Chapter 5 #3
There is a moment in between.
Wolff’s mouth pops open, a soft “huh” of surprise. He blinks.
Then Wilder comes crashing down and Wolff’s table splinters and collapses beneath Wilder’s weight.
“Oh, come on,” Wolff hisses.
“Sucks to s—”
Asher’s cut off mid-sentence, mouth falling open in a silent cry, shoulders thrown back in agony, because Holland’s landed a steel chair shot to his back, clearly declaring their truce over. It burns like a million red ant bites.
Holland follows with another chair shot to Wilder’s back.
“Remember, there are no disqualifications!” a tableless Wolff reminds the audience. “This is perfectly legal!”
Breathing heavily, Asher lets Holland roll him back into the ring, where Holland tries to hit his signature move—a curb stomp.
But Asher digs deep, all the way down from that very spot in his chest that he draws energy from when his muscles are screaming at him to lie down and give up.
Before Holland’s foot can connect with his head, Asher rolls away and grabs Holland’s ankle, catapulting him toward the ring ropes instead.
A split second of relief crumbles when Holland catches himself on the ropes.
He reaches back and shoves Asher face-first into the padded turnbuckle.
They fight for a bit in the corner, trading careful punches before Wilder reappears.
He catches Asher on his shoulders, hoists him up, and slams him into the mat in a large sitout powerbomb.
“Oh my God,” Asher wheezes. He’s fused with the mat on a molecular level.
Wilder covers Asher’s body, and the referee begins to count.
One.
Two.
It’s over. Except the referee never finishes the third count.
Everything moves in a blur: Holland breaking up the pin at the last possible millisecond—“A nearfall!” Wolff screams—Holland avoiding Wilder’s Superman punch and trying for a roll-up, Wilder easily kicking out, Asher attempting to land a clothesline, which Wilder fights off, retaliating with not one but two Superman punches.
The crowd fades away. Nothing but a distant hum now. Wilder slingshots himself off the ropes and smashes his shoulder into Holland’s torso in a spear. He covers Holland’s limp body. With everything Asher has left in his tank, he begins to scale the ropes.
The referee counts.
One.
Asher hurls himself off the top turnbuckle.
Two.
Midair. His body spinning this way and that.
Before the three count is complete, Asher lands an elbow on Wilder, breaking up the pin. He scrambles to hook an arm beneath Wilder’s leg and . . .
And . . .
When Asher’s soul returns to his body, the referee is raising his hand in victory and the crowd is on their feet. He struggles to stand upright, left arm instinctively clutched around his banged up ribs, but he couldn’t care less.
Number one contender for the GEW World Championship.
He did it.
Asher limps to the nearest camera and his face splits into a wide grin, knowing in his chest that Caleb’s watching at the other end. He leans in close and enunciates each word. “Bring it on, sweetheart.”
By the time Asher closes the show, night has fallen.
He waves to a gaggle of fans who linger by the ringside, stopping to sign a kid’s banner before security begins to shoo everyone out in earnest. When he’s finally out of the public’s line of sight, he stumbles backstage, knee giving out as Bailey and her noodley limbs barrel into him with shrieks of delight, both of them collapsing into a heap.
Other members of the roster swarm around him, taking turns to ruffle his sweat-drenched hair in congratulations.
“Nice work, kid,” Malik says, clapping Asher on his back. Beside him, Montez pauses mid-chug to shoot him a thumbs-up.
Thea lets out a low whistle. “Goddamn, Asher.”
“Shut up,” Asher says. His cheeks burn and he grins blearily, but he’s flying in a dream again.
“We celebrate,” Alexei announces. He scoops both Asher and Bailey off the ground.
Falling into step beside the group, Thea cups her hands around her mouth and crows.
As Alexei hauls them away to catering, for a moment, laughter grinds to dust in Asher’s throat.
Down the corridor, away from the action, Caleb lingers.
He had opened the show three hours ago and since changed out of his ring gear.
Gone are the taped wrists and diamond-emblazoned tights.
Instead, swallowed by an oversized pullover and sweatpants, Caleb leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching quietly.
Huh.
Thea’s words echo in Asher’s ears. He shows up for his segments and leaves right after.
Their eyes meet, blue on brown, and Asher doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but he runs his tongue over his lower lip. The flesh from his split lip is still raw, and the metallic taste of iron lingers hot and heavy. His eyes never leave Caleb’s. He hopes his look says, I’m coming for you.
For a split second, Caleb’s face morphs into something Asher can’t quite read. Then he quickly schools his features and nods once, tipping his head ever so slightly, as if to say, I’m waiting.