3. SATURDAY — SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO #3
We walked backstage to the wardrobe department where Rosa, the head seamstress, was waiting for us.
She was a short, stern woman who usually took no shit, but today her expression was softer.
I had the feeling Rosa suspected mine and Si’s dynamic was more than platonic.
There was something in the way she looked at us, and how she always made sure we tried on our costumes together.
It was as if she was trying her best to give us a safe space without openly expressing it.
“Finally,” she huffed, hurriedly waving us over. “Come on. Silas, you first.”
Silas walked over to the covered rack. He had been specific about what he wanted: his signature Carolina-blue full-body tights with the word TIMELESS down one leg, and a long sleeveless robe with white accents. It was a regal look; a statement of this is my time.
Rosa placed her hand on the garment bag, took a deep breath and looked up at Si. “I have to confess something. I didn’t make exactly what you asked for.”
Silas blinked, wiping sweat from his forehead. “What? Rosa, the match is tomorrow.”
“I know.” Her voice trembled slightly. “But I’ve watched the interviews for Heatwave since your match was announced. I heard what you said about your mother. About feeling like you didn’t have the right to claim the island because you didn’t grow up here.”
Silas stiffened. I took a step closer, watching him.
“I was raised in New York,” Rosa continued, their gazes locked together. “My parents were from San Juan, but they wanted us to start fresh. They never taught me Spanish. And I have never felt like I was ‘Puerto Rican enough’ to claim it. I always felt like an imposter.”
Silas’s expression crumbled. The walls he kept up so carefully melted away. He looked at her not as a seamstress, but as a mirror, his anxious fingers touching the sun pendant around his neck.
“I took a liberty because I know how much you want to make them proud,” Rosa whispered, revealing her creation.
The long, sleeveless robe was magnificent, tailored to perfection even, but it was the tights that stole the air from the room.
They weren’t Silas’s normal Carolina-blue.
They were brighter. Specifically, the vibrant sky-blue of the Puerto Rican flag.
On the right leg, in bold white lettering, read: TIMELESS.
On the left leg, where he had originally asked for a simple stripe, was instead a beautifully stitched, textured patch of the Puerto Rican flag.
“It’s not the colors you asked for, I know that.
I took inspiration from the original flag color so it would still be close to your signature, but this…
This is for every person like us. For the ones who don’t speak the language, who didn’t grow up in the culture, but who carry the island in their blood anyway. ”
Silas didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the gear, flicking over all the details as his chest heaved through each breath. Slowly, his large calloused hand trembled as his fingers brushed over the flag patch.
“Rosa,” he choked out, his voice broken.
She stepped forward and patted his cheek. “You belong here. We both do.”
The room fell into a thick silence, as if even time did not dare to continue while the two of them shared this connection. It wasn’t until the sound of Rosa’s small sniffle broke the silence, that the clocks started moving again.
“I forgot the alteration kit in the back room, and I need to hem the robe slightly. Give me one minute,” she said before bustling away.
Silas was still staring at the flag patch as I sidled closer, my shoulder brushing his. “She’s right, you know.”
He took a single shaky breath and nodded before looking at the other rack. “Is that yours?”
Looking at mine, it was utter chaos, pure anarchy.
It was a kilt, but it was crafted from heavy, distressed black denim and leather.
Silver safety pins, anarchy patches, and graffiti-style scrawls of DEADLOCK covered the material.
The leather jacket was studded and spiked, which made it look like armor.
Straight across the back of the black trunks, it read: NO ONE LIKE US.
“A kilt?” Silas questioned softly, looking at it.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice rough. “My dad wore one.”
Silas looked at me, his brows pulling together with deep lines. “Your Dad?”
“When I was a kid, I saw a photo of my biological parents’ wedding,” I murmured as I aimlessly traced a safety pin on the fabric. “He was wearing a traditional Scottish kilt. He looked proud. He looked like he was building a legacy.”
My gaze drifted across the space in front of me. The brilliant blue of the tights, the intricate detail on the flag, Silas. This match wasn’t just a title fight. Our families were flying in. We were both planning to propose. This match was our vows. “But this is my legacy. I’m wearing it for us.”
Silas’s eyes softened, a profound, aching warmth swimming in them.
As twisted as it felt, tomorrow was our version of a wedding. No tuxedos. No altar. Just leather, spandex, and twenty thousand people screaming while we commit to each other in the ring.
He reached out, his hand cupping the back of my neck, his thumb brushing over my pulse point. “It suits you,” he whispered, “You’ll look like a king.”
I leaned into his touch, closing my eyes for a brief second. The weight of the black velvet box hidden in my gym bag down the hall suddenly felt lighter.