Chapter 2 #2
As the opening credits play and an up-tempo melody pours out, he scoops up a slightly rusted pin that has clattered onto the wooden bench.
He runs his thumb over the grooves on the rectangular flag, continental blue, a circular outline of the city of Boston engraved within, then reattaches it to the front of his backpack.
He pats the side pocket of the bag and only exhales when he feels the familiar outline of a key resting at the bottom.
Raucous laughter floats down the hall, and Caleb can picture it: the rest of the roster hanging out at Hair and Makeup, perched on stacks of aluminum crates, a flurry of lipsticks and hair sprays.
Bailey will come round with that Cheshire cat grin, one that reeks of bad ideas, usually some game that ends with someone careening down a corridor, and everyone will roll their eyes good-naturedly but agree anyway, because it isn’t humanly possible to turn down a smile like that.
Later, when more of them have finished their segments, they’ll descend upon catering like a flock of wild geese.
A makeshift family away from their birth ones.
And Caleb is . . . here. Collecting dust in the dim light. A sad sack of shit.
The truth is that aside from being as pathetic as a slice of wet bread, Caleb is also a liar. The truth is that Caleb feels far from nothing.
Most of the time, in-ring promos aren’t real.
They’re the product of a script that Creative has vetted over and over again—words precisely composed to incite a reaction from the audience.
If you have the gift of gab, you’re occasionally allowed to go out there and wing it, as long as you hit the bullet points listed by Creative.
Caleb, of course, has not been awarded this privilege since the Long Island incident. That is, until tonight.
The same goes for wrestling gimmicks. They are nothing more than carefully crafted personas that wrestlers portray on TV.
For example, “The Demon” Finn Bálor isn’t—obviously—actually a demon.
If you get to know him outside of the ring, you’ll find he’s a lovely Irishman with a borderline unhealthy Lego collection.
Similarly, the legendary Honky Tonk Man isn’t actually Elvis Presley.
Rumor has it he’s not even that big a fan of the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.
What you see often isn’t what you get. The character threatening to send brimstone and hellfire raining down on-screen is, away from cameras and the public eye, often pretty swell. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to go.
So, the fact that Asher Ross, on his GEW debut no less, has somehow managed to prod at so many of Caleb’s sore spots feels . . . Caleb can’t field that emotional bullet right now. His feelings can stay ten feet away, thanks.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Ross wasn’t supposed to have read him this well.
That is the whole point of Caleb’s Ice Prince gimmick; he’s cold and cruel, but with a frozen fortress so impenetrable that no one knows who he truly is.
He’s been called plenty of awful things before—a jackass, a wanker, the worst thing since slightly overtoasted but still edible bread—but none of it ever mattered because it wasn’t real.
No one has ever called out his family or his lonely heart, even if Ross was simply taking potshots at him.
He should have bitten Ross’s head off. That is what the GEW universe has come to expect of him.
He’s supposed to be phenomenal. Instead, he had acted like a fumbling fool tonight, letting some nobody get into his head.
The chairman had invested millions in him and he was letting the crusty old man down.
Every shard of ice he had hurled at Ross, the little shit had looked him dead in the eye, smirked, and burned through it.
After everything he’s been through, Caleb would like to believe he no longer gets rattled by anything or anyone, but even now, he can’t stop feeling like the ground beneath his feet has shifted.
It’s unnerving, he thinks, that even as the narrator drones on in his ears, his mind keeps straying back to Asher, the very same way they strayed to other guys ever since he was little.
Caleb started to really be consciously aware of it during middle school. Always an introverted kid, he spent the bulk of his time at the school library. He focused mostly on the shelves of books before him, running his fingertips across spine after spine. But then, every so often, it would happen.
With a stack of books balanced in his arms, he’d spin around, and right there, browsing through books just like he was, would be a boy. And Caleb wouldn’t be able to pull his gaze away from those ruddy cheeks, long eyelashes, clumsy fingers, and that shy yet warm smile when he caught Caleb staring.
That day—those butterflies in his stomach—was the first time he really knew. Even till today, especially after everything that’s happened, it’s hard for him to say that word out loud. Those three letters.
Being born into a religious family didn’t help.
Unlike his parents, he was never a staunch believer, but years of being dragged along to Sunday mass was enough to leave him with a nasty residue of shame.
Each time his mother nudged him through the church’s front doors, he’d stop for a moment to assess himself. Had he burst into flames? No? Awesome.
He attempted to forget about it. He denied and denied and denied and forced himself to date girls. Heaven knows he’s tried, but it never felt right. What should have come naturally felt like a performance, the same way he now plasters on a scowl for a sea of bright lights.
So, there he ended up, back at square one. He couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. But he is.
And somehow, here he is again. His treacherous brain won’t stop playing the events that just transpired on loop.
Maybe it’s just that, after years spent ruling over the kingdom that is the men’s division, Caleb has finally met a worthy opponent for his throne.
Maybe his downfall is imminent.