in the background. "I'M RIGHT HERE!"

"I know, honey, but KHABIB is—"

"KHABIB IS WHAT?!"

There was more muffled arguing.

Then Khamzat was back on the line, breathing hard.

"This is YOUR FAULT!" he said accusingly.

"Well - yes. But hearing that I'm your wife's favorite fighter, that's... actually very flattering."

"It's NOT flattering! It's—it's—" Khamzat made a frustrated sound. "Now I understand why you called me!"

"Eh, sorry brother!"

"This is terrible!"

"I know."

They were quiet for a moment, united in their shared misery.

"So," Khamzat said finally, "what do we do?"

"I don't know. Train harder?"

"I'm already training all the time!"

"So am I!"

"Then what?!"

"I don't know!" Khabib rubbed his face. "I should go. My wife is probably wondering why I'm sitting in the car."

"Yeah. I should probably apologize to my wife for the phone thing."

"I should probably apologize to mine for... everything."

"Good luck."

"You too."

They hung up.

Khabib sat in his car for another minute, then got out and went inside.

His wife was in the kitchen.

"Hey!" she said brightly. "How was training?"

"Fine," he said.

"You okay? You look upset."

"I'm fine."

"Khabib."

He sighed. "I may have called Khamzat to yell at him about you thinking he's more exciting than me."

She stared at him. "You did WHAT?"

"It seemed logical at the time."

"How is that logical?"

"It's not. I know it's not. But everyone at training today found out their wives have different favorite fighters and I thought I was above it but then you said Khamzat and I—I reacted poorly."

She tried not to smile. "You really called him?"

"Yes."

"And yelled at him?"

"Yes."

"About ME thinking his fights are exciting?"

"Yes."

She started laughing. Actually laughing, holding onto the counter for support.

"It's not funny," Khabib said, but his lips were twitching.

"It's a LITTLE funny—"

"It's not—okay, maybe it's a little funny."

She crossed the room and hugged him. "You know I love watching you fight, right? You're brilliant. Technically perfect. There's no one like you."

"But Khamzat is more exciting."

"Different kind of excitement. Yours is like watching a chess master. His is like watching... I don't know. A very aggressive tornado."

"I don't know if that makes me feel better."

"It should. You're the GOAT, baby. Everyone knows that. Including me."

He pulled her closer. "Your favorite GOAT?"

"My only GOAT."

"Okay. That's acceptable."

"Although—" she started.

"Don't."

"—his last fight WAS really—"

"I'm going to call him again."

"DON'T YOU DARE!" She was laughing again. "I'm kidding! You're perfect! Stop being insecure!"

"I'm not insecure!"

"You just called another fighter to yell at him because I like watching his fights!"

"That was... that was a tactical discussion."

"Sure it was."

But she was smiling, and he was smiling, and eventually they both started laughing.

Even if Khabib still planned to prove, somehow, that technical domination was superior to reckless excitement.

Not because he was insecure.

Just because he was RIGHT.

Epilogue: One Week Later

Training had returned to something resembling normal.

Abubakar was still bitter but functional.

Tagir had made peace with DC's existence.

Islam Makhachev was still unbearably smug about being multiple wives' favorite.

And Khabib pretended the whole thing never happened, though everyone noticed he'd started studying Khamzat's fight footage with unusual intensity.

"You know," Shara said during a water break, "we could all just... be like Big Ank."

They looked over to where Ank was calmly doing his workout, completely at peace with the world.

"Never," Abubakar declared.

"Being reasonable is BORING," Tagir added.

"I'd rather be irrationally competitive," Usman agreed.

"Same," said Islam Mamedov.

"At least we're honest about it," Umar pointed out.

Ikram, whose wife still correctly chose him as her favorite, wisely said nothing.

Islam Makhachev stretched lazily. "While you all work through your emotional issues, I'll be over here, secure in the knowledge that I'm—"

"IF YOU SAY 'THE BEST' ONE MORE TIME!" multiple voices threatened.

"—the most popular choice among discerning fight fans who happen to be married to my teammates," Islam finished, grinning.

Abubakar threw a towel at him.

Islam caught it, still grinning.

From across the room, Khabib's phone buzzed.

He checked it.

A message from Khamzat: "My wife just watched your Poirier fight again. She's making me watch it with her. This was done on purpose. This is psychological warfare."

Khabib smiled and typed back: "My wife just asked if I saw your last fight. Said you 'looked really good.' I'm in pain."

Khabib looked around the gym—at his teammates arguing, at Big Ank peacefully existing above it all, at Islam basking in his unearned glory.

And he thought: maybe this is just what it meant to be married to someone with their own opinions.

Even if those opinions were clearly, obviously, definitely wrong.

He was still going to prove technical domination was superior.

Not out of insecurity.