Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
CALEB
Caleb Knight wonders when an appropriate time would be to kick the ass of the little shit currently running his mouth in front of him.
Weird, he thinks, that Creative instructed him to just go out there and follow his gut tonight.
His gut instinct, historically, has not been on his side.
He’s still nursing a hole in his pocket from the hefty fine Management slapped on him the last time he went off script during a scheduled segment. After they cut his mic, that is.
There’s a fine line between being nasty versus pissing off an entire state.
Caleb doesn’t play jump rope with it the way other heels—textbook on-screen villains—carefully do when cutting promos such as this one.
He fully leapfrogs across it. That’s what Prichard had drilled into him since day one: go big or go home.
And, well, what home could he return to?
Still, maybe he shouldn’t have flipped off the Long Island audience and called them “neckbearded twats.” But hey, live and let live, right?
Maybe Prichard’s finally lost his mind.
Or maybe Prichard’s finally realized that billionaires like him don’t need to waste their time making their peasants (i.e., employees) dance for them when they, instead, could fuck off to the Bahamas and live life.
“You think you’re so much better than everyone, don’t you?” The shithead asks, head cocked. He saunters toward the ring, eyes boring straight into Caleb’s. Around him, the GEW universe, held back by a stretch of barricades, begins to titter. “Tell me, Knight, does it get lonely at the top?”
In the middle of the ring, Caleb sits with his legs slung carelessly over the armrest of his throne.
He watches with a look of practiced disinterest. Some say it makes him look constipated, but what do they know?
They aren’t the ones forced to spend hours in front of a mirror working on their facial expressions.
His mind threatens to wander, but the shithead in question pulls him back.
He’s probably a little younger than Caleb, golden-brown skin, jet-black hair pulled into a messy bun.
Shorter strands fall in waves that tumble around his face and frame his jaw.
And his fringe. It’s dyed a vibrant red, parted down the middle of his forehead like a red sea.
“The only reason you have been the GEW World Champion for over a year is because I didn’t work Fridays. Now that I’m here, your time is up.”
All right. That’s enough civility.
Caleb snaps his fingers, and a nearby cameraman scuttles away.
Moments later, a mic is placed in Caleb’s hand.
Caleb leans forward, rearranging the heavy gold belt with intent.
He slings it over his right shoulder, positions it at the exact angle that he knows will catch the spotlight being shone on him, and rests his jaw on the palm of his left hand.
Tapping the mic against his chin, he pretends to be deep in thought before he asks, “Who are you again?”
The Connecticut crowd boos.
Good. Let them. The more they hate him, the higher his stock.
“If you bothered to care about anyone but yourself, you might actually know the answer to that question. But you don’t, so allow me to refresh your memory.”
The little shit climbs up the steel steps and hops over the top rope. He lands on his feet with an impressively easy grace.
“My name is Asher Ross, and the greatest thing the devil ever did was make you believe that he didn’t exist, but you’re looking right at him.
” Ross presses on. “You didn’t answer my question.
Do you go home every night and cry to your parents about how alone you feel even with that big fat belt around your waist?
Or is that still not enough to make mommy and daddy love you? ”
The mention of his parents strikes a nerve.
Caleb rises from his throne. His hand gravitates upward, the instinct to shield his cheek forever etched into muscle memory, but he catches himself and curls his fingers into a fist instead.
A burst of anger makes him storm forward until he stands toe-to-toe with Ross who beams smugly up at him.
Caleb is at least a solid three inches taller than Ross is.
Wonderful. And—God, Ross’s face is extremely punchable.
But it is also . . . fascinating. His cheeks are flushed with a rosy pink that seems to glow beneath the harsh stadium lights, under which a smattering of freckles peek out.
His lips part slightly and Caleb can hear his breath coming in tandem with the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
Caleb wants to deck him. Knowing Creative, that is precisely what they want from him too—a little scuffle during a promo only boosts viewership.
And if it isn’t, what’s Prichard going to do?
Fine him again? Well, yes. Prichard’s always got one of those waiting for him on standby.
It’s his surefire way of wrangling Caleb into constant cooperation and submission.
