Chapter 4 #2
He’s not sure what compels him to follow Asher.
Maybe he simply doesn’t want to be held responsible if Asher were to end up on the news for something drunken and wildly ridiculous.
Or maybe he’s been temporarily infected by Bailey’s wholesome nature.
It feels stupid to say, but what if? Every time Bailey’s shown him some kindness in the past, he’s thought that maybe, just maybe, that kindness could be worth something.
Maybe that could be him someday. He can’t imagine how.
Either way, he follows Asher to his room, watches in carefully concealed amusement as Asher struggles with his key card, and when he dutifully stops to toe his shoes off by the door, averts his gaze when Asher strips out of his damp clothing and changes into a pair of fresh shorts.
He loses a smidge of that willpower when Asher pulls a black tank top over his long hair that has messily come undone.
Nope. Caleb forces himself to look away. No.
Satisfied that Asher’s safety is no longer in potential peril, Caleb turns to retreat to the sanctuary of his own room, only to be derailed by Asher who blocks his path, bracketing him with his body and attention.
“I see you, Caleb Knight.” Asher’s words are as unsteady as his gait. He sways forward, so close that Caleb can feel Asher’s ragged exhale against his throat. “You were everything to me and you don’t even care.”
Flinching, Caleb sucks in a shaky breath. An unfamiliar stutter step in his chest where Asher has jabbed his index finger. What? He’s certain he’s never met Ross before. He’d remember the cocky prick.
“Go to sleep, Ross,” he says after a moment’s hesitation and bundles a droopy-eyed Asher toward the bed.
Caleb has one foot out the door when he, at the very last minute, detours into the bathroom.
A glass of cold water rapidly condenses in his hand.
By the time he sets it atop a coaster on the bedside table, Asher is dead to the world.
Caleb blinks down at Asher. Something he doesn’t understand curls in the pit of his stomach as he retrieves an ibuprofen tablet from a pill case clipped to his wallet and leaves it beside the glass.
When the door finally clicks shut behind him, Caleb begins to push his memory of the night into the deep recesses of his mind.
It’s Friday night again and there are two serpents coiled in Caleb’s chest.
The first is the usual: an anxiety-adrenaline cocktail. The part of him that visibly trembles as he stands at gorilla position, awaiting his cue to step out in front of a live audience. This is the part that warns, Do not mess up. If you do, there’s nothing left for you.
The second, however, is the one that he is equal parts freaked out and excited about.
He will finally get to put his hands on Asher Ross tonight.
The order came from Creative a couple hours before showtime, a succinct script in the form of a text message instructing Caleb to take out Asher in the middle of the ring after Asher wins his scheduled match against Malik.
This move is nothing out of the ordinary; part of a standard formula applied to most feuds in GEW.
Wrestlers take turns breaking up each other’s matches by causing an interference or disqualification, or talk smack about one another until a brewing rivalry eventually culminates into an all-out brawl.
Just another regular day at work. But for some reason, Caleb can’t shake the itch that crawls beneath his skin tonight.
As he awaits his green light, Caleb watches Asher’s match on the backstage television.
Asher may be young, but he is good. He moves with an innate confidence that not many possess, especially when coupled with the added risks of leaping off the top rope.
Unless he’s putting on a special stunt for a main event, Caleb finds himself far more comfortable working closer to the ground where gravity isn’t actively against him.
With his slightly larger build, he’s more of a grappler.
He’s in his element when he’s in control and able to slow down the pace of a fight, using his weight and brute strength to his advantage.
Then there’s Asher, who’s clearly born to be a highflier. A significant portion of his move set includes scrambling up ring posts and ropes before flinging himself off them, weaponizing gravity. He’s lithe and nimble—what Maverick Wolff enthusiastically hypes up as “acrobatically inclined.”
Caleb watches Asher sail through the air with a certain grace and fluidity, flying off the top turnbuckle, twisting midair and landing an elbow on Malik’s chest. He pulls off an impressive flying lariat, combining a diving clothesline where he leapfrogs off the top rope and uses the momentum to wrap an outstretched arm around Malik’s neck, knocking him down onto the mat.
It’s no wonder he’s easily won over the hearts of the GEW universe. He’s fun and exciting. A high-octane breath of fresh air.
His moves are objectively beautiful to bear witness to. Like fireworks going off in a dark night sky.
Caleb can’t take his eyes off him.
How absolutely mortifying.
Before Caleb gets so much as a moment to catch his breath, the bell is being rung and the referee is raising Asher’s hand in victory.
“Move,” a producer whisper-yells. She sweeps the curtains open and shoves Caleb through it.
It’s go time.
The second his music hits, Caleb sprints down the ramp, anxiety uncoiling and vanishing beneath the coliseum’s blinding lights.
He enters the ring with a baseball slide through the bottom rope. Sneaks up behind Asher like an animal stalking its prey.
Asher, still trying to catch his breath in the middle of the ring, clutches an arm to his chest, selling the brutal arm bar that Malik had applied mere minutes ago.
Caleb sweeps Asher’s feet out from beneath him, and the crowd hisses when Asher stumbles. Caleb is rough but careful, a forearm wrapped tight around Asher’s neck, the other cradling the top of his head. The moment the sleeper hold is locked in, Caleb starts to count.
One. Two.
Asher doesn’t go down without a fight. There always comes a moment where sheer instinct takes over.
He thrashes wildly in Caleb’s arms, desperately trying to scratch and claw his way out with what is left of his rapidly dwindling oxygen capacity.
Caleb tightens his hold on Asher’s head. A snarl rips out of his throat.
Three. Four. Five.
Eventually, Asher sags beneath Caleb. His arms and knees droop like a marionette with its strings cut before he collapses entirely. Caleb follows him down onto the mat, careful and controlled.
Six. Seven.
Caleb adjusts his grip, pulls Asher closer to his chest as Asher begins to fade out. This close, Caleb can feel the slowing of Asher’s breath against his jaw, the flutter of his lashes as his eyes start to flicker shut.
Eight.
Physically, Caleb’s arms are hooked tight around Asher’s neck. Emotionally and spiritually, he’s gone up in flames.
Nine.
The thing about professional wrestling is this: it’s basically glorified theater.