Chapter 3
FALL - CINCINNATI, OHIO
Now playing: Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes
Only five days went by before Cal and I got the call to come to the UWF office in Orlando. Rob Harlow had asked us both to come in together for it, which was expected given our recent success was built entirely off of one another right now.
Walking into the administrative wing of the UWF headquarters felt different than walking into the Performance Center.
The PC smelled like sweat and ambition; this place smelled like leather, expensive cologne, and power.
The walls were lined with framed posters of past legends staring down at us with championship gold around their waists.
It was a silent reminder: You are small. This is big.
Rob laid out the plan to us with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Wrestle Empire championship wins.
Rob Harlow was a Hall of Famer who had made his place in the history of this company back in the nineties, with an epic feud that went down in history as the thing that changed the landscape of professional wrestling as a whole.
Sitting across from him felt surreal, like staring at a monument that had suddenly decided to start talking business.
“You two have something this company hasn’t seen since I was active on the roster,” he said with confidence, leaning back in his oversized leather chair. “Whether you guys see it or not, you’ve laid a foundation that in all my years in this business, I only saw once.”
He didn’t need to say the names. We knew he was talking about the greats. The ones who sold out stadiums just by looking at each other from across the ring.
Rob went on to explain what he wanted to do for us.
His hope was that we’d agree to multi-year contracts on Showdown, with a debut in January at the Man Overboard pay per view.
Every year, this pay per view served as the kickoff on the road to professional wrestling’s biggest event of the year, Wrestle Empire, the grand stage of this business, where legacies were instilled, and history was made.
But the thing about Man Overboard that was so unique was the main event.
The event was known for a match called Every Man For Himself, a thirty, sometimes even forty-man battle royale where entrants enter the ring every three minutes.
The main objective: throw as many people over the top ropes as you can.
Whoever is left standing when everyone is eliminated is named the winner and gets the opportunity to pick what title they want to battle it out for at Wrestle Empire in the spring.
Almost everyone chooses to go for the Heavyweight Title, which is held on Showdown, but every now and then, the UWF title is chosen, and the winner represents as the head of the Demolition show.
These matches are always spectacular, and what makes them spectacular, you might wonder, is their unpredictability.
Legends return for this match. New guys debut.
Spots and outcomes have to be changed on the fly, and most importantly, you see others do moves and stunts you’d never see them do any other time.
Competing in this is a dream come true, and even trying my best to remain professional, I knew my excitement was bleeding through.
Every Man For Himself was one of the few pay per view matches that my dad and uncle never came out victorious on in their day.
They were tag team specialists; the chaos of a battle royale never suited their style.
And now, I have the possibility to one day do just that, walk out of Man Overboard as the only Reed to ever win the main event.
Except this year, that would most certainly not be the outcome.
Rob told us he wanted us to come in as mid or late entrants in the event, showcasing our style, our abilities to hang with the big dogs, and make our debut to the main roster known to the fans. And of course, throw in some heavy hitting tension and hatred against one another into the match too.
“We want the fans to know that even though you’re both rookies, you hate each other more than you want to win,” Rob said, tapping a pen against his desk.
Cal let out a short, dry snort next to me. “Won’t be hard.”
I shot him a sideways glance. “Careful, Kincaid. Don’t make it too convincing.”
Rob chuckled. “Exactly. That’s the energy.”
Of course, the new guys would be eliminated. That was the script. But that was hardly the point here. The point was, we would be debuting as active talent on the main roster in a way that is only reserved for talent of a certain caliber. Apparently, Cal and I were just that.
“Now don’t think you two are going to sit out inactive until January,” Rob continued with a small laugh.
“You guys are going to be doing double time until you make your main roster debuts. You will both still be on the winter Aftershock tour, but you’ll be getting dates added.
Dark matches for Showdown. We want to see what you guys can do against the vets, the seasoned, and the best of the best. You guys are solid, but we want to see what you both can do when you’re up against people with titles and records under their belts. ”
Cal stiffened in his seat next to me. His face never faltered or showed any kind of emotion, he was a statue of indifference, but his body language screamed something else completely.
The tension radiated off him like heat from pavement.
He hated losing control, and being thrown into the deep end with main roster vets was the ultimate loss of control.
“And I expect to see you both busting your asses at the PC when you’re home. From here on out, a break doesn’t exist, for either of you. Every waking moment is training, matches, repeat. This is the big leagues now, boys. And now, it’s really your time to prove why the fuck you’re here.”
Cal and I nodded in sync, uncertain if actually speaking right now was the wisest decision. The weight of the offer felt like gravity increasing in the room.
We both signed our contracts that day, practically giving our lives away to the UWF for the next five years, and I don’t think either one of us gave a damn.
We left the office separately, neither speaking a word, partly from shock, but also from the pure adrenaline of what the last two hours became.
“Timeless” Silas Reed and Deadlock were officially main roster slated, but more importantly, we were pay per view slated, and then, straight for Showdown weekly come January.
By the next day, we were on a plane, heading to Cincinnati, Ohio. The plan was tight: fly in today, work the Showdown dark match tomorrow night against a main roster tag team, and then fly out immediately to make the Aftershock show the day after that.
We had no days off. We probably wouldn’t have any until we retired or died.
Rob had gone over the creative plan with us.
They wanted to introduce us slowly to the live crowds.
Our Showdown matches would be tag matches where Cal and I were forced to partner up, “dysfunctional partners” was the term the writers used.
We would be facing established main roster talent, labeled as fill ins for absent teams. This would gauge the fan response and give management an idea of if we were worth a damn on the big stage.
These dark shows… they were our make or breaks. This determined if we were just mid-card guys with two-minute matches, or main eventers with enough heat to tear down arenas every week.
Neither of us mentioned the night on the balcony again.
But I couldn’t get it the fuck out of my head. I wasn’t quite sure why. Or the way Cal looked at me after our last match in Orlando. Was I imagining this? But more importantly, did I care? Did I want him to?
The thought of even questioning my sexuality made me feel like my head was spinning.
I didn’t have time for that. I didn’t have the capability to be anything else, or to care in that way.
My life, and my entire being, was wrestling.
It didn’t matter if I wanted to fuck men, women, or both.
I didn’t have the time or space in my world to make room for such things.
I was a machine built for a specific purpose, and lust was just a glitch in the programming.
But fuck, sometimes the thought of it made me hard all over again, and it made me feel like I was losing my goddamn mind.
There was no doubt that Cal was attractive. Anyone with eyes could see that. Though we were similar builds, standing nearly eye to eye, me at six three, him just below at six one, Cal was different. He was denser. More lethal.
Where I was built for aerodynamics, he looked like he was carved out of granite rather than built in a gym.
His definition was terrifyingly precise.
The V of his hips was etched with veins, thick, roped vascularity that disappeared into the waistband of his gear.
They were details I should have never noticed when he changed in the locker room, but I did.
Every single time. I found my eyes tracing them before my brain could catch up to stop me.
His face was just as severe, all chiseled angles and sharp planes.
He had a jawline defined enough to cut the tension in the room, usually shadowed by a day’s worth of dark stubble.
His hair was dark brown, nearly black, usually swept back or falling into his face in sweaty strands, which only made his hazel eyes more prominent.
They were chameleons, sometimes a bright, predatory green hue under the arena lights, other times closer to a burning amber with flecks of gold when he was tired or angry.
And then there was the ink.