Chapter 32 Someone Like Me
SOMEONE LIKE ME
DAVINA
The arena smelled like popcorn, testosterone, and the collective anticipation of twenty thousand people who'd paid good money to watch grown men throw each other around in spandex.
I still couldn't believe this was my life now.
“Okay, but walk me through the timeline again.” Brooke leaned closer, her voice barely audible over the pre-show music pumping through the speakers.
“You're telling me that between the third tequila shot and sunrise, you somehow ended up married to a man you'd spent two years publicly annihilating?”
“That's the condensed version, yes.”
“And the Elvis impersonator, was he at least a good Elvis?”
“Blue Hawaii costume with rhinestones and a surprisingly good voice.” I shifted in my seat, hyperaware of the VIP passes hanging around our necks. “He really committed to the bit.”
“Unbelievable.” Brooke shook her head, but she was grinning. “You know, when I imagined your wedding, I pictured something elegant. Maybe a vineyard in Napa. Instead, you went full Vegas Chapel with an Elvis impersonator.”
“The heart wants what it wants.”
“The tequila wanted what it wanted.”
“Same thing.”
The arena was packed, a sea of signs, foam fingers, and people wearing merchandise with Dallas's face on it.
Somewhere backstage, my husband was probably getting oiled up and psyching himself into character, which was a sentence I never thought I'd think, let alone accept as my normal Tuesday evening.
The seats behind us creaked as two women settled in. I didn't turn around, too focused on scanning the entrance ramp for any sign of pre-show activity.
“Oh my God, I'm so nervous.” The voice behind me was young, breathy, dripping with excitement. “I can't believe he invited me.”
“You're sure he's the one who messaged you?” Her companion sounded skeptical. “Because those DMs could be anyone. Managers, assistants, catfish...”
“It was definitely him. He used, like, specific details. Things only he would know.”
“But isn't he married now?” Skeptical Friend asked. “I saw something on Instagram...”
“To that fat podcast chick?” Breathy Voice laughed. “Please. That fat bitch can't satisfy him. You've seen his body. You think a man like that is attracted to someone who looks like her?”
My eyes widened, and my spine stiffened. Beside me, Brooke's hand found my knee, a silent stay calm that I felt more than heard.
I'd heard variations of this sentiment my entire life. Too big. Too much. Not enough. The comments section of my existence had been writing this narrative since I was twelve years old, when I first realized that the world had opinions about my body that it felt entitled to share.
But hearing it here, in this arena, about my husband, from someone who apparently believed she had some kind of claim to him, hit different.
Brooke's grip on my knee tightened. “Don't,” she murmured. “They're not worth it.”
“I know.”
“Davina.”
“I said I know.” But my heart was hammering. Not because I believed the DM story, because I didn’t. I trusted Dallas.
No, the cold feeling was the voice in my head that whispered, maybe they're right and this is all temporary. Maybe he'll wake up one day and realize he could do better.
I shoved that voice into a mental closet and locked the door.
“He probably just married her for publicity,” Breathy Voice continued, apparently determined to narrate my worst fears aloud. “Or like, a bet or something. There's no way it's real. Did you see his exes? Models and actresses. Women who take care of themselves.”
“Maybe she's rich?” Skeptical Friend offered.
“Rich enough to buy a husband like Dallas Dodger? Please.”
Brooke was practically vibrating with suppressed rage beside me.
I grabbed her arm. “Don't.”
“But…”
“Not here. Not now.” I kept my voice low. “I'm not giving them the satisfaction.”
The arena lights dimmed. The crowd erupted, and then the music hit.
Dallas's entrance theme was ridiculous, all heavy bass and dramatic percussion. Pyrotechnics exploded along the entrance ramp, and smoke billowed. The screens lit up with his name.
He emerged from the smoke like some kind of fever dream. The championship belt gleamed around his waist. His hair was slicked back, and his chest glistening under the lights.
The crowd went absolutely insane.
Behind me, Breathy Voice squealed loud enough to damage eardrums. “There he is.”
I watched my husband stride down the ramp, high-fiving fans, playing to the cameras, being the performer he'd trained his whole life to become. When he reached the ring, he climbed the turnbuckle and scanned the crowd…
And found me.
His smirk softened into something that was just for us as he pressed his hand to his chest, then pointed directly at me.
