Wild Side (Rose Hill #3)

11. Rhys

CHAPTER 11

RHYS

“It’s good to see you.” Anthony’s palm lands on my bare back in a loud slap. The gesture could be friendly, but there’s enough force behind it to just make him an asshole.

Not that this is news to me. Anthony Morris has been my boss at World Professional Wrestling since my first day on the job. And he’s been a royal dickhead the entire time. Not to me. No, he’s always looked at me with dollar signs in his eyes. There’s no denying that the man has a vision. And that vision has included me as a key part of the brand since day one.

But I’ve seen the way he does business, and while I love my job, I don’t necessarily love being associated with him. Alas, he signs my paychecks and mostly stays out of my way, so we keep a tenuous sort of peace.

“Thanks,” I grumble from where I wait backstage in what we call the Go Position—just behind the curtain.

“You sure took your sweet fuckin’ time getting back to us.”

There it is—the underhanded jab. Like I chose to be locked up at home recovering from ACL surgery, rather than on the road doing what I love.

For the past decade, being one of the headlining superstars on Monday Night Mayhem has consumed my life. It’s taken me all over the world and kept me from slowing down or getting too caught up in my head. The transition from being in a new city every week, surrounded by people, to being stuck on my couch alone was a hard one. It was a lonely one, filled with the nagging worry that I might never return to the one place where I feel most myself.

I force a chuckle, keeping my eyes fixed on the flashing lights trickling in from around the trim of the blackout curtains. “It’s almost like ligaments don’t heal overnight.”

“Ha,” Anthony barks. “You can say that again.”

It irks me that this is his line of thinking. My knee was an ongoing issue. I had a minor tear that I continued to put off for the sake of the company. I performed night after night and took short breaks—a few weeks here and there—when I needed them. For the better part of a year, I lived on a steady stream of Aleve and regular ice baths, all for the sake of the WPW.

And when my body finally gave out on me, they promptly wrote me off the show. My belt got handed over to my colleague, Will—known as Million Dollar Bill in the ring—in a last-minute match. One I completed with a blown-out knee.

So it’s a huge relief to be back here. Erika’s loss may have thrown my personal life into chaos, and a dull ache of sadness over her death might be my constant companion, but being here—doing this—makes everything feel just a little bit better.

I wonder if this is how Tabitha feels when she cooks.

Fuck. I need to focus. Not let my mind wander back to her again. So, I shake my head to clear it, and bounce on the balls of my feet as though skipping on the spot. I let my gaze narrow, and my body give in to the hum of excitement.

“You haven’t forgotten what to do out there, have you, Dupris?” Anthony’s voice is an unwelcome intrusion to the moment.

I’ve worked too long and too hard to let Anthony get in my head, and I have every intention of soaking this up. So, I clamp my molars and tug my mask down.

Like always, everything else fades away. Anthony. All the doubt. All the anxiety.

When I become Wild Side, everything falls into place.

Right as the opening notes of my song kick in over the sound system, I grumble, “I haven’t forgotten shit.”

Then I toss the curtains open and stride into the arena, serenaded by the deafening roar of the crowd.

And I almost smile, because they haven’t forgotten me either.