Chapter 14
SEPTEMBER - EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
Now playing: They Don’t Know About Us - One Direction
We touched down in Edinburgh twenty-four hours ago for the start of the UWF European Tour.
Usually, the schedule was a nightmare, planes, gyms, arenas, sleep, repeat.
But because we had arrived early for media obligations, and because Evan was currently trapped in a convention center doing four hours of interviews for his title defense, Cal and I were loose.
We were unsupervised.
“I can’t believe he’s stuck in a suit right now and we’re doing this,” Cal laughed, adjusting his woolen scarf against the biting wind. His cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, making his eyes look even brighter.
We were walking down the Royal Mile, the historic heart of the city. The cobblestones were slick with a light morning mist, and the sky was a blanket of moody gray, but I had never seen anything more beautiful.
“Better him than us,” I said, shoving my hands deep into my coat pockets. “If I had to answer one more question about my dad’s legacy, I was going to jump out a window.”
Cal bumped his shoulder against mine, a solid, warm weight. “Hey, look around. Nobody knows who the hell we are.”
I stopped and looked. He was right.
In the States, especially in wrestling towns, heads turned. Phones came out. Whispers followed us. That’s the Reed kid. That’s Deadlock. We were rivals, we were stars, we were public property.
Here? We were just two Americans in heavy coats walking through a city that was older than our entire country. The tourists were looking at the castle looming on the hill, not us. The locals were rushing to work, ignoring us completely.
For the first time in my life, I felt invisible. And it was intoxicating.
We turned down a narrow, winding alleyway that cut through the city, flanked by high stone walls that blocked out the noise of the main street. It was quiet here, intimate. The smell of damp moss and history filled the air.
Cal stopped. He looked around, checking the empty alley, checking the windows above. Coast clear.
Then, he reached out and took my hand.
It wasn’t a secret squeeze. It wasn’t a hidden touch under a table or a brush of knuckles in a crowded elevator. He interlaced our fingers, his palm warm against the chill of the Scottish air, and he held on.
I froze for a second, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My instinct was to pull away, to scan the perimeter, to protect the secret. I waited for the shout, for the camera shutter, for the world to crash in.
Nothing happened. Just the sound of distant bagpipes and the wind whistling through the stone archway.
I squeezed back.
Cal grinned, swinging our hands between us like we were kids skipping school. “We could get used to this,” he said softly, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Yeah,” I whispered, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the wool coat. “We really could.”
He tugged me closer, pulling me into the shadow of an archway. He leaned in, his nose brushing mine, his breath warm against my cold skin.
“Hi,” he whispered.
“Hi,” I breathed back.
He kissed me. Right there. In the middle of the day. In the middle of a city. It was soft, sweet, and terrifyingly open. Anyone could have walked by. Anyone could have seen. But for once, neither of us pulled away. We lingered in it, tasting the rain and the freedom.
We ended up in a pub that looked like it had been standing since the 1700s.
It was dark, smelling of peat smoke and roasted meat.
We sat in a corner booth, safe in the shadows.
Since neither of us drank, we ordered Cokes and enough food to feed an army, fish and chips, meat pies, sticky toffee pudding.
“You know,” Cal said, dipping a fry into vinegar. “My bio parents are actually from here. Well, originally.”
I looked up, surprised. “What? Scotland?”
Cal nodded. “Both of them were from just outside Glasgow. They moved to the States a few years before I was born.”
I stared at him, analyzing his face in the dim light. I knew the ugly parts of his story, but I didn’t know this part.
“I knew about your folks,” I said quietly. “But I didn’t know about the Scotland part.”
“You didn’t catch that?” Cal teased, kicking my foot under the table playfully. “Usually the name gives it away. Callum Kincaid? It’s not exactly subtle.”
“I mean, I didn’t really think about it,” I admitted, swirling my soda. “But I see it now.”
“See it how?” Cal laughed, lifting my hand from the table and pressing a kiss to my knuckles, his eyes dancing with mischief.
I smirked. “You look like you should be yelling at sheep in a kilt. You’ve got that rugged, ‘I fight mountains for fun’ look.”
Cal threw his head back and laughed, a loud, genuine sound that made a few locals look over with smiles. “Yelling at sheep? Wow. You really know how to charm a guy, Reed.”
