Chapter 12
AUGUST - SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO
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If Atlanta was a physical assault, Puerto Rico was a hallucination.
The air inside the Coliseo de Puerto Rico was thick enough to choke on. It was a physical weight, a suffocating cocktail of eighteen thousand screaming fans, the sulfur smell of pyrotechnics, and the kind of Caribbean humidity that made your clothes stick to your skin like a second layer of flesh.
Tonight wasn’t just another show on the loop. It was Heatwave. The mid-year spectacle. The night where the UWF proved it could sell out international arenas without the machine of the major leagues behind it.
And tonight, the energy was different. It was manic. It was desperate. Every man on the roster knew that tonight was the night you either stole the show or you got left behind.
“Go out there and steal it, Giant,” I said, slapping Evan on the shoulder as his music hit.
Evan looked pale. He was vibrating with nerves, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was booked in the opener for the UWF Television Championship, his first shot at a singles title.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Evan whispered, clutching his stomach. His bleach-blond hair was perfectly blow-dried, channeling that arrogant ‘Showstopper’ energy he idolized, but his eyes were wide with terror. “I can’t feel my legs, Si.”
“Don’t you dare,” Cal grinned, leaning against the doorframe, already half taped up for his own match later. “Puke on the champion. It establishes dominance. Make him slip in it.”
Evan let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, shook out his arms like a prize fighter, and walked through the curtain.
We watched on the monitor in the back, huddled around the small screen with half the roster. And for the next fifteen minutes, Evan didn’t just wrestle; he put on a clinic.
He moved like a rubber band. He took bumps that looked like car crashes, flying into turnbuckles so hard his hair whipped back, flipping inside out on clotheslines.
He made the champion look like a monster, flopping around the ring like a fish on dry land, feeding off the crowd’s sympathy.
He had the cocky swagger mixed with the grit of a guy who refused to stay down no matter how hard he got hit.
When he finally hit his finisher, a superkick that sounded like a whip crack followed by a leaping DDT that spiked the champion into the mat, the referee’s hand hit the canvas for the third time.
One. Two. Three.
The roar from the San Juan crowd was deafening.
Evan collapsed to his knees, clutching the silverplated Television Title to his chest, weeping openly in the center of the ring.
“That’s my boy!” Cal shouted at the monitor, punching the wall in excitement. “Look at the sell! He made that match! He made it!”
I smiled, a swell of pride in my chest so strong it almost hurt. We were doing it. We were actually doing it.
My match was third on the card. A technical showcase against a veteran cruiserweight named Hector “The Hornet” Hayes.
It wasn’t a title match. It was a “Cool Down” match, put in place by the producers to let the crowd breathe between the high stakes drama. But I didn’t treat it like filler. I treated it like an audition.
I wanted to show them wrestling.
While Cal was chaos and Evan was spectacle, I was precision. I worked Hayes’s arm, transitioning from hold to hold with a fluidity that felt like water. I didn’t play to the crowd. I didn’t taunt. I just wrestled.
The humidity made the canvas slick. Sweat poured off me in rivers, mixing with the baby oil, making every grapple a struggle for friction. I could feel Hayes’s heart hammering against my back during the chain wrestling.
“Come on, kid!” Hayes grunted, slapping my chest. “Hit me!”
I hit him. I delivered a chop that echoed through the arena like a gunshot.
The crowd went wild. I finished him with a high angle Senton, holding for the three count, my toes digging into the canvas.
As I stood in the center of the ring, my arm raised, listening to the respectful applause of the Puerto Rican crowd, I felt a deep, steady satisfaction.
I didn’t need to be the Rockstar. I just needed to be the best.
But then came the mayhem.
Street Fight: Deadlock vs. “The Butcher” Bronson.
This wasn’t wrestling. This was violence.
Cal walked out to the ring not with a strut, but with a stalk. He wore ripped black jeans and taped fists. No wrestling gear. No rules.
The bell rang, and for thirty eight minutes, they tore each other apart.
They fought into the crowd. They fought on the announce table. Bronson threw Cal into the steel steps so hard Cal’s head snapped back on the monitor feed.
“Jesus,” Evan hissed, sitting next to me with an ice pack on his shoulder. “He’s going too hard. He’s going to get a concussion. Why is he taking those bumps?”
“He’s selling,” I said, though my stomach twisted into a knot. “He’s fine.”
He wasn’t fine.
Bronson pulled a kendo stick from under the ring. He cracked it over Cal’s back. Once. Twice. The sound was sickening, like a dry branch snapping in a storm. Cal arched his back, screaming, huge red welts rising instantly on his pale skin.
