Chapter 4 #2
“My parents are in San Antonio, but they’re diehard Wildcat fans.
” Her eyes roll into the back of her head, and I can imagine that comes from the mere mental image of game days with her parents.
Wildcat fans can be…intense. “Pop couldn’t believe they went all the way this year.
Normally, they choke in the final rush to the finish line. ”
“Well, they kind of did,” I say, laughing.
Sure, the ’Cats had made it to the big game, but they hadn’t been able to pull it out in the end.
“I think the only reason we got there was the new offensive line coach. He wasn’t messing around, came in and brought new life to the team.
” Not to mention, he wasn’t too bad to look at from the sidelines either.
Just because we couldn’t touch, didn’t mean we couldn’t look, and he’d caught Kingsley and me looking on more than one occasion.
“Well, looks like Barbie finally decided to grace us with her presence!” A loud voice booms from behind us, where a hulk of a man walks down the ramp.
You’ve got to be kidding. Did he call me Barbie?
The smirk hasn’t left his lips since he walked through the curtain.
He gives me a quick once-over, and I wonder if he thinks it will intimidate me, but I’ve been under the scrutinous eye of professional cheerleading coaches, and there’s nothing harsher than that. “I’ve heard all about you, Pom-Poms.”
Great, another nickname.
“I wish I could say the same,” I say, and his face falls.
Juliet stifles a laugh behind her hand, clearing her throat. “I think you might have met your match, Fata.”
Fata?
Holy shit, it is Fata. I barely recognized him without the hair and in costume.
I should’ve known by his size alone. Ezekiel Slade, better known to the world and me as “The Great” Fata.
Mental note: he prefers to be called Fata.
Underneath his black sweatsuit, I know there’s warm, brown skin covered in black ink—the tribal markings of his heritage.
The Slade family has been part of the wrestling industry for decades, spanning back further than the founding of EWE.
Fata used to sport a head full of curly black hair that reached the middle of his back and a face full of scruff, both gone in favor of a clean-shaven face and head.
“Be nice, Fata,” Juliet continues. “Don’t run her off before she ever gets in the ring.”
Fata laughs before he winds an arm around her petite frame, practically swallowing her whole in his embrace. “If she wanted to run, she would’ve done it the moment she took a look at the outside of this shit hole.”
Juliet rolls her eyes and slaps him on the chest.
Extending his hand to me, Fata says, “It’s nice to meet you, Savannah. I’ve heard good things.”
I’m sure his words are meant to be comforting, but they do the exact opposite, melting my insides into a puddle beneath our combined hands. What does that mean? And why has my presence been such a big topic of conversation?
Following him and Juliet back through the curtain, Fata continues, “I look forward to seeing if the guys at corporate were right. From what I hear, it was between you and Caitlin Dubois.”
“Yeah, and it should’ve been Caitlin.” A female voice scoffs, drawing my attention to the middle ring where two women hang over the ropes.
It’s almost impossible not to guess who said it.
Her almond-shaped eyes glare down at me while her counterpart looks down at her feet.
“Just because you decided to hang up your pom-poms for wrestling boots doesn’t mean you deserve to take the place of someone who knows what they’re doing.
Cheerleaders don’t belong here. It’s people like you who give real wrestlers a bad name. ”
“Oh, give it a rest, Harp,” Raelynn says, coming to stand beside me. Looks like she found her kneepads, after all. The black squares now cover her knees beneath her capri-length leggings.
“You know it’s true!”
A small crowd has formed now, and I only recognize one person from tryouts last December—Colin, I think?
I’d never forget him or the electric blue color of his eyes that pierced straight through to your soul.
They’re the opposite color of a different set of blue eyes I think about more than I’d like to admit.
Colin catches my stare over the crowd before he offers me a single nod.
I return the gesture before Fata finally decides to break up the argument.
“Harper, you seem extra peppy today. Why don’t you take the lead on laps? ”
I can see the complaint building in her face, but she bites it back, swallowing whatever she was about to say.
Her full lips pull into a thin line, and she releases a hard exhale before stepping through the middle ropes and jumping down from the outside edge of the ring—I believe we’re supposed to call it the apron?
