Epilogue
A mixture of emotions swirls through me as I stare at my reflection.
I look exactly the same as I did yesterday, but something feels different, and that feeling is overwhelming.
When I first started wrestling twenty-seven years ago, it felt like this day would never come.
I felt invincible, like I could do this every day for the rest of my life.
Sometimes, I still think I can, but I know better.
For the first time, when I wake up tomorrow morning, it will all be over.
No more spending over two hundred days a year on the road, no more late-night drives to the next city, no more feeling like I’m stuck in a time loop, living the same day over and over again.
No more seeing some of my favorite people every day, no more all-nighters in the ring trying to perfect a new move, no more races down the ramp to the one place that became my home when I was an eighteen-year-old kid trying to survive.
Twenty-one years ago, I signed with Elite Wrestling Entertainment, and I was just happy to wrestle in the biggest company in the world.
I never thought I’d be where I am today.
Never thought I’d be a sixteen-time world champion, three-time tag champion, named a Sports Illustrated Sportsperson of the year, an Associated Press Male Athlete of the Year, and so much more.
This company—the fans—has given me everything…
I only wish I had more to give them in return.
The rustle of sheets catches my attention, and when I step out of the bathroom, she greets me with a sleep-drunk smile.
We didn’t get into San Diego until closer to three in the morning after Wrestlefest, where I lost my title to Wolf in a triple-threat match between me, him, and Knox Sterling.
I didn’t get much sleep—I couldn’t—but Savannah was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
I climb back into bed and pull her into my arms, kissing the top of her head. She buries herself further into my side, and her breathing seems to even out again, signaling she’s gone back to sleep.
Despite her reluctance to admit it, I couldn’t have done any of this without her.
I couldn’t have continued going without her support.
When she decided to retire three years ago, I considered joining her, starting our next chapter right then and there, but she knew I wasn’t ready, not really.
I still had a few years left in the tank, and she pushed me to keep going.
Since then, she’s been holding down things at home while I continued to travel with EWE, even when she was pregnant, despite my protests that I should be there with her.
She has been my rock, and when I told her I wanted to do this, her response was: “As long as you’re ready. ”
“When did you get up?” my wife asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. Her fingers trace light, invisible circles on my chest, near the scar on my right shoulder from my deltoid surgery years ago.
“Not long ago.”
“You didn’t sleep very long.” She lets her hand trace a line down my side before gliding back up across the planes of my chest.
“Got some stuff on my mind,” I say, enveloping her hand in mine and bringing it to my lips.
She plants her hand firmly on my chest and presses a kiss to the column of my throat.
A trail of warm, wet kisses up my neck as she slowly lowers her hand.
“Sweetheart,” I warn, and she hums against my skin.
My dick comes to attention when her hand slips beneath the waistband of my sweats and wraps around the base.
I hum in approval, not trying to escape her hold, even though I say, “I have to get dressed.”
“It’s your last day. What are they going to do? Fire you?”
Who am I to argue with that?
I wrap my arm around her waist to roll her beneath me, capturing her mouth.
There’s nothing urgent in this kiss; it’s soft, thoughtful, just enjoying the connection.
Her hands smooth up my chest and glide around the back of my neck, coaxing my mouth open, and I sigh.
Her tongue sweeps over mine, and my need for her only grows.
I let out a satisfied hum when I roll my hips into hers.
I slip my hand beneath the waistband of her shorts, pushing them down her legs and leaving her completely bare to me. I push my fingers inside her, and she moans against my mouth, back arching off the bed. “Fuck, you’re so wet already, Sweetheart.”
“I missed you,” she says.
Savannah didn’t join me in Los Angeles for Wrestlefest week until yesterday morning, and I hadn’t seen her for two weeks before that due to a spring European tour.
Two years ago, the company decided to start adding an overseas trip once a quarter.
While it’s great to break it up over the year, that kind of travel wears you down faster because there’s not a lot of downtime.
We move from country to country without a break for one to two weeks straight.
Needless to say, I had missed the woman beside me like crazy.
