Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
CALEB
UNIONDALE, NEW YORK
The next time Caleb crosses paths with Asher Ross, half of GEW’s roster have seized control of a hotel bar in New York.
A CLOSED sign hangs on the brass handle, swinging to and fro each time an employee slips out the door, signed NDA tucked in their back pocket.
Inside, the room is alive and moving: sweaty arms flecked with glitter as rainbow lights swirl across bare shoulders.
On a screen, flashing in cursive pink and blue: NOSTALGIA NITE.
With a pint of beer in hand, Caleb sits at the back of the room, perched awkwardly on a high stool. While the bar is in screaming color, he observes at a distance, in monochrome, doing his best to fade into the background.
The life of a GEW superstar is not as glamorous as most fans think it is.
In fact, life on the road is more grueling than many realize.
When Friday Night Fight goes off air and fans click off the TV and head to bed, things are just getting started for the roster.
Following each show, they take their rental cars and begin the drive to their next destination, only hitting their pillows at two or three in the morning.
Contrary to popular belief, there are no tour buses or private planes.
Just like renting a car, wrestlers are also in charge of booking their accommodations.
Naturally, when most of the roster carpools to save a buck, they often end up at the same hotels too.
Together, they make an unusual family, a singular beating heart of people who rely on one another day in and day out, loving and being loved in eccentric and unpredictable ways.
Not that Caleb would know anything about that. He doesn’t understand or trust any of it. His mental instruction manual to letting people in is an air horn and a taser that shocks him every time someone tries to get remotely close.
But tonight, be it by sheer dumb luck or some cosmic design, he finds himself lodging with the rest of the roster in the Marriott as they gear up for tomorrow night’s live show.
It’s Alexei’s turn under the spotlight, and he’s up on the makeshift stage bopping along and, perhaps even more concerningly, knowing all the lyrics to “Everytime We Touch,” or, as he calls it, “The National Anthem.” Somewhere along the way, Bailey has clambered up onto his broad shoulders and is letting Alexei use her long hair as a makeshift wig, flicking it left and right as he sings about kissing and reaching for the sky.
Briefly, Caleb admires how secure Alexei must be with his masculinity. Of course, you’d have to kill Caleb before he so much as considers admitting that out loud.
When the song comes to an end, Malik—the self-appointed host of karaoke night—reacquires possession of the microphone. Alexei and Bailey take a bow before Malik introduces Asher to the accompaniment of the opening riffs of “The Middle.”
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Bailey reappears next to Caleb, announcing her arrival with the sharp crunch of nachos. She slurps down a salt-rimmed margarita before grinning at him with all her teeth showing.
Caleb returns a weak smile, tipping his glass at Bailey in acknowledgment.
“Y’know”—Bailey nudges an elbow into his side—“if you ever wanted someone to talk to, I could be that for you. A lot of us would be if you’d try to let us in.”
That’s the thing about Bailey: she believes.
Slightly older than Caleb, Bailey had scooped Caleb up when he entered the business, a fully formed friend who asked for nothing in return.
She offered him company, an outstretched hand even when he kept everyone an arm’s length away and sat in the passenger seat through their tour stops along the East Coast: a skeptic and a believer.
Then Kennedy Prichard ramped up his grand plans for Caleb.
Along came phone calls. Many of them. Day in, day out.
Prichard drilling orders into his ear. And just like that, just as Prichard had so thoroughly plotted, the dominoes began to fall.
The ultimate goal? A clearly established pecking order with Caleb Knight at the very top—the greatest heel of a generation.
Be better, Prichard had said. Faster. Louder. Jump higher. Strike harder. Stomp on his fingers. Crush them. Shatter his hand. Do it for real. Use him. Be more vicious. More venomous. More cruel. Walk off those sprains. Don’t be a little bitch. Look the world dead in the eye and fucking spit.
And don’t ever, ever show any remorse.
Ever the cowardly lion, Caleb kept his head down and got to work.
He withdrew. Shut Bailey out. His lack of a backbone would only disappoint her.
That’s how it’s always been. Step one of making it out alive: swing first. Cut people loose before you inevitably let them down.
They can’t hurt you this way. He knew, because there had been a flash of something across Bailey’s face when he stumbled backstage, medics shoving past her in a scramble to get Caleb’s opponent to the ER, hastily splinted hand in tow.
