Chapter 5
JANUARY - MIAMI, FLORIDA
Now playing: The Sick - Bella Kay
The humidity in Miami hit differently than it did in Orlando. In Orlando, it felt like a wet blanket; here, mixed with the salt air and the frantic energy of thirty thousand fans packing into the stadium, it felt like a pressure cooker.
Man Overboard.
The name was plastered everywhere. On the side of buses, on billboards down Ocean Drive, and on every monitor in the backstage area. This was the kickoff to the road to Wrestle Empire. It was the night careers were made or buried.
For weeks, the internet had been ablaze. The “New Blood vs. Legacy” angle had gone viral in a way even Rob Harlow hadn’t predicted. The clip of us storming the ring in New York had millions of views.
The narrative was simple: Dante Andrews and his cronies wanted to gatekeep the main roster, and Evan, Andre, Julian, Cal, and I were the battering ram trying to break the gate down.
But the real story, the one the forums were obsessing over, was the alliance between Deadlock and “Timeless” Silas Reed.
We were supposed to be oil and water. The chaotic brawler from Philadelphia and the polished technician from the Reed family. The fact that we were watching each other’s backs had created a buzz that felt electric.
We were in the locker room, lacing up. The air smelled of wintergreen, spray tan, and nervous sweat.
“You good?” Cal asked, his voice low. He was taping his wrists, ripping the tape with his teeth. He looked calm, but his leg bounced, a tiny tremor of adrenaline.
“I’m solid,” I lied. I wasn’t solid. I was vibrating. “Thirty minutes, Cal. They want us to last thirty minutes. That’s an eternity in a battle royale.”
“We’ll last,” he said, the certainty in his voice acting like an anchor. “We stay back to back. We watch the corners. We don’t let anyone separate us.”
“And when it’s just us?” I asked.
He looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “Then I throw your ass over the top rope.”
I snorted, the tension in my chest loosening just a fraction. “In your dreams, Deadlock.”
The entrance was a blur. The stadium was an ocean of noise. When the buzzer hit for my entry, Number Fourteen, the pop was deafening. I sprinted down the ramp, sliding into the ring and immediately ducking a clothesline from a heavyweight I’d watched on TV since I was twelve.
The ring was chaos. Bodies everywhere. Punches flying.
Three minutes later, the buzzer hit again. Number Fifteen.
Deadlock.
The mood shifted. The crowd knew. Cal hit the ring like a wrecking ball, leveling two mid-carders before finding me in the corner. We didn’t hug. We didn’t high five. We just nodded, spun around, and went back-to-back.
For the next half hour, we were a two-man army.
The directive from the agents was clear: Survive. But we didn’t just survive. We thrived. We realized quickly that the only way two rookies were going to make it through this meat grinder was to operate as a single unit.
When Carlos Manta, one of Dante’s goons, tried to eliminate me, Cal was there, hooking his leg and dragging him back in before we hit a double team move that sent Manta over the top rope to the floor.
When a veteran tried to overpower Cal against the turnbuckles, I was there, hitting a dropkick to the vet’s back that sent him tumbling out.
We moved like we shared a nervous system. The “Laws of Nature” collided not against each other, but against everyone else.
We made the final ten. Then the final five.
My lungs burned. My chest heaved. I was covered in sweat that wasn’t mine. The only people left were me, Cal, Dante Andrews, Jonathan Rockwell, and a monster heel named Titan.
The crowd was on their feet. They realized the rookies had actually made it to the endgame.
Dante and Rockwell circled us. They wanted to end the fairytale.
“Let’s finish this,” Cal growled, wiping blood from a cut on his lip.
We went to war. I took Titan, the biggest man in the ring.
He charged me, looking to crush me, but I used his momentum.
I ducked, scooped him up with a strength I didn’t know I had left, and slammed him into the canvas with a snap that rattled the ring.
But I didn’t stop there. Before he could even register the impact, I was in the air, a standing backflip, my body tucking and rotating in a blur before crashing down onto his chest.
The crowd exploded. It was a move of pure athleticism, graceful and cruel. Titan rolled under the bottom rope, gasping for air.
But the distraction cost me. Rockwell caught me from behind. I held onto the ropes, dangling inches from the floor, fighting with everything I had. I looked up to see Cal fighting Dante. Cal saw me. He had a choice: eliminate Dante, the golden boy, or save me.
He broke away from Dante. He lunged, grabbing my wrist just as my grip slipped, hauling me back onto the apron.
In that split second of brotherhood, Dante hit Cal with a cheap shot, a low blow the refs “missed”, and clotheslined him over the top rope.
