Chapter 24
MARCH - AUSTIN, TEXAS
Now playing: Drown - Bring Me The Horizon
The lights in the arena dropped to a deep, blood red.
A low, mechanical groan echoed through the arena as the structure began to lower from the rafters. It wasn’t a cage; it was a fortress. Tons of chain link, steel grates, and plexiglass pods descended slowly, swallowing the ring whole.
The Devil’s Playground.
That’s what Creative called it. The boys in the back called it a career shortener. Once that structure touched the floor, there was no way in or out until the match was over.
I stood in Gorilla, bouncing on the balls of my feet, trying to shake out the adrenaline that was making my hands tremble.
I wasn’t wearing my usual gear. Tonight, I was in full length black tights that hugged every muscle of my legs, black knee pads, and black boots.
No colors. I wasn’t “Timeless” tonight. I was the dark horse.
“You look dangerous.”
I turned. Cal was standing there. He wasn’t in gear; he was in a suit. But not just any suit, a fitted black shirt, black tie, black jacket. Black on black. He matched my energy perfectly.
As the Heavyweight Champion, he wasn’t wrestling tonight. In a rare move for a pay per view, Creative had him on commentary for the main event. He had to sit out there for an hour, wearing a headset, calling the match that would decide his opponent.
He looked impeccable. But his eyes were tight, scanning me with a mixture of professional assessment and personal terror. He hated this match. He hated the structure.
“I feel dangerous,” I muttered, adjusting my wrist tape, the adhesive pulling tight against my skin.
Cal stepped into my space, his broad shoulders blocking the view of the producers behind us.
He reached out, straightening an invisible crease on my shoulder, his fingers lingering over the black KT tape protecting my surgery scars.
It had become a part of my look to tape over them; it made me feel better knowing they were covered, hidden from the millions of HD cameras.
“You know you’re going to have to get in my face later,” Cal murmured, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the hum of the arena. “Better make it convincing, Reed.”
I looked up at him, a smirk tugging at my lips despite the nerves. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got a lot of pent-up aggression to work out. You might want to loosen that tie, Champ.”
Cal’s eyes darkened, a flash of heat replacing the worry for a split second. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise,” I whispered.
Cal leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “Good. Because I’m not going to go easy on you just because you look good in those tights.”
He pulled back before anyone could clock the intimacy, his mask sliding back into place. He gave me a sharp, professional nod. “Watch Martinez. He’s been running his mouth all day. He’s going to try and make a name for himself tonight.”
“I know,” I said, my jaw tightening. “I can handle Rico.”
“See you on the other side,” he whispered.
“See you out there.”
My music hit.
I walked out into the blinding lights. Fifteen thousand people roared. The sound was physical, a wall of noise that hit my chest. The structure finished lowering with a final, earthshaking boom.
I walked up the steel steps and entered the structure through the small door before the referees locked it. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoed like a prison cell closing.
I stepped into the ring. The referee patted me down. Through the chainlink wall, I saw the announce table. Cal was putting his headset on, settling into his chair, but his eyes were locked on me. He looked at me with cold calculation, but I knew he was watching every move, praying I didn’t fall.
The match began.
I started off against Jackson Pierce, a twenty-year veteran who moved like a freight train. He was stiff, but safe. He slammed me into the chain link, the steel biting into my back, but he kept his hand behind my head, protecting me from the worst of it.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The lights flashed. A pod opened.
It was Maxx Thornton. Another vet. Another safe pair of hands.
The match had a rhythm. It was violent, yes, my back was already stinging from the grate, my mouth tasted like copper, but it was controlled chaos.
Then, the lights flashed again.
Another pod opened.
Rico Martinez.
He didn’t look like a professional. He looked like a man possessed. He stormed out of the pod, ignoring the pacing, ignoring the story we were telling. He made a beeline for me.
“Come on, Reed!” Rico screamed, his face twisted in a snarl. “Let’s finish what you started!”
He swung a kendo stick. It wasn’t a working swing. He aimed for my head.
I ducked just in time, the wood cracking against the turnbuckle behind me.
“What the fuck, Rico?” I hissed.
He didn’t answer. He charged. He caught me with a stiff knee to the gut that doubled me over for real. He grabbed my hair, yanking my head back, and slammed my face into the canvas.
“You’re nothing!” he spat, dropping his weight onto my back. “You broke my uncle’s back, you piece of shit. You think you get to just walk back in here and be the hero?”