Most of the night is staticky in the way it gets when Caleb hovers over his body, barely there, water burning up his nose, nothing in his ears but the sickening crunch of bones beneath his boot, but that something looked a lot like fear and horror.
One sacred rule to be a safe performer broken under secret command from Prichard.
Despite that, Bailey never stopped trying.
She’s one of the rare few wrestlers whose on-screen personas are simply an extension of who they are in real life.
When she makes her way down the ramp hugging as many people as she can, those are her true colors.
The way she believes so wholeheartedly in the goodness of people, even when they haven’t done anything to earn it.
She embodies a kindness that Caleb doesn’t understand, a kind of grace he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve.
The opening bars of “Tubthumping” pour out of the overhead speakers and Bailey turns back to the stage. “We’re gonna break you one day, Knight,” she calls over her shoulder. “You’ll love us. Just you wait.”
Huffing out a soundless laugh, Caleb turns his attention back to his beer only to realize it’s empty.
He hops off the stool and makes his way across the bar for a refill.
As he goes, a waitress scurries past, whispering nervously into an earpiece about needing more security to deal with a group of fans that have apparently “surrounded the building like a pack of wild dogs.” He sighs.
Why do they even bother? NDA or not, there will always be loose lips.
“Sorry about them,” Caleb mutters. He jerks his thumb in the direction of the stage, where the twins have started leading the roster in a rousing performance of “Y.M.C.A.” Hands are thrown up in the air in all directions, a lack of consensus on which way to bend their arms for the letter C.
“Why?” The bartender laughs as he slides a fresh pint across the table. “This is the most entertainment we’ve had all month.”
Just as Caleb grabs it and spins around, a body collides with his. Caleb hits the ground knees first, one hand catching the porcelain-tiled floor and the other smashing the glass into his chest.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears as beer sloshes out all over the front of his shirt.
See? This is why Caleb doesn’t do social gatherings.
He hisses out a breath. Back in slowly through his nose.
He will not cut a bitch—he will not cut a bitch—but then there’s a shadow blocking the harsh neon bar lights, an equally soaked shirt clinging to a lean frame that is scrambling to get to their feet and it’s . . . motherfucking Asher Ross.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” Asher yelps, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.
A beam of fluorescent pink catches the line of studs dotting his right ear.
He grabs a handful of napkins from the counter, swiping hurriedly at Caleb’s dripping wet shirt until it finally registers that he didn’t just bump into some random stranger at the bar but Caleb Knight instead, and he just . . . stops.
“Oh.” Asher blinks. He takes a second to collect himself. “I take that back. I’m not sorry. Whew.” He chuckles and sways slightly on his feet, clearly buzzed by the looks of what Caleb is starting to realize is an Asian glow.
Caleb grits his teeth. He will not cut a bitch.
“That’s enough.” Caleb gets to his feet. He slaps a handful of ten-dollar bills down onto the counter. That should be enough to cover cleaning and emotional distress. “You’re drunk and soaked. Go to bed, Ross.”
Asher dignifies him with a scoff.
“Is the emotionally constipated man bothering you?” Thea coos. She steps out from behind Asher and wraps a protective hand around his elbow.
Caleb lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Spilled beer. Drunk brat. Bed.”
Thea surveys the situation before nodding impartially and shoves both men toward the elevators. “Both of you get changed and go to bed,” she orders. “Prichard will kill you if you fall sick.”
Asher opens his mouth, most likely ready to argue, but snaps it shut when Thea raises an eyebrow in warning.
All that to say, this is how one Caleb Knight ends up on an elevator ride from hell. Asher can’t stop swaying on his feet. He’s just like one of those long inflatable dancing tube men outside of car dealerships.
At the other corner of the elevator, Caleb holds himself as stiff as a rod, wary that even the slightest movement on his part might attract any attention from Asher.
His shirt, still uncomfortably plastered to his chest, is freezing and getting stickier by the second.
He glares at the brightly lit buttons. The tenth floor.
He can make it there without peeling off his skin.
The elevator dings eight floors up. Asher staggers out. Caleb jabs his knuckle against the buttons, watching the doors slide shut on Asher’s teetering figure and—
Ugh.
“I can handle myself,” Asher grumbles when he realizes he’s not alone.
Caleb laughs ruefully. “Sure.”