Chapter 8 #2
“Your family excited?” I asked him as we switched out of our street clothes. I was tugging at my new tights, long, white with gold accents. They were stiff, pristine.
“Yeah,” Cal said, lacing up his black boots. “My sisters are kind of starstruck, I think. They keep texting me about seeing celebrities in the lobby.”
We stood back-to-back for the photographer. The lights flashed, blinding and hot. Every time his shoulder brushed mine, my mind flashed back to the balcony. To the taste of him. To the word Baby.
It was fucking me up. And judging by the way Cal’s hand lingered on my shoulder during the team pose, it was fucking him up too.
The alarm went off at six in the morning. It felt illegal.
Cal and I dragged ourselves to the arena, coffee in hand, the California sunrise looking like a mockery of our exhaustion.
We spent hours running drills. For me, this match was dangerous. The producers wanted a spectacle. They wanted “Timeless” Silas Reed to defy gravity.
This was a Ladder Match. My father and uncle practically invented the stipulation in the 90s.
They were known for shaping high fly wrestling, jumping off twenty-foot ladders, crashing through tables, and putting their bodies through hell.
The stipulation was chaos by design. There were three teams involved, all rookies called up from Aftershock, and the objective was simple: retrieve the briefcase hanging twenty feet above the ring.
Inside that case were two contracts. Whichever team pulled it down would secure a permanent spot on either Monday Night Showdown or Friday Night Demolition.
This was our ticket.
We knew the outcome, of course. We knew we were winning.
The plan was for us to grab the case and debut on Showdown the very next night.
But knowing the finish didn’t lower the danger.
This was the opening match of Wrestle Empire.
The Grandest Stage. And the producers didn’t just want a win; they wanted a moment that would live forever.
“You sure about this spot?” Cal asked, holding the base of a twelve-foot ladder as I climbed to the top rung during the walkthrough.
“I have to be,” I said, looking down at the empty tables set up below. “It’s what they expect.”
Cal looked at me, his jaw set. He didn’t like it.
He was a ground guy. A striker. But he knew, just like I did, that the moment the bell rang, he would have to become something else.
He would have to embrace the chaos. He would have to become the brawler that ran with weapons, the indie kid who knew how to make steel hurt.
The arena was shaking.
Seventy thousand people. The noise was a physical force, pressing against my eardrums.
“You ready?” Cal yelled over the roar.
We stood in Gorilla position. The other three rookie teams had already entered.
“Let’s steal the show,” I said.
My music hit. “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy.
We walked out together. Not as rivals. As a unit.
I wore white and gold. Cal wore black and silver. We looked like the future.
The bell rang, and it was instant chaos. Ladders were weaponized within seconds.
Cal wrestled like a man possessed. He wasn’t doing high spots; he was hurting people.
He picked up a ladder and spun it like a windmill, clearing the ring.
He caught a guy diving off the top rope and power bombed him onto a steel chair.
He was the brutal, violent force that kept the other teams at bay.
And I flew.
I scrambled up ladders like a spider. I leaped from the rungs to the ropes, hitting dropkicks that sent bodies flying.
Then came the spot.
I stood on top of a fifteen-foot ladder in the center of the ring. Two guys were on tables outside the ring.
I looked at Cal. He was fighting off two guys in the corner, but he paused. He looked up at me. He nodded.
Trust.
I jumped.
I rotated in the air, a high angle Senton from the heavens. I crashed through the bodies and the wood. The impact knocked the wind out of me, jarring every bone in my body, but the roar of the crowd was worth it.
Holy Shit! Holy Shit!
I lay in the wreckage, gasping.
I saw Cal climbing. He was halfway up the ladder in the center. But he wasn’t alone. Another rookie was climbing the other side.
Cal didn’t wrestle him. He just punched him, causing the guy to fall backwards.
Cal reached up. He unhooked the briefcase.
The bell rang.
“Here are your winners… Deadlock and Timeless Silas Reed!”
Cal slid down the ladder, briefcase in hand. He rolled out of the ring and hauled me up from the splintered wood of the tables. He hugged me, tight, sweaty, and full of adrenaline.
“We did it,” he yelled in my ear.
We walked through the curtain battered, bruised, and victorious.
The applause from the back was genuine. Producers were clapping. Other wrestlers were nodding.
Then, the families came. Cal’s family, the Donovans, were leading the charge.
I saw them first. A swarm of women. Cal’s sisters, April, Heather, and Sarah. They bypassed security and tackled him.
I watched as Cal, the scary, tattooed “Deadlock,” melted. He dropped the briefcase. He hugged his sisters, burying his face in their hair. I saw his shoulders shake. He was crying.
His parents were right behind them. A broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and a woman wiping tears from her face.
It was pure love. Uncomplicated. Loud. Overwhelming.
I stood back, watching it, feeling like an intruder.
Then, Cal looked up. He saw me standing there.
He didn’t leave me on the outside. He grabbed Sarah’s hand, then reached for April and Heather, pulling them toward me, dragging the whole Donovan clan toward me.
“This is him,” Cal said, his voice thick with emotion, beaming at me. “This is Silas.”
The woman stepped forward immediately. She didn’t offer a handshake. She pulled me into a hug.
“I’m Cindy,” she said into my ear, squeezing tight. “Oh, honey, you were amazing! That jump! You scared me to death!”
“Thank you, Cindy,” I stammered, shocked by the warmth.
The man stepped up next, extending a hand that engulfed mine.
“I’m David. You kept him safe out there. Thank you.”
It was so warm, so genuine, that it actually hurt.
Then, I felt a hand on my other shoulder.
“Good match, son.”
I turned. Maverick stood there. He was smiling, but his eyes were scanning the room, checking who was watching.
“You got some serious height on that Senton,” he said. “Reminded me of the spot I did in ‘99. The rotation was good, but you need to tuck your chin faster on the landing.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, wincing as I shifted my weight. My back was screaming. He wasn’t asking if I was okay. He was critiquing the match.
Uncle Scott stepped up. His eyes were red. He was openly weeping.
“You did it, Si,” Scott choked out, pulling me into a hug that hurt my ribs. “God, I’m so proud. You’re better than we ever were. You know that? You did it the right way. Just you.”
I stiffened, feeling the crack in my armor.
“Thanks, Scott.”
“I mean it,” Scott said, pulling back, gripping my arms, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry it was so hard getting here. I’m sorry we weren’t—”
“Okay, Scotty, rein it in,” Maverick interrupted, clapping Scott on the back. He laughed, a loud, booming sound that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Let’s not get weepy in front of the boys. It’s a celebration. Silas won. That’s what matters.”
He deflected it. He erased the apology before it could even land.
I looked at my dad. “Yeah. A celebration.”
I stepped back, the distance between us feeling like a canyon compared to the huddle of the Donovan family just feet away.
I looked over Maverick’s shoulder.
Cal was watching me. He was surrounded by his sisters, tears on his face, but his eyes were locked on me.
He saw it. He saw the deflection.
He saw the coldness of the legacy I was so desperate to uphold.