Cal hit the floor. Eliminated.
I screamed, launching myself back into the ring, but the numbers game was done. Titan and Dante double-teamed me. I fought, I hit every move in my arsenal, but Dante caught me with a superkick that nearly took my head off.
He tossed me over. My feet hit the floor.
Dante Andrews won. The Legacy remained intact.
But as I sat on the mats outside the ring, gasping for air, looking over at Cal who was nursing his jaw, I heard the noise.
They weren’t cheering for Dante. They were chanting our names.
Deadlock. Timeless. Deadlock. Timeless.
Backstage was a frenzy.
Evan, who had been eliminated earlier but stuck around to watch at the monitor, practically tackled us when we walked through the curtain.
“Are you kidding me?!” he screamed, his face flushed with excitement. “Did you hear them? They were chanting for you guys over Dante! You made the final four! That was insane!”
“Get off me, you leech,” Cal groaned, pushing Evan off, but he was smiling. He was battered, bruised, and bleeding from the lip, but he looked alive in a way I rarely saw.
“We did it,” I breathed out, leaning against a crate, my adrenaline finally crashing into exhaustion. “Thirty-five minutes. We actually did it.”
“You guys looked like you’d been tagging for years,” Evan beamed. “Serious main event shit.”
We were celebrating, the energy high, when the vibe shifted.
I felt it before I saw them. It wasn’t a bad feeling, exactly, but the air in the hallway seemed to change texture. It became heavier with history.
“Hell of a performance, boys.”
The voice was warm, gravelly, and undeniably familiar.
I turned slowly. Standing near the catering table, having just come down from the private boxes, were Maverick and Scott Reed.
My father and my uncle. The Reed Brothers.
They looked older, sure. The years of hard road and harder living were etched into the lines of their faces, but sobriety had cleared the fog from their eyes years ago. They didn’t look like the monsters of my childhood memories. They looked like legends. Humble, respected, and undeniably proud.
Evan’s jaw dropped into a massive grin. “Mav! Scott!”
Evan moved before I did, walking right up to them. To my surprise, Scott pulled Evan into a bear hug, and Maverick clapped him on the back like he was an old drinking buddy.
“Good to see you, kid,” Scott laughed, releasing Evan. “Saw you take that bump on the stairs earlier. You alright?”
“Nothing an ice pack won’t fix,” Evan beamed. He turned to me, bouncing on his heels. “Silas, look who’s here!”
As if I didn’t know.
Cal went still beside me. He didn’t speak. He just watched, his eyes darting between the legendary tag team and me.
“Dad. Uncle Scott,” I said. My voice lacked the warmth I had just shown Evan, or the ease I had with Cal.
Scott stepped forward first. He was always the softer one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve, probably because he had a wife and two daughters waiting at home who taught him how to feel.
He reached out, squeezing my shoulder with a genuine, fatherly warmth.
“Proud of you, Si,” Scott said, his voice thick with emotion. “You moved like water out there. That counter on Rockwell? Beautiful.”
“Thanks, Scott,” I said, managing a small, genuine smile for him.
Then, Maverick stepped up.
My dad. The man who looked so much like me it was sometimes painful to look in the mirror. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a hesitant smile on his face. He wanted to bridge the gap; I could see it. He wanted to reach out like Scott did.
“You held your own, son,” Maverick said softly. “You didn’t just survive; you commanded that ring. You’re getting a push. A big one.”
“I know,” I said, my posture stiffening instinctively. “I’m staying focused.”
“We’re in town until tomorrow afternoon,” Maverick continued, stepping a little closer, hope flickering in his eyes. “We were hoping you’d come by the hotel tomorrow. Grab some lunch? Maybe spend the day with us before you fly out? We’d love to catch up properly.”
The offer hung in the air. It was genuine. It was kind. It was everything a son should want from his father.
But the resentment in my chest was a cold, hard knot that wouldn’t loosen.
“I can’t,” I lied, the excuse slipping out effortlessly. “I have press all morning. And then… Cal and I have to hit the gym. We’re on a tight schedule with the new contract.”
I gestured to Cal, using him as my shield. “You remember Evan, obviously. But this is Cal.”
Maverick’s eyes shifted to Cal, and his expression brightened instantly. The hesitation vanished, replaced by the look of a veteran sizing up a promising rookie.
“Deadlock,” Maverick said with a grin, extending his hand.
“I’ve been watching your videos from the indie circuit.
Saw that match you had in the armory in Philly last year.
Gritty stuff. I like your style, kid. You wrestle like you’re trying to hurt someone, but you’re safe as a house. That’s a rare skill.”