Chapter 22
JANUARY - TAMPA, FLORIDA / THE ROAD
Now playing: Let’s Get Lost - G-Eazy, Devon Baldwin
Tampa felt like a dream. A hazy, humidity-soaked hallucination where the world stopped spinning just long enough for us to breathe.
But the reality of the arena hit like dunking yourself in ice water.
Twelve hours after I cried in Cal’s arms, after I fucked every ounce of anger out of the both of us, I was standing in Gorilla, listening to forty thousand people screaming on the other side of the curtain.
It was time. The Every Man For Himself match. It was the start of the feud that would consume our lives until the spring, and mine and Cal’s long after the cameras stopped rolling.
“You ready for this?” Evan asked as he bounced on his heels. He was vibrating with adrenaline, taping his wrists with frantic energy. So was I.
“Ready,” I said, rolling my neck, feeling the familiar pop of tension releasing.
I glanced at the monitors. Cal was standing there, arms crossed over his chest, watching the match happen in real time.
He had already wrestled, done his segment, but he hadn’t left.
He knew the outcome, but his desire to make sure things always went to plan never ceased to bleed through, especially when it had to do with his storylines.
The match was a blur of bodies, sweat, and controlled fucking chaos.
I entered at number 2. The noise was deafening.
I fought for forty-five minutes, a miracle for most who enter this match so early.
My lungs burned, my left shoulder ached from the bumps, but I felt lighter than I had in years.
The heavy, suffocating weight I’d been carrying around for so long was gone, left back in Hotel Room two ten.
Finally, the ring cleared. It came down to the final two. Myself and Evan.
The crowd was on their feet. Best friends, history, respect, staring each other down from opposite corners.
We didn’t hold back. We traded blows, the impact ringing out through the stadium. We did our fancy high spots to sell the crowd on the drama. The chemistry we’d built over the last decade was on full display; we moved like mirrors of one another.
In the end, just as planned, I pulled myself up to the apron. Evan caught me with a superkick that rattled my teeth, sending me fumbling backward to the floor. My feet hit the mats.
The bell rang. Evan Wilder had won the match. He was now the number one contender for the Heavyweight Title. For Cal’s title.
He stood on the turnbuckle, pointing down at me, grinning like a maniac.
I looked up from the floor, wiping the sweat and hair from my eyes, and smiled back.
This wasn’t a bitter loss. This was a loss neither man cared about.
This was respect for one another’s ability.
Even when we gave each other everything, we’d never be mad to see the other succeed.
I walked up the ramp, the crash of adrenaline leaving my system.
“Reed, go to medical, get that shoulder checked. Just for safety,” Jim Dallas called out from behind his monitor as I stepped through the curtain, instinctively holding the joint.
It wasn’t hurt, I knew the difference between hurt and sore, but it was tight. It hadn’t endured anything like this since it was repaired years ago.
I nodded in return as I started the long walk down the concrete hallway toward medical. I was so in my own head I hadn’t even realized Cal was trailing behind me. I didn’t really expect him to.
I walked through the door. The staff doctor was right there, sanitizing his hands.
He gave us a once over. Wrestlers going to medical together wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but usually, they were coming in together because they’d been in the same match, dragging each other in.
Not just to simply accompany one another.
Especially if one didn’t have any kind of a match with the other and was already dressed in street clothes.
I hoped the doctor would just assume it was Cal doing what the face of the company would do. He’s like a team captain, and he’s building to have a feud with me long term. My health and capabilities directly affect Cal’s matches and TV time.
“Let’s just check the rotation, make sure you’re not having any unusual discomfort,” the doctor said, patting the exam table.
I sat down, and he pressed his thumb deep into the front of my left shoulder.
I hissed, gripping the edge of the exam table, my knuckles turning white. “It’s fine, really. Just tight.”
“You took a hard bump when you fell out of the ring,” the doctor noted, scribbling on a clipboard. “Ice it. If you start feeling anything worse, come back to me. Any kind of clicking in the joint or burning, we need to get it scanned.”
“He and I are going to be feuding together through the summer. Anything I need to look for when we’re training? Or in the ring?” Cal chimed in.
The doctor raised an eyebrow but brushed it off, accepting the professional curiosity.
The thought was sweet, Cal worrying enough to ask, risking the exposure to make sure he knew how to take care of me. Though I wish he would’ve just asked me later, when we were alone.