I pump my fingers in and out of her, letting my thumb circle her clit lazily, loving the feel of her slowly coming undone beneath my touch.
I take one of her hardened nipples into my mouth through the fabric of her T-shirt—my T-shirt—and she moans in reply.
Her hips move against my hand, her body desperate for more friction, for release.
“Patience, Sweetheart,” I say, releasing her right nipple, pushing up the fabric of her shirt, and taking the left in my mouth. Savannah squirms beneath me, and a breathy chuckle escapes my lips when I release her with a pop.
Leaving open-mouthed kisses, I move down her body, nipping at the soft skin of her hip.
She whines softly but can no longer contain herself when I suckle her clit between my lips.
My name escapes rolls of her tongue like a siren song as her back bows off the bed, fingers carding through my hair in a hard tug.
“Please,” she begs, and my dick strains in my sweats at the sweet sound.
I pull my fingers from her and shove my sweats down my legs, kicking them off the bed.
My cock strains up toward me, and Savannah watches with hungry eyes as I grasp my length, fitting the head to her entrance.
As I glide up and down her folds, my mouth waters with anticipation, and I stroke my cock two times before thrusting inside her.
And whatever comes next, I know this is one thing I’ll never get tired of.
“Is he hurt or just selling?” one of the producers calls out from behind their monitor while the others scramble to get an answer from ringside.
“Stay on Brooks,” Noah directs into his headset, and the monitor hung in the corner switches to show my husband on the floor, not moving. My breath catches in my lungs, and only when he begins to stir do I breathe out.
“He’s just selling!” another production aide answers. “Looks like he’s hurt the shoulder, though.”
“Tell them to wrap it up before someone gets hurt. That’s the last thing we need tonight.” Noah glances over his shoulder at me, but I ignore him.
Brody hauls Brooks to his feet, and I see him whisper something before John gives him a quick nod that you wouldn’t notice unless you knew what to look for.
Brody shoves him into the ring, but before he can climb in, Brooks pops up to his feet and stomps down on his head, hands, and back.
Satisfied with his attack, Brooks climbs up to the top turnbuckle and launches off the turnbuckle into a frog splash, sending them both down to the mat.
He hooks the leg, but Brody kicks out at two.
Brooks takes hold of his opponent’s ankle, wrapping his arms firmly around the joint and threading his hands together to create a lock.
He turns the ankle, applying an immense amount of pressure for the Legacy Lock, his submission move.
There’s a flash of pain in his eyes when he lifts Brody’s foot further in the air, dragging him away from the bottom rope, and it tells me that the fall out of the ring was more than just selling.
Brody shakes his head, refusing to tap, even when Brooks torques the joint further. He attempts to roll forward, but can’t.
Brooks plants his feet firmly on the mat, tightens his grip, and lands a blow to his opponent’s calf.
Brody cries out only once before he internalizes the pain, harnessing it, and when his captor loosens his grip to readjust, it gives him the opening he needs.
Slingshotting Brooks into the ropes, Brody hits him on the rebound with a hard clothesline, leveling him.
He pulls his opponent up by the wrist, lifts him onto his shoulder, and carries him—slowly, shakily—to the turnbuckle.
He pauses momentarily, and to anyone else it would look like he’s just trying to catch his breath, but I know better.
He’s letting it all sink in. The meaning behind this match is finally catching up to him.
“Why is he climbing the turnbuckle?” I whisper. His movements catch me off guard—with John still on his shoulder, Brody climbs the ropes until he’s standing on the top one. What in the fuck is he doing? “You cannot be serious.”
I rise from my chair, watching the scene unfold. They haven’t done this spot in so long, and they’re both exhausted after wrestling for almost an hour at this point. Why in the hell would they try this? They know better.
The crowd gasps—hell, even some of the producers gasp. Only two people don’t seem surprised: Noah and Callum, the recently discovered long-lost son of the late Amos Rafferty. They both watch intently, waiting for the final spot.
Brody pauses at the top, steadying his feet.