29. ORLANDO, FLORIDA #3
“You looked out for our boy.” His voice dropped into a low, emotional register. “You kept your word.”
A mysterious glint flashed deep in Tate’s eyes, a look that I noticed instantly but couldn’t quite decipher. There was clearly a history there, a silent, ancient covenant between these two men that went far deeper than any contract line or corporate script.
Tate’s smile softened into something deeply personal, almost tender, as he took Maverick’s hand, giving it a single, firm squeeze.
“I told you I’d always protect him, Mavy.”
Tate pulled his hand back, stepped around the doorframe, and disappeared down the concrete corridor, leaving the three of us standing in the quiet room.
“CALLUM! SILAS! GET YOUR ASSES DOWN TO GORILLA NOW!”
Mark’s voice echoed loudly up the concrete stairwell, shattering the silence.
We rushed out of the boardroom and broke into a sprint. Our boots thudded in unison as we raced down the concrete tunnels through the backstage labyrinth until we burst through the heavy black curtains into the nerve center of the Gorilla position.
The command center was a hive of high-velocity activity. Rob, Mark, and Jim were huddled around the primary broadcast console, a red pen flying across the formatting sheets as they tore the script to shreds.
The second my boots hit the rubber floor mats, Jim looked up from the monitor and turned his head to look at Mark Murran.
“Mark, man.” Jim sighed, a deep, tired chuckle escaping as he unhooked the heavy production headset from his neck. “Now that you’re back in the chair, my old ass is finally ready to leave.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, my eyes shifting between the three executives,.
“What are you talking about?” Mark questioned.
Jim looked to me, his sharp eyes crinkling with satisfaction.
“I’m ready to leave the wrestling world behind.
I have been for three years. My knees are gone, and my wife wants me home.
But I refused to walk out that door until I could leave this creative department in the hands of someone who actually gives a shit about the canvas as much as I do.
Someone who knows how to tell a real story. ”
Mark frowned, but he reached over, patting Jim heavily on the back. “You’ve earned your retirement, Jim. You’ve given us decades of outstanding service. And anything Presley said to undermine your authority or gatekeep this position from Callum was bullshit.”
Jim waved it off with a smile. “It’s fine But I will only leave under one condition. Cal Reed takes my place as the new head of Creative for this place. Right here, right now.”
Mark’s face went blank. His billionaire, calculating eyes zeroed in on my face, and he gave a single, sharp nod.
“Let’s see what you can do on the fly, kid.”
With a swift motion, Jim shoved the metal-backed production clipboard directly into my arms before reaching up and draping the heavy black headset around my neck.
“The book is yours.” A proud, emotional tear caught the light in his eye. “Write the story.”
My hands closed around the clipboard. The transition was instant.
The confusion, the panic, the exhaustion, it all evaporated, replaced by the sharp focus of an architect.
I looked down at the highlighted television format for the night’s live broadcast, my mind instantly rearranging the blocks like a master chess player.
“Alright, look at segment four.” The entire production crew at the console instantly froze and listened.
“Presley had Rico winning by a dirty pinfall to draw out the heat. That’s garbage.
It makes the champion look weak, and the fans are going to see right through it.
We’re changing it. Rico goes over with a clean defense.
It keeps the numbers up and builds the stakes for Man Overboard. ”
Rob stared at the sheet, his eyes widening before a massive smile broke across his face. “Goddamn. That fixes the entire second hour. That’s brilliant.”
Mark looked over my shoulder, tracking the red pen as I crossed out Presley’s notes, and gave a nod of approval. “Do it. Change the format. Print the new scripts.”
“Hey. I got a text saying the script was burning.”
We all turned. Walking into the Gorilla position, his gear bag over his shoulder and a look of confusion on his face, was Rico Martinez. He looked at me wearing the headset, holding the clipboard, and his eyes darted to Mark.
“Julian just called me,” Rico said, his arrogant persona vanishing, replaced with respect. He looked over at Silas, who was standing by the monitor, his jaw tight. “He told me about the ladders. He told me about Presley. Man… I’m sorry. Truly.”
Rico looked back at me, arms crossed. . “Tell me what we’re doing tonight.”
I glanced at Silas. His eyes locked onto mine with a pride that made my heart feel utterly untouchable. He was safe. His legacy was intact. And the years of guilt he’d carried had been entirely wiped clean.
I lifted the clipboard, a victorious, and arrogant smirk finally breaking across my face as I adjusted my glasses.
“We’re going to give the fans a masterpiece.”