The Jumbotron caught the moment. Twenty thousand people saw Dallas Dodger point into the crowd. The cameras followed his gesture, found our section, and suddenly my face was on a screen the size of a building.
“Holy shit,” Brooke breathed. “You're on the jumbotron.”
“I can see that.” I forced an awkward smile.
Behind us, Breathy Voice had gone very, very quiet.
The match was spectacular.
Dallas and Matt worked together as they faced off against a tag team called The Devastators, two massive men whose entire personality seemed to be angry and shirtless.
I'd watched Dallas's matches before, but watching in person was different. Every slam, every near-fall, every dramatic reversal made my heart leap into my throat.
At one point, Dallas took a hit that sent him crashing to the mat so hard the whole ring shook. I flew out of my seat, gasping as my hand slapped over my mouth. It hit completely differently when you were watching someone you cared about getting tossed around the ring.
Brooke tugged at my arm, pulling me back to my seat.
“He’s okay.”
“I know,” I tried to play it off as I watched Dallas get back on his feet.
The match ended with Dallas executing his signature move, the Dominator Drop, and pinning his opponent for the three-count. The crowd exploded. Confetti rained from the ceiling. Dallas and Matt raised their arms in victory while the arena chanted their names.
“That was amazing,” Brooke admitted. “Don't tell Matt I said that. His ego is already at capacity.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
The lights came up for intermission. Around us, people started moving, heading for the bathrooms, concession stands, and merch tables hawking t-shirts with my husband's face on them.
I was gathering my bag when a voice behind me said, “Holy shit, are you Davina Lawson from Big Girl Panties?” She turned to Brooke. “And you’re Brooke Strickland.”
I turned. The skeptical friend, a brunette with wide eyes and a genuinely starstruck expression, was leaning forward in her seat, practically bouncing with excitement.
“I thought I recognized you! I love your podcast. Like, genuinely love it. The episode about body neutrality? I listened to it like fifteen times.”
Despite everything, I felt myself smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re married to The Mountain,” she said to Brooke. “And you're married to The Dominator now? That's so cool. Like, actual goals.” She was beaming, completely sincere. “You guys seem really happy. The podcast episode where he defended you? I cried.”
“Okay, that's enough.” Breathy Voice, the blonde, recovered from her jumbotron shock and was now sporting an expression that could curdle milk. “You're seriously fangirling over her?”
“She's literally famous, Amber.”
“She's a podcast host who talks about body positivity and navigating the dating world as a woman.” Amber's lip curled. “That's not fame. That's a gimmick.”
“Amber…”
“No, seriously.” Amber turned her full attention to me, and I recognized the look in her eyes.
I'd seen it before, on playgrounds, in locker rooms, and in comment sections across the internet.
The look of someone who'd decided I was an acceptable target.
“You think you're special because you got some wrestler to marry you?
Please. You're a pity fuck. A publicity stunt.”
“That's enough.” Brooke’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
“Who asked you?” Amber snapped.
“No one needs to ask me. I'm volunteering.” Brooke stepped closer, and even though she was shorter than Amber, she radiated an energy that made people reconsider their life choices.
“You want to talk about pity? How about sliding into a married man's DMs because you're so desperate for attention you'll believe any account that messages you back?”
Amber's face went red. “He did message me.”
“Did he? Or did you message some fan account and convince yourself it was real because the alternative is admitting you're obsessed with someone who doesn't know you exist?”
“Brooke.” I put my hand on her arm. “It's fine.”
“It's not fine.” Anger colored her tone as her fists clenched at her side. This was a version of Brooke I’d never seen before, and I kind of liked it.
“This clearance-rack Barbie is standing here calling you a pity fuck when she couldn't land a man like Dallas if she coated herself in honey and stood in a candy store.”
“Excuse me?” Amber's voice hit a register that probably disturbed bats.
“You heard me.”
I should have stopped it there and walked away, taken the high road, been the bigger person, but I snapped.
Maybe it was the DM comments or two decades of letting women like this make me feel small. Maybe it was the fact that I'd spent my entire career building a platform that told all women they were worthy, and here I was, letting someone make me question my own marriage.
“You know what?” I stepped forward, and Amber flinched.
“I've spent my whole life listening to people like you tell me I'm not enough.
Too fat. Too loud. Too much. And I believed it.
I believed it so hard I almost didn't let myself fall in love with the best man I've ever known because I didn't think I deserved him.”
Amber opened her mouth.