But then, the switch flipped.
Cal laughed.
He stood up, his back bleeding, his hair wild, and he laughed in Bronson’s face.
He grabbed the kendo stick, snapped it over his knee, and went on the offensive.
He was a whirlwind of manic energy. He hit a reckless dive off the top rope to the outside, crashing through a table, taking Bronson out with him.
The crowd chanted Deadlock! Deadlock! Deadlock!
Cal dragged Bronson back into the ring, hitting him with a steel chair, and pinned him.
When he stood up, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow, chest heaving, arms raised in victory, he looked terrifying. He looked beautiful. He looked like a god of war who had just found his religion.
The adrenaline in the room was palpable. It tasted like copper and victory.
Evan was sitting on a bench, staring at his Television Title like it was a holy relic. He was still wearing his gear, refusing to take it off.
I was icing my neck, coming down slowly from the high of my match.
And Cal… Cal was vibrating.
He hadn’t showered yet. He was sitting on a training table, a medic stitching the cut above his eye. He was covered in sweat, dried blood, and angry red welts across his back that looked like lash marks. But he wasn’t in pain.
He was manic.
“Did you hear that pop?” Cal asked, his leg bouncing nervously. “When I went through the table? I thought the roof was gonna come off. I couldn’t even hear my own music.”
“You’re lucky your head didn’t come off,” I muttered, walking over to hand him a water bottle. “You took that chair shot flush, Cal. You have to protect yourself.”
“Had to take it,” Cal grinned, wincing as the medic pulled a stitch tight. “It’s Heatwave. Go big or go home.”
He looked at me, his eyes dilated and wild. “You looked good out there, Si. Technical masterclass. Very… tight.”
“Someone has to actually wrestle,” I said, though I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
The medic finished up and taped a bandage over the cut. “Keep it dry, Deadlock. No swimming. And try not to bleed on anything expensive.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cal dismissed him, hopping off the table. He landed with a stumble, the adrenaline dump clearly hitting his legs, but he caught himself on my shoulder.
His hand gripped my bicep hard. His fingers were hot. He leaned in, his bloody, sweaty forehead resting against my shoulder for a second.
“We rule this place,” Cal whispered into my ear, his voice rough with exhaustion and pride. “You know that? We own this city tonight.”
I shivered. “Go shower, Deadlock. You smell like a slaughterhouse.”
Cal pulled back, smirking. “You love it.”
He grabbed his towel and headed for the showers. I stayed by the lockers, packing my bag, trying to ignore the heat lingering on my arm where he touched me.
“So,” Evan said, his voice dreamy. “We’re going to the afterparty, right? The one at Club Brava?”
“Mandatory appearance,” I sighed. “Creative said all the winners have to be there for photos. Shake hands, kiss babies.”
“Good,” Evan nodded. “I need to celebrate. I need to find someone to kiss. Anyone. I’m a champion, Silas. Champions get laid. Tonight, I am the Showstopper in his prime.”
I laughed, zipping my bag. “Aim high, Ev.”
“What about you?” Evan asked, looking at me curiously. “The girls were going crazy for you during your match. I saw the signs. ‘Marry Me Silas’. ‘Silas Reed is Daddy’. You gonna cash in on that?”
I paused. The image of the signs, the screaming women… it felt like looking at a menu written in a language I didn’t speak.
“I don’t think so,” I murmured.
“You’re too focused,” Evan shook his head, looking genuinely puzzled. “You gotta live a little, Si. You’re twenty-two in Puerto Rico. You haven’t even looked at a girl since we got signed.”
Cal walked out of the showers then, a towel wrapped low around his hips, water dripping from his wet hair down the fresh bruises on his chest. He caught the tail end of the conversation.
“Leave him alone, Ev,” Cal said, opening his locker. “Silas has standards. He doesn’t want ring rats.”
He glanced at me, a wicked, knowing glint in his eye that made my stomach flip. He dropped the towel to pull on his briefs. I looked away instinctively, but the image of his back, marred with violence, burned into my brain.
We got separated for media. Evan went to do an interview with the Spanish broadcast team. Cal got pulled for a photoshoot to show off the battle damage. I was stuck in a hallway waiting for a quick promo spot.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
My ribs are screaming. Adrenaline is wearing off. Everything hurts.
Drink water. Take an ibuprofen. Don’t be dramatic.
Ibuprofen is boring. I need something stronger…
I need you to put your hands on me. The heavy ones...