Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ASHER
Against his instincts and because his mother will personally fly to Connecticut to beat his ass with a slipper if she catches so much as a whiff of disrespect from him on his first official day at the big leagues, Asher searches for Caleb after his match.
Layout-wise, the arena’s backstage area is similar to that of the Performance Center.
Size-wise, it’s massive. There are a number of meeting rooms that Kennedy Prichard tends to hole up in during shows while he barks out live feedback to the commentary team, a couple of locker rooms for the men’s and women’s division, a small cubicle that houses the on-site medical team, as well as miles and miles of mazelike hallways and corridors.
“Why are you saddling me with some rookie? What kind of warped punishment is this?” Caleb’s voice is tight when Asher locates him at the far corner of the backstage parking lot, phone pressed against his ear as he paces back and forth. “How is this supposed to elevate my career?”
Biting his tongue, Asher feels his fingers clench into a fist. Even after all this time, even when the both of them are finally on the same playing field, he’s still nothing in Caleb’s eyes.
It drives him nuts. He wants to drag his nails across Caleb’s skin and leave a warning.
His mom would probably say that constitutes being disrespectful.
A long drag of silence later, Caleb opens his mouth and says, “Sorry, I overstepped. You’re right.” His still damp hair sticks up in all directions when he runs his fingers through them. “I’ll do better.”
When Caleb glances up, his gaze zeroes in on Asher, still half hidden behind a large trailer.
Shit.
Asher groans. He has got to stop putting himself in capital-S situations. No going back now. Sprinting away would only make things worse.
“Hey,” Asher says, twisting the towel draped over his shoulder as he steps forward. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, violently hating the awkward silence, so his mouth just keeps on going. “That was, um, really good back and forth out there tonight.”
Caleb shoves his phone into his pocket. "What do you want?" It's wrenched out of him in a growl. "A pat on the back? An autograph?"
Asher could be the bigger person, but being the bigger problem becomes increasingly enticing with each passing moment.
As Caleb begins to turn away, Asher grits his teeth, stretches out his hand, and tacks on “I look forward to working with you.”
See? Perfectly fucking civil. He’s just like Mother Teresa.
“Congratulations on the dream come true,” Caleb says dryly. Not even bothering to spare Asher a second glance, Caleb scoops up his championship belt and storms off, shoulder brushing against Asher’s on his way out.
A retort sits on the edge of Asher’s tongue, but his mom’s voice echoes in his head. I’m not upset, I’m just disappointed. Before he can blow past it to give Caleb a piece of his mind, a large arm is slung across Asher’s neck and he finds himself getting noogied.
“Jesus,” Asher squeaks. He cranes his neck upward to stare at an absolute behemoth of a man.
It’s one thing to watch Alexei Volkov on TV but a whole other thing seeing him in person. He’s large and intimidating, some 260 pounds of muscle packed into a six and a half foot tall beefcake. His jaw looks like it could cut glass.
“The Dragon!” Alexei booms in a familiar deep Russian accent. He thumps Asher on the back, and Asher makes a mental note to check for internal bleeding later.
“Please do not traumatize the new kid,” says another familiar voice behind Alexei.
Wrangling her wavy blond locks into a messy ponytail, Thea Davenport limps through the door.
Slung across her forearm is the oversized fur coat she dons to the ring, a part of the bougie act she currently has going on.
Even beneath the dim yellow lights that spill from the handful of lampposts scattered across the lot, her in-ring gear—a rhinestone-studded halter top with a matching pair of shorts—slices through the night with an air of glitz and glamour. “You’re like a golden retriever.”
Alexei frowns at Thea. “You know I am allergic to dogs,” he says, voice tinged with a genuine sadness.
“A tragedy,” Asher agrees.
“I like him,” Alexei says, perking up. “He is ours now, yes?”
“Asher! Welcome!” A pretty Asian girl with stars dotted on her cheeks bounds through the door in a flurry of limbs and sparkly scrunchies that secure two space buns atop her head, sweaty fringe plastered against her shiny forehead.
Surprisingly strong for her size, she yanks Asher into a body-crushing hug. “I’m Bailey.”
“I know!” he says when Bailey finally frees him. “I’m a huge fan. It’s so amazing to finally meet you guys.”
“You won’t be saying that when you’re crammed into a car with Lex,” Thea says wryly.
“Fine, so I get gassy when I’m stressed,” Alexei grumbles. “Sue me.”
“How do you manage to work your acid reflux into every conversation?” When Asher pulls his brows together, Thea barrels on.