“Try not to drop him on it if you can,” the doctor said matter of factly.
“Don’t pull that arm. If you do any kind of clotheslines, or pulling by the arm, don’t target the left, stick with the right when you can.
I’m sure Mr. Reed knows to try and land to cushion it, but the way you position him in throws can also prevent it getting injured if you’re aware too. ”
Cal just nodded, absorbing every word like it was gospel.
Then, the door flew open. Evan burst in, looking kind of panicked.
“Hey!” Evan said a little too loudly, stepping purposefully between Cal and the doctor. “Good match, right? Deadlock came with Silas because I had to talk to Presley and uh, get some feedback on the finish.”
Evan shot Cal a look that clearly said: What in the actual fuck are you doing?
Cal glared back. It wasn’t an apology. It was a look of protectiveness. A look that said: Fuck you, you won’t keep me away from him.
The air in the room grew thick.
“Can you give us a second, doc?” I asked awkwardly.
The doctor shrugged, clearly not paid enough to deal with wrestler drama, and walked out.
The second the door clicked shut, the mask was gone.
Cal wasn’t in work mode anymore. He wasn’t checking on a coworker. He wasn’t “Deadlock.” He was Callum. He was worried. He was looking out for me.
Cal crossed the room in two strides. He rested both hands on either side of my face and kissed me. It wasn’t charged with the frantic energy of last night. It was a kiss of relief.
“You’re sure you’re not hurting?” he asked, looking down to my left shoulder, staring at the scars.
I had three thick, jagged lines running across my front deltoid from the surgery to repair my shoulder after the botch.
I tried to keep them covered as much as possible, or ignore them.
I hated them. They were a permanent reminder, a physical receipt, that one mistake ruined my life, and two other men’s lives.
“I hadn’t seen them close up,” Cal said softly.
“Stop,” Evan said, standing guard at the door, turning his back to us. “Someone’s coming.”
Cal pulled away, creating distance that wouldn’t seem questionable.
There was a knock at the door. It opened.
Presley Murran, The Chairman. “Shoulder good?” he asked, staring at me.
I nodded.
“Good. Great job you guys.”
He walked away. We let out a breath we didn’t know we were holding.
The main locker room was a madhouse. Everyone was showering, celebrating, or packing. The noise was overwhelming, an anxiety I didn’t want to deal with right now.
I grabbed my duffle bag and managed to slip out toward the back. There was an accessible changing stall tucked in the far corner of the locker room. It was private, spacious, and most importantly, it had a lock.
I went to slide inside, desperate for silence. And just like he did at medical, Cal was on my heels, and swiftly invited himself in with me.
“Are you fucking insane?” I hissed as the lock clicked shut. “There’s like twenty guys around the corner from here.”
“They’re loud,” Cal murmured, stepping into my space, effectively trapping me against the metal wall. “And I wanted to see you again before we leave.”
His gaze fell back to my shoulder. I was shirtless, holding my street clothes. I looked away from him. I didn’t want his eyes on it.
“They’re ugly,” I muttered as I tried to find my shirt.
“Don’t,” Cal said, stopping my hand. His voice was firm but gentle. “Can I?”
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I nodded.
Cal reached out. His fingers were calloused and rough from years of gripping ropes, but his touch was feather light. He traced the ridges of the scar tissue.
He pressed his lips to the scar. Each one of them. Gentle, lingering kisses right over the source of my deepest shame and hurt.
Tears pricked my eyes instantly. It was forgiveness. It was him telling me, without words, that the injury didn’t matter to him anymore. The past didn’t matter.
He pulled away and looked at me, noticing the tears immediately.
“Baby…” he said, his voice low enough that only the two of us could hear.
He came back to me and kissed my lips with the same gentleness. But I couldn’t handle gentle right now. I deepened the kiss immediately. I wanted him. I fucking needed him. And part of me didn’t even care if people were around. I’d waited years for this. I wanted Cal to fuck me, and he knew it too.
He crowded me against the wall, the kiss getting deeper, more frantic, desperate. I gripped his shoulders, melting into him. For a few seconds, the sound of the locker room faded into white noise. It was just us.
Bang!
Someone banged on the stall door next to us.
We froze.
Cal pulled back, chest heaving. A smirk played on his lips, recognizing the thrill. He squeezed my hips hard, dropped a quick kiss on my jaw, and slipped back out before anyone could notice.