“I try,” I said, unable to stop smiling.
Cal’s smile faded into something softer, more wistful. He looked out the frosted window at the gray sky.
“My dad,” Cal said, his voice dropping. “Before the drinking got bad… before Mom left… he always talked about coming back here. He wanted me to see where he came from. He had this map pinned up in the garage. He talked about taking me when I turned eighteen.”
He traced the rim of his glass, his expression far away.
“He’d be so fucking pissed if he knew I did it without him,” Cal murmured. “Or maybe he’d be glad one of us made it out.”
I watched the way the sadness and joy warred in his eyes. He was a runaway who built himself into a star, but sitting here, he was just a kid looking for home.
“He’d be proud,” I said softly, squeezing his hand on top of the table. “You made it, Cal. You’re here.”
He looked back at me, his gaze intense, swimming with emotions he usually kept locked behind his Deadlock persona. “Yeah. I am.”
We walked off the heavy lunch in Princes Street Gardens, a massive park that sat in the shadow of the castle. The leaves were just starting to turn gold and brown.
We found a bench overlooking the fountain. It was secluded, tucked away behind a row of ancient trees. Cal stretched his legs out, resting his arm along the back of the bench behind my shoulders. It was casual, possessive, and comfortable.
“It’s so quiet,” I murmured, watching a couple walk a dog nearby. “It’s nice not hearing the noise.”
“The noise of the ring?” Cal asked.
“The noise of everything,” I said. “The pressure. The schedule. The expectations. Maverick breathing down my neck about what a ‘Reed’ looks like.”
I looked at the couple with the dog. They were holding hands, talking about what to make for dinner. They looked ordinary. Boring, even. And I felt a pang of jealousy so sharp it hurt.
“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like,” I said, the words slipping out before I could check them. “To just… be. To not have to be someone.”
Cal hummed, his fingers idly playing with the collar of my coat. “I think about it all the time.”
I turned to look at him. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Cal said. He wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at the skyline, his expression soft and dreamy. “I think about after. When the bumps add up too much. When I can’t power through anymore.”
“What do you see?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Silence,” Cal said immediately. “Somewhere green. Somewhere with a lot of trees and no cameras. Maybe a little house near the water. I’d get a dog. I’d learn to cook more things.”
He turned his head then, locking eyes with me.
“And I wouldn’t be alone,” he said.
The air between us charged with electricity. He wasn’t talking about a vague partner. He was talking about me. He was painting a picture of a life that didn’t include championships or main events, a life that consisted of silence and us.
“That sounds…” I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “That sounds like a dream.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Cal said, his voice steady, serious. “I’d do it, Si. I’d retire tomorrow if it meant I could have that. If it meant I could wake up and not have to hide.”
My heart stopped.
This was it. This was him laying his cards on the table. He was telling me that I was worth more to him than the wrestling business. He was telling me he loved me without saying the words.
“Cal,” I whispered, “you love this business. It’s who you are.”
“It’s what I do,” Cal corrected, leaning in closer, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “It’s not who I am. Not anymore.”
He searched my eyes, looking for confirmation, looking for me to meet him there in that future.
“I want that,” I confessed, the truth tearing out of me. “I want the trees. I want the quiet.”
Cal smiled then, a small, private thing just for me. “Then we’ll get it. We just have to build the legacy, make the money, and then… we go.”
“We go,” I repeated, feeling a sense of peace settle over me that I hadn’t felt in years.
We met up with Evan later for dinner at a sleek restaurant in the New Town.
He looked wrecked. His tie was undone, his top button popped, and he slumped into the booth like a man who had been at war.
“Four hours,” Evan groaned, dropping his head onto the table. “Four hours of asking me if I’m afraid of the British style of wrestling. I’m going to suplex the next person who asks me a question.”
He looked up, his eyes bleary, and caught the scene in front of him.
Cal was sitting next to me, his arm draped along the back of the booth. His hand was resting on the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking my hairline absentmindedly. We were sitting close, thigh to thigh, completely at ease.
Evan paused. He looked at Cal’s hand. Then he looked at my face, relaxed, happy, unguarded.
A genuine look of relief washed over Evan’s face. He didn’t make a joke. He just smiled, a soft, tired expression that said, Finally.