Harper’s counterpart, whose name I still haven’t caught, follows suit, and they walk with their heads held high toward the open garage doors that lead out to the parking lot.
“Go on, Pom-Poms,” Fata says, urging me to join the single-file line that now follows Harper. “Oh, and Savannah, don’t come in last.”
A heavy dullness weighs down my feet with every step into my apartment.
My body feels stiff yet alive at the same time, with a pulsing ache deep within every fiber of my being.
I heave my duffle bag onto the kitchen island before I fall face-first against the cool countertop, relishing in the moment of silence and stillness.
Turning my head to the other side, I spot bright green numbers that tell me it’s just past six o’clock.
Just enough time to shower, stretch, eat, and sleep before I have to get up and do it all over again tomorrow.
I knew this was going to be hard—physically, maybe a little mentally—but I didn’t expect it to be just as emotionally draining.
When I pulled into the parking spot reserved for my apartment, I hadn’t expected the wave of emotion that overpowered me.
It started with a prick in the corners of my eyes and only continued to build from there until I was sobbing in the front seat of my car.
The emotional toll that today had taken on me was something I wasn’t prepared for, and as I sat there, I couldn’t help but wonder if I could actually do this.
My phone rings inside my bag, and I search blindly until I find it. I answer without looking because I have two guesses: Mamá or Nash. My father would wait until I called him, and Crew would wait until at least Saturday.
“How was it?” My second-oldest brother’s voice rings out over the speaker. “Was it amazing? Was it terrible? Was it—”
“Nash, breathe,” I say, finally pushing up from the counter and taking a deep breath myself. Guiding my arms over my head, I swear I can feel the rush of tingling lactic acid through my muscles, leaving a simmering fire in its wake.
“Okay, but how was it?” Nash pushes. “Did you meet anyone? What did you do? Do you like it?”
I laugh, opening the fridge to take inventory of its contents before pulling out only a water bottle. I’ll figure out food after I take a much-needed shower—hell, maybe even a hot bath.
“It was great. I worked with Fata and Juliet. We just started with basic bumps, easy takedowns, running the ropes…stuff like that,” I say. It’s not the answer he’s looking for, but I don’t have the energy to detail my entire day for him.
I now knew this was something you had to experience to understand. I knew it would be a different kind of physicality, but I thought all of my experience in cheer would lend some favor…
I was wrong.
Twenty laps around the building—including the entirety of the exterior, back inside around the “ring room” (as I had so eloquently named it), and up and down the various steps of the television room—had been a cakewalk compared to the rest. I lost count of the number of squats somewhere around two hundred and fifty.
Two more trainers joined somewhere between laps ten and eleven: “The All American” Sheldon Goodwin, another EWE veteran I recognized almost instantly, and Jack Cameron, head trainer at the facility.
They were working with the more experienced wrestlers—the ones who would be moving up to the main roster soon.
Once we finally got into the ring to start on the basics—like bumps, takedowns, roll-throughs, and rope running—Juliet observed from the outside, while Fata joined us inside, offering more hands-on guidance.
Nash all but screams into the phone. “You trained with Fata?”
“Here we go.” I chuckle, shaking my head. I plant my hands on the island and take two steps to stretch out my back. I knew this would happen as soon as I told him.
“I can’t believe you met Fata, like the Fata! What was he like? Is he as big as he looks? Is he nice?”
“Bigger,” I say, followed by a beat of silence. I consider telling him that I need to go so I can get ready for round two tomorrow, but he beats me to it.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Which one?” I ask, standing up straight.
“Do you like it?”
Do I like it? I sit back against the edge of the counter and take a long sip of water.
It’s different than what I imagined it would be, but with every challenge they threw at me today, I felt the desire to not only face it but to overcome it tenfold.
To prove to them—and the more experienced trainees—that just because I had “traded in my pom-poms for wrestling boots” didn’t mean I couldn’t hold my own.
Do I like it? Despite feeling completely and utterly drained, I’ve never felt more alive. The moment I stepped foot in that ring today, the same rush I felt during tryouts filled my veins, and I knew that no matter what happened, this was where I was meant to be.
Do I like it? A smile creeps its way into the corners of my lips, and I nod.
“Yeah…Yeah, I like it.”