Chapter 4 #3
“Are you sure he isn’t your boyfriend, Si?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Evan choked on air. His face turned a violent, panicked shade of red. “I—What? No! I’m straight! Silas is—We’re not—Dude, what the hell?”
My own face felt like it was on fire. I looked at Evan, spluttering and horrified, and then at Cal, who looked entirely too pleased with himself. I shuddered, a nervous laugh escaping me.
“Oh god, stop. Please.”
“Just checking,” Cal said with a shrug, winking at me. “You guys bicker like an old married couple. Just wanted to clarify the boundaries before we go beat the shit out of some legends.”
He walked off toward the ring, leaving Evan looking like he’d just swallowed a lemon and me trying to restart my heart.
“He is the worst,” Evan hissed, smoothing down his shirt. “The actual worst. Boyfriend? Please. You’re like my brother. A gross, sweaty brother.”
“Thanks, Evan,” I laughed, the tension in my chest finally loosening. “Come on. Let’s go run this spot.”
We spent the next two hours running the segment. The choreography was intricate. Evan would interrupt Dante. Dante’s crew would jump Evan. Then, the cavalry, us, would hit the ring from the crowd.
When the show finally started, we were hidden away in a blacked-out locker room near the loading dock, watching the monitor. The crowd was hot tonight. They hated Dante Andrews with a passion that made the floor shake.
Then, the music hit.
Dante Andrews walked out in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than my dad’s house. He grabbed a mic and stood in the center of the ring, flanked by Jonathan Rockwell, Madden Smith, and Carlos Manta. They stood there like statues of arrogance.
“You people make me sick,” Dante sneered, his voice echoing through the Garden. “I come out here week after week and give you excellence. My grandfather built this company. My father carried it on his back. And now I am the pillar that holds up this entire industry. And what do I get? Disrespect.”
He paced the ring, wiping imaginary dust off his shoulder.
“And now, I hear rumors,” he continued, his voice dripping with venom. “Rumors that management wants to bring in some new blood to challenge us at Man Overboard. Some rookies. Some indie darlings who spent their careers wrestling in bingo halls for hot dogs and handshakes.”
The crowd booed harder, but Dante just laughed. He gestured to Rockwell.
“Look at this ring. Look at this talent. Jonathan Rockwell has been breaking backs in this ring for a decade. He paid his dues in blood. Madden Smith is a third generation in this company. We earned this spot. We didn’t just walk in off the street with a viral video and a bad haircut.”
He glared at the camera.
“These kids think they can step to a Legacy? They think they can walk into my house and take my spot because management thinks they’re shiny and new?
Please. They aren’t fit to lace my boots.
They are guests in my kingdom. And if any of these hopefuls want to step up, I’ll remind them exactly where they belong. In the garbage.”
The crowd was furious. It was perfect heat.
Then, the lights cut.
A spotlight hit the stage. Evan’s music hit.
The place popped, a solid reaction for the rookie. Evan walked out, mic in hand, looking every bit the star. He stopped halfway down the ramp.
“You talk a lot for a guy whose last name did all the heavy lifting for him,” Evan said, his voice cutting through the noise.
Dante looked furious. “Who invited the kid?”
“Nobody invited me, Dante,” Evan said, walking down to the ring. “But somebody has to tell you the truth. You’re right. Your family built this place. But you? You’re just the landlord collecting rent on a building you didn’t construct.”
The crowd shouted an
Ooooooh!
“You talk about the future,” Evan continued, climbing the steps. “But you’re scared of it. You’re scared because guys like me, guys like us, we didn’t get here because of our last names. We got here because we work harder than you. We want it more than you.”
Dante’s crew swarmed Evan. It was a beatdown. Evan fought back, but the numbers were too high. They stomped him into the mat.
“Let’s go,” Cal growled beside me, pulling his hood up.
We moved. Through the back hallways, through the crowd entrance. We were shadows until we hit the barricade.
When we hopped the rail, the noise was deafening.
I vaulted first. The adrenaline hit me like a drug, wiping away the panic, the exhaustion, everything.
I hit the ring with the speed of a bullet.
I took out Madden Smith with a springboard clothesline that defied gravity, my body corkscrewing in the air before connecting.
The crowd erupted, confusion mixed with excitement. Who are these guys?
Then Cal hit the ring.
He moved differently. He didn’t fly. He stalked.
He caught Drew Aldridge, a man with fifty pounds on him, and leveled him with a lariat that sounded like a car crash.
It was brutal. It was efficient. It was pure Deadlock.
He wrestled with a grounded, violent style, sharp elbows, heavy strikes, and a disregard for his own safety that made him terrifying to watch.
But the moment that changed everything. I was backing up, catching my breath, when Carlos Manta charged me from the blind side. I didn’t see him. But Cal did.
Without a word, without a signal, Cal grabbed Manta by the back of his trunks and whipped him toward the ropes. As Manta bounced back, Cal dropped to one knee, clasping his hands together to create a step.
I didn’t think. I just reacted. I ran at Cal, stepped onto his hands, and launched myself into the air. I caught Manta on the way down with a spinning heel kick that nearly took his head off.
The Step Up.
We hadn’t practiced it. We hadn’t even talked about it. It was instinct. It was the kind of chemistry that takes tag teams years to build, and we just did it on live TV without looking at each other.
The crowd went absolute nuclear. It was a roar that rattled my teeth.
Beside me, Cal had Dante Andrews in the corner. Dante tried to throw a punch, but Cal caught it. He twisted the arm, hoisted Dante up onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and then dropped him, driving a knee straight into his face.
Dante crumpled like a ragdoll.
We stood tall in the center of the ring, me, Cal, Evan, Andre, and Julian, breathing hard as the “legacy” stable retreated up the ramp, clutching their ribs and jaws.
We had arrived.
Backstage, the adrenaline was crashing, but the high was still there. We walked through the curtain to applause from the producers.
“Holy shit!” Evan yelled, grabbing me in a headlock. “Did you see that pop? They went nuts for that double team move! When did you guys even come up with that?”
“We didn’t,” Cal muttered, walking past us, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Just happened.”
Evan released me, jogging to catch up to Cal. “Just happened? Bullshit, Deadlock. That was choreographed perfection.”
Cal stopped, turning slowly to face Evan, letting out a long, heavy sigh. He didn’t even correct him this time. He just looked at Evan with pure, unadulterated exhaustion mixed with amusement.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Wilder.”
Evan grinned, entirely unbothered. “I sleep like a baby, Deadlock. Anyway, Silas, you hungry? I’m starving. I know a diner near here that’s open all night. My treat. Pancakes and victory.”
“Food sounds amazing,” I said, my stomach rumbling at the mention of it. “Cal?”
Cal looked like he would rather eat glass than go to a diner with Evan. “I’m good. I’ll head back to the hotel.”
“Oh, come on,” Evan pressed, poking the bear. “Don’t be antisocial. It’s a celebration. Plus, Silas is going.”
He looked at me, then back at Cal, a knowing glint in his eye.
“Unless you can’t handle being around me for an hour? Or are you just worried Silas is going to have more fun with me than he does with you?”
Cal’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Evan, and a slow, dry smirk spread across his face.
“Trust me, Wilder,” Cal drawled, stepping past him. “If your idea of fun is listening to yourself talk, I think my spot is secure.”
Evan’s mouth dropped open, offended, as I burst out laughing.
“I hate him,” Evan muttered.
“I know,” I said, clapping him on the back. “Pancakes?”