Chapter 5 #2
He thinks about Bate telling him to kick some ass, repeats it like a mantra in his head.
He thinks of the Performance Center, every trainee who pushes themselves harder than any human possibly should for a shot at leaving their mark.
He understands that his actions don’t just end in the ring.
It’s both a blessing and a curse, this impact he’s been bestowed with—one day someone could stumble upon a video and have their lives changed, just like his did.
He wants to do it, needs to do it with a desire that blazes so fiercely it physically hurts.
Not just for himself but for every kid out there who dreams, Someday, me too.
So, he throws himself back into his new routine with a renewed vigor and before he knows it, it’s Friday night again and he’s back at gorilla position, Holland and Wilder not far away.
“Let’s do this, boys,” Holland says, putting his fist out.
The cymbals start up short and sharp, and when the first drumbeat hits, Asher sprints out onto the ramp. Floodlights dimmed, a haze shrouds the arena. This is one of Asher’s favorite parts of the night: nothing but him and the crowd. A sea of tiny phone lights. A million fireflies in the dark.
When his entrance music reaches its crescendo, the lights flicker out. Asher pulls out a lit torch and takes a mouthful of cornstarch from the packet tucked into his waistband.
His heart beats in time with the kick drum.
One.
Two.
At three, the lights flicker again and Asher blows the cornstarch out of his mouth, aiming it at the torch. Pride thrums through his body like tiny live wires as a fireball erupts outward.
GEW universe, meet The Dragon.
He sprints the rest of the distance to the ring, scampers up the ropes, and poses on the top turnbuckle with arms flung wide open, soaking up the camera shutters.
Holland and Wilder make their individual entrances following Asher’s.
Wilder strolls out to heavy drumbeats. His long black hair cascades around his chiseled jaw as he punches the ground.
After, Holland enters through the crowd.
He takes the stairs, two steps at once, fist-bumping fans who clamor for his attention in the aisles.
They meet in the center of the squared circle, and the timekeeper rings the bell. Game on.
Before Asher can so much as take a breath, Holland charges at him, sending him crashing to the mat with a shoulder tackle before turning his attention to Wilder, slugging him with a fist that sends him over the ropes.
The action quickly spills out onto the floor.
Asher follows but is caught by a recovering Wilder, who tosses him into the steel steps.
Unforgiving metal jams into Asher’s soft spine, making him wince.
Vision fuzzy, he watches Wilder grab Holland out of midair with sheer brute strength and drop him rib-first onto the padded barricade.
The two of them are so preoccupied with each other, they don’t see Asher coming.
Ignoring the protesting muscles bunched up in his back, Asher surveys the scene, mentally calculating as he climbs up the announcer table.
He sprints across it. A stack of papers go flying. Asher flicks a wave over at Wolff, who angles his body away from the cameras surrounding them and professionally flips him off.
At the edge of the table, Asher throws his body off.
With so many moving pieces, his landing is a little awkward and messy.
He tumbles into the barricade at an angle, taking out both Holland and Wilder with a boot, but his jaw catches a rough edge too.
Heat floods Asher’s mouth. He swipes at it, and the back of his right hand comes away wet and stained a dark red.
He swirls his tongue in his mouth, assessing the damage. Nothing major. Just a busted lip.
There’s a hand around his ankle, squeezing slightly—Holland checking in.
He nudges his foot against Holland’s. Good to go.
Regrouping, Asher gets to his feet and rolls Holland back into the ring.
He follows quickly with a springboard off the top rope.
Both feet connect with a solid thud to the center of Holland’s broad chest. It sends Holland stumbling back into a corner.
With a kip-up, Asher grabs Holland’s head, launches himself off the ropes, and drives Holland face-first into the mat.
“A gorgeous missile dropkick into a facebuster!” Wolff crows.
No time to waste, Asher hooks Holland’s leg, and the referee’s hand is down on the mat and—
One.
Two.
Holland kicks out with a grunt.
Before Asher can react, Wilder comes out of nowhere with a frog splash off the ropes. The high impact move compresses all his muscles, and Asher knows a sweet, sweet Russian angel will have to load his sore body into the car later tonight.
Just as Asher staggers to his feet, he’s greeted by Wilder’s signature move—a Superman punch.
Wilder’s fist connects with Asher’s jaw, and his head snaps back by a full ninety degrees.
Through the rattling of teeth in his skull, he vaguely makes out the telltale thwack of Holland eating a Superman punch of this own.
When the fog clears, Holland’s looking at Asher with a glint in his eye.
“Yes!” chants fill the arena.
Hell yeah.
Holland sends Wilder out of the ring, where he’s met by Asher’s body cannonballing off the top rope. It sends Wilder stumbling blindly into Wolff’s announcer table, his long damp hair plastered over his eyes.
Asher gets back to his feet with a frenetic cry. The crowd screams back at him, equally wild. He loses himself in the moment, in the crowd that stomps their feet in a rally. It’s wild and thrilling, and there it is again—that feeling of invincibility.
Asher beckons Holland over with a frantic arm, and together, they hoist the larger man onto their shoulders.