But Caleb will gladly take that fine if it means returning to the comfort of his hotel room where he can put on yet another Ryan Murphy production and dissociate in front of the television until the comforting arms of sleep blessedly take him.
He could do it.
He should.
But he finds himself intrigued.
“Who do you think you are stepping into my ring—my kingdom—and acting like you know anything about me?” Caleb steps impossibly closer, leaning down to press his forehead against Ross’s. When Ross blinks, Caleb can see that his pupils are blown wide open, irises now barely a thin ring of dark brown.
Humming, a grin spreads across Ross’s face, gaze flicking down to Caleb’s lips before he drags them back up to meet Caleb’s eyes again. “I know plenty about you, Caleb Knight. I’m willing to bet you’ve waited your whole life for someone like me.”
“In that case, stop trying to act like you’re somebody,” Caleb bites back, “because you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”
At this, Ross’s face transforms. Too busy cataloguing the way his face morphs from playful to something grim and angry, Caleb doesn’t register Ross rearing back for a right hook before it’s too late.
It’s nothing Caleb can’t handle, but without any prior scripting or preparation, the sudden movement catches him off guard, and he stumbles back into the ropes.
Caleb really should’ve knocked the shithead out. Swing first; beg for forgiveness later.
The GEW universe, on the other hand, have decided that they’re officially obsessed with Asher Ross, erupting into screams and hollers across the Mohegan Sun Arena.
Caleb grabs a fistful of Ross’s sweatshirt and drags him close. “Get out of my ring,” he snarls.
This is typically where Caleb’s opponents would be scripted to leave, tail either tucked between their legs or spewing a myriad of colorful threats about seizing the GEW World Championship from him as they retreat back up the ramp. None have been successful so far, if he may humbly add.
Instead, Ross meets him in the middle of the ring, eyes on fire. He’s got that troublemaker smile, and Caleb hates the way it makes the corner of his eye crinkle.
“Make me.”
“You think you could take me, pretty boy?” Caleb asks. A taunt. He lets his voice go syrupy sweet, and the flush that creeps up Ross’s neck feels like a victory in itself.
Asher pauses, visibly letting his eyes roam over Caleb’s body before he grabs Caleb’s mic and lifts it up to his lips. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “I know I can.”
Later that evening, Caleb is toweling off backstage when yet another mic is shoved into his face.
It takes some time for him to notice it.
His ears feel like those of a dog on high alert, perked and pricked forward, trying to catch bits of what Maverick Wolff is saying about Ross over on commentary.
It's hard to hear above the roar of the crowd.
So far, though, he's pieced together the following:
Asher Ross, better known as “The Dragon,” is the company’s newest draft pick.
Asher Ross has just won his debut match against Montez.
“The Dragon” is a ridiculous nickname.
Where was he again? Right. The mic being shoved into his face.
“What?” he asks flatly, barely sparing a glance at the interviewer attached to the other end.
Her presence is nothing out of the ordinary.
While Wolff runs commentary at ringside, the short brunette can often be found backstage, roaming around with her filming posse in tow, taping short interviews and promotional packages that will eventually be aired on the Titantron.
“Could we get some of your thoughts on Asher Ross?” she asks. “From the sounds of it, he’s coming after your title. How do you feel about that?”
Caleb turns to face . . . what’s her name again? It’ll come to him eventually. Or not. Whatever.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I feel nothing.”
He chucks his towel at her feet and stalks off, already anticipating the thousands of hateful comments that will no doubt start streaming in soon.
The path back to the locker room is a long one.
Caleb takes a shortcut through a dark hallway, and as he walks, he pulls out his phone and unlocks it.
He blinks once. Twice. Momentarily stunned by the sudden glare of light before his eyes adjust to an empty screen.
He ought to be used to it by now, should have learned to stop hoping against hope, yet here he still is.
The locker room, when he reaches it, is empty.
Before he can end up in yet another self-pitying spiral, he reaches into his backpack and digs out his AirPods.
He plugs them into his ears with one hand and scrolls through a list of audiobooks saved on his phone with the other.
Because hey, he can’t be sad if he doesn’t allow himself the airtime for a single thought.