Chapter 9 #2
Because what he hates most is the way he doesn’t really hate any of it. He loves the thrill of the fight, the push and pull of animosity and constant one-upping of each other. He still wants it. He’s not ready to let this go without a fight. That’s him: foolish and disastrously reckless to a fault.
He grinds his teeth together, sets his mouth in a resolute line as he tugs his shirt back over his head.
Fine. He’ll play. If Caleb wants a fight, Asher will give him one he’ll never forget.
CAPE GIRARDEAU, MISSOURI
A whole week passes before Caleb finally approaches Asher.
“Trouble,” Alexei murmurs beneath his breath. His eyes flicker up from Asher to the locker room door as he laces up his boots. A warning.
But he didn’t have to.
Conversations drop when Caleb enters a room.
Eyes bore into him as he slouches by backstage.
All week long, the rumor mill continues to work overtime.
Some are quick to paint Caleb as the villain (correct), others have turned into conspiracy theorists claiming to be on the verge of connecting the dots (they didn’t connect shit), and a delusional corner of the internet wants them to kiss.
“Fifteen fics on AO3!” Thea yells, nose buried in her phone. “Pull over. We’re doing a theatrical reading immediately.”
“We are on a highway,” Alexei hisses, and Asher swats the offending device away.
He very intentionally does not imagine what the fics might be about.
It drives Asher insane, but he bides his time, letting Caleb stew. He hopes it leaves Caleb anxious for all the right reasons—guilt, regret, inner turmoil. He hopes it makes Caleb think of him.
So, when Caleb comes to a stop beside Asher, taps him on the shoulder, and the entire locker room falls silent, Asher feels smug. Montez and Malik eye Caleb warily, the animated conversation between the brothers long forgotten.
Leaning against a row of lockers, Asher gazes away at the match being broadcast on an overhead television. Still, Caleb’s presence hovers in his periphery, and his determination wavers.
Caleb clears his throat. “Can we talk?” He glances around the room. “Privately?”
It takes all of Asher’s willpower not to respond. But when Caleb brushes the tips of his fingers against Asher’s elbow and softly adds, “Please,” his traitorous legs move on their own accord, letting Caleb drag them out the door and down a quiet hallway.
“I’m sorry,” Caleb says when they are no longer within earshot of the backstage crew milling about.
“For what? Screwing me over?” Asher bites out. A surge of fury washes over him. “Taking advantage of my kindness?”
“I didn’t mean it. I mean—fuck.”
“Fuck indeed.”
Caleb’s whole face contorts. “It meant something to me,” he growls, hands in his hair. “Everything before our match—that was real. That was all me. But the way it ended? I didn’t want to do it. I swear.”
Asher folds his arms. “Explain.”
“I . . . I can’t.”
“Fine.” Asher shrugs and turns back down the hall.
“Wait.” Calloused fingers curl around Asher’s shoulder. It’s cold and an involuntary shudder rattles Asher.
Asher whips around, coming face-to-face with Caleb, and, in the brief moments where Asher isn’t completely blinded by an all-consuming rage, he notes that Caleb’s eyes have been scrubbed raw, the skin beneath his eyelashes sunken and funeral gray.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. There’s a rigid set to his shoulders that, even on day one, has never been leveled at Asher.
It doesn’t feel that way now either, not with the way his eyes keep darting around.
“I swear I’ll explain it to you, but I can’t right now. And I know this is asking for too much, but trust me. Please.”
Before Caleb can continue, he gets pulled away by a crew member who speaks rapidly into a headset as she hustles him off to gorilla position. Caleb glances over his shoulder and the look in his eyes is . . .
Asher swallows and looks away.
Through the backstage monitors, he watches Caleb enter the ring and hoist his championship belt high in the air. His chin is tilted up, eyes narrowed. Nothing but condescension.
Asher closes his eyes and exhales. He just—
No. Fuck it. Fuck him.
What he does next, he has little memory of doing.
Without being medically cleared, Asher isn’t scheduled to appear on tonight’s show.
He doesn’t even have any instructions aside from “Take it easy.” As if that’s ever stopped him.
He’s never been chill a single day of his life.
He grabs a mic out of a crew member’s hand, doesn’t even bother making himself halfway presentable.
He’s stopped by a producer at gorilla position.
“Asher.” The producer puts a hand on his chest. “Don’t. Kennedy will fine you.”
“He can take his fine and shove it. Move.”
“Asher. Please.”
“Fuck it—Knight!” Asher sidesteps the producer and darts through the curtains. No going back now. Asher strides down the ramp, tunnel vision turning the roar of the crowd around him into nothing more than a background hum. “Look at me, you asshole.”
In the ring, Caleb twists around. His mouth pops open in surprise, and Asher’s gaze goes straight to it, oddly fixated on the parting of his lips.
Asher freezes, his body filled with such an overpowering want that it leaves no room for anything else. There’s that white noise again, his brain desperately struggling for something. Someone. Asher pushes it away and barrels on.
Asher stomps into the ring. “You,” he bites out, jabbing his finger into Caleb’s chest, “are nothing but a privileged white boy who gets everything he wants at the expense of someone else. Was this enough? Does this make up for all the love you were deprived of as a child? Does it fill that void in your life?”
His voice is tight now. “Was I enough?” Unforgivably, he thinks he might cry.
He couldn’t care less. “Because unlike you, I paid my dues. I scratched and clawed for a chance to get here. I kicked the front door down and you”—he pauses, breathing heavily—“you waltzed in through the back door straight to glory.”
Asher presses his forehead against Caleb’s, close enough now to see his face shutter. “Believe it or not, I love this. And I do owe you one thing, the sobering reality that there’s someone who can finally shut you up: me.”
His jaw is tight, teeth bared in what must be an ugly snarl. “I hate you. So fight me again. Fight me for all you’re worth. And do it right this time. You want to make headlines so bad? Fine. You, me, a dog collar match at Guts and Glory. A ten-foot chain tying us together. No more running away.”
Looking absolutely wretched, Caleb’s face twists and Asher readies himself for a shove. A rebuttal. A mic smashed into his teeth. Anything. Instead, Caleb shuts his eyes. When he speaks, the words come out so softly that they barely get picked up by the microphone.
“I hate me too.”