“Carpool buddies,” she says by means of explanation.
“You, me, Alexei. You obviously can’t travel with Caleb; Prichard would fine your ass into the next century for breaking kayfabe.
” She wrinkles her nose. “Not that you’d want to? ”
Right, Asher thinks as he recalls one of Bate’s key lessons from Wrestling 101: kayfabe.
The portrayal of staged events as genuine or true, specifically that of rivalries.
That means no traveling together, no rooming together, and as much as possible, no being seen together at all.
The world is not going to believe you’re mortal enemies if they catch you casually sipping on Strawberry Hennys together at a TGI Fridays.
Not that he would want to anyway. Gross.
“We’re so excited you’re finally here!” Bailey practically vibrates. “You were incredible at the Performance Center. I was very cool and not at all cringe when Management emailed us about the draft.”
“So normal,” Alexei says. He stage-whispers to Asher, “Short king over here yelled for ten whole minutes and almost ran into a telephone pole.”
“Lex is obsessed with your gear,” Thea adds, and the Russian giant blushes. Asher is already in love with him. He would buy Alexei a hundred puppies if it didn’t come with the risk of sending him into anaphylactic shock.
“Killed it out there tonight, B,” a handsome Black wrestler hollers from afar, shooting a thumbs-up to Bailey.
Asher squints, trying pick out which half of GEW’s current tag-team champions that is. It’s hard to tell the twins apart. This one has a bit more of a mullet, so Asher figures he’s Malik.
Malik waves at Asher. “Wassup dude?”
He’s joined by Montez—Malik’s twin brother, tag-team partner, and Asher’s opponent from earlier that evening—both with towels draped around their necks. “Y’all wanna grab dinner?” Montez calls across the lot. “Rumor has it catering ordered sloppy joes.”
Hoots of varying intensities pop up in the distance.
“Go get your ankle checked out. I’ll save you a seat,” Bailey tells Thea. She ruffles Thea’s nest of damp curls, and leans down to kiss her temple before Thea nods gratefully and hobbles off.
“You coming, dragon boy?” Alexei calls over his shoulders.
“Yeah.” Asher grins. “I am.”
As the group files back into the arena, Bailey’s head tipped back in a cackle as she hip-checks Alexei into a parked car, the echo of their voices play off each other and the thud of footsteps on the parking lot concrete reverberates.
Night has fallen, and even though Asher has never been in Connecticut before, this moment is all too familiar.
Every night he dreams of a life like this.
He’s so close. And aside from an emotionally stunted prince, it’s real enough to make him think that maybe . . . maybe he’s got a shot.
“What’s his deal anyway?” Asher asks later that night, valiantly fighting off a food coma. Beside him, Alexei lets out a satisfied burp. “Did his parents not hug him enough as a kid?”
He’s back in the arena’s parking lot with Alexei and Thea, playing a losing game of Tetris with their far too many luggage bags.
Thea shrugs. “None of us know much about him. He shows up for his segments and leaves right after. It’s kind of rude.
” As if to emphasize her point, she hammers a pastel green Samsonite suitcase into the last remaining crevice in the trunk of a rental Mitsubishi Outlander.
Wrestlers: 1, Outlander: 0. “There,” she puffs, resting her hands on her hips. “What’s next?”
Alexei pokes his head into the back of the car. When he steps back, he almost trips over a crossbody bag lying at his feet. “Maybe we tie dragon boy to top of car, yes? More space.”
Thea grins. “Ooh, a concept.”
So, all alternatives considered, Asher doesn’t complain when they peel out of the parking lot a few minutes later, nestled in the back seat with one of Alexei’s backpacks on his lap and a teetering tower of duffel bags stacked beside him.
Mounted on the windshield, the GPS, route punched in by Alexei, announces their next stop: “Uniondale, 2.5 hours without congestion.”
“How long will we be in New York?” Asher asks.
Alexei pulls out his phone and thumbs through their tour schedule. “About a week. Couple of meet and greets in Brooklyn and Ridgewood, plus an untelevized house show in Elmont before the next episode of Friday Night Fight.”
“Nassau Coliseum, right?”
“Yep.”
“Oi.” Thea slaps Alexei’s massive paw away from the auxiliary cord. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”
“You hog it even when you’re not driving!”
“Sucks to suck!”
Alexei turns around, his lower lip already jutting out. “Asher, she’s bullying me.”
Through the rearview mirror, Asher smirks at Thea. “And she looks so good doing it.”