This wasn’t scripted. He was shooting. He was trying to hurt me.
I scrambled up the chain wall, hanging above the ring like a spider, trying to get distance.
“Get down here and fight!” Rico yelled, throwing a steel chair at the wall. It clanged loudly inches from my hand.
I looked down. Through the mesh, I could see the announce table. Cal was half out of his seat, his hands gripping the table so hard the knuckles were white. He was shouting something at the match producer next to him. He was seconds away from ripping the cage doors off to beat the hell out of Rico.
Don’t do it, Cal, I thought, panic flaring in my chest. Don’t break kayfabe. I got this.
I looked down at Rico. He was waiting for me to fall. He wanted me to botch again. He wanted history to repeat itself.
Fuck you.
I launched.
I didn’t do a Shooting Star. I didn’t try to be fancy. I hit a Coffin Drop, a trust fall, back first, eyes closed, putting my body on the line.
I plummeted. The air rushed past my ears.
Wham!
I landed perfectly across Rico’s chest. The impact knocked the wind out of me, snapping my head back, but I held on. My weight crushed him, knocking the breath out of his lungs and the fight out of his eyes.
One. Two. Three.
“Rico Martinez has been eliminated!”
The crowd exploded.
I rolled off, gasping for air, clutching my ribs. The rest of the match was a blur of pain and adrenaline. It came down to me and Maxx. We went back and forth, hitting our spots, telling the story of resilience.
I caught him. I countered his finisher into a small package pin.
One. Two. Three.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
“Here is your winner… Timeless… Silas…Reed!”
I collapsed to the mat.
I did it. I fucking did it. I earned it. I laid there on the cold canvas, staring up at the lights, chest heaving, sweat and blood stinging my eyes.
I did it.
I wasn’t the botch anymore. I wasn’t the tragedy. I was the Main Event.
The referee unlocked the door. I dragged myself to my feet, holding the ropes for support. A ref raised my hand.
A UWF reporter stepped in with a mic inside the structure, but I waved him off. I snatched the microphone from his hand.
I didn’t stay in the center of the ring. I rolled under the bottom rope, crawling out the small door of the structure, looking battered and broken. I limped over to the announce area.
Cal was sitting there. He looked calm, unbothered, the perfect Champion. He adjusted his cuffs as I approached, but I saw the way his chest was heaving.
I climbed up onto the announce table. My boots crunched on the papers below. I crouched down, getting eye level with him, looming over him like a predator. Blood trickled down my temple, sweat soaking my hair.
The music cut. The crowd went silent.
“You look comfortable down there, Deadlock,” I said, my voice rasping through the speakers, breathless and raw. “Sitting in your suit. Calling the shots. Watching us bleed for a chance to stand next to you.”
Cal looked up at me. His face was unreadable, cold as ice.
“You think this is a redemption story?” I asked, leaning closer, practically spitting the words in his face. “You think I came back here for a feel good moment? You think I came back to apologize?”
I wiped the blood from my forehead and flicked it toward his pristine black jacket. A red droplet landed on his lapel.
“I didn’t come back to make friends. And I definitely didn’t come back to play nice with you. I came back to take everything I lost. I came back to take my spot. And I came back to take that ten pounds of gold off your shoulder.”
The crowd erupted.
“So you and Evan Wilder can play brothers all you want,” I growled. “But come Wrestle Empire? I’m not looking for a reunion. I’m looking for a coronation.”
Cal slowly took off his headset. He placed it on the table.
He stood up.
He jumped onto the table with me.
We stood face to face. Nose to nose. The tension was electric. It wasn’t just storylines. It was years of “what ifs” standing on a table in Austin, Texas.
“You want a coronation?” Cal shouted, his voice picking up on my mic. “Come take it!”
He shoved me. Hard.
I stumbled back, nearly falling off the table.
I didn’t hesitate. I lunged. I tackled him.
We went crashing off the table onto the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs. I threw a punch. He threw one back. We were rolling around on the floor, ripping at each other’s clothes, grunting with effort.
But even in the chaos, I knew.
When we hit the floor, Cal’s hand shot out. He cupped the back of my head. He twisted his body so he took the brunt of the impact on the concrete, his shoulder hitting the ground first, shielding my left shoulder completely. It was subtle. Invisible to the fans. But I felt it.
He’s got me.
Security swarmed us. Refs pulled at our arms.
“Get off him!”
“Break it up!”