Chapter 11 #3
Asher drops his head back in a show of devastation. “Oh, woe, my feelings are hurt, what ever will I do?”
“Be dramatic about dying, probably.”
“Shut up. You suck. You’ll give me a headache.”
“Pretty sure that’s the concussion talking.”
“Fine. High blood pressure then.” Asher offers Caleb a wrist, where his pulse jackrabbits.
Caleb bats it away. “You’re a menace,” he grumbles, but a smile threads through it.
“Thanks!”
Outside, an ambulance whizzes past, sirens blaring—the world spins on.
“Can I ask you a question?” Caleb says moments later.
Asher eyes him. “I don’t know. Can you?”
Caleb inhales a steadying breath that Asher knows from all the important people in his life is a silent prayer that translates to something along the lines of Please, Lord, give me patience.
“Why do you insist on using high-flying moves? I see you limping around after your matches. You’re not faking it, not when there aren’t any cameras around.”
“I just . . .” The front that Asher puts on grinds to dust on his tongue.
He’s exhausted and his brain is still a jumbled mess.
Mincing his words feels too effortful. “We’re not the same, Caleb.
When people look at me, the first thing they see isn’t my talent or hard work; it is that I am Chinese.
There are hundreds of wrestlers out there, and they’re all incredible.
If I don’t put on a show, I’ll get lost in everything else that shouldn’t matter to begin with. ”
“And that’s worth your battered body?”
Pausing, Asher runs a thumb over the smooth surface of the pendant dangling around his neck.
“My parents are immigrants. They gave up everything to get me here. They should have retired, but instead they continue to work round the clock to put me through training. The Performance Center’s developmental contract isn’t great.
Naturally. It’s small, and GEW doesn’t funnel much money their way.
But here? Once I prove myself to be someone of value?
I’ll finally have some bargaining power.
Then I can pay them back. Concretely.” He falls silent when his left eye twitches, then continues.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m going down a dead-end road, but it can’t be.
I couldn’t bear it.” He swallows. “So, yes, it’s worth it. It has to be.”
Caleb clears his throat, but before he can speak, a flash of panic catches Asher, so he changes the topic and asks, “How’s the roster doing?”
“Bailey said Thea slashed Prichard’s tires. She also threatened to piss on it, so, you know, par for the course.”
“Atta girl. What’d he do now?”
“Forced her into a squash match against Summer. One measly minute of match time before cutting to ads. She threatened to walk out, and Prichard fined her. The tires were, and I quote, ‘Reparations for the pig.’”
Asher whistles. “That’s hot. Only the sexiest people throw their middle fingers up at capitalism.”
There is a rather loaded moment of silence, before Caleb quietly says, “You were right.”
“Hmm?”
“There are problems with how Prichard runs the business. I never realized until you pointed them out, because I always benefited from the system.”
“Well, now you know.” Asher loses track of what he’s about to say next when another wave of dizziness sneaks up on him and blurs his vision. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe it away.
“What’s happening?” Caleb asks. There’s that anxious edge again.
Asher waves him away. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
Caleb gives an annoyed huff. “If I didn’t worry, I wouldn’t be here. Just. Come here.” He gestures to the space between his thighs. “There’s got to be, like, a billion knots in your shoulders.”
Asher eyes him dubiously. “And you’re offering to work them out?”
“Do you want a fucking massage or not?”
Rolling his eyes, Asher chooses not to settle on the carpet beneath Caleb’s legs, but instead, grabs a pillow, tosses it onto Caleb’s lap, and snuffles a little as he makes himself comfortable, lying face down. He waits for Caleb to shove him off.
He doesn’t.
Like before, Caleb stills for a long moment. Asher literally hears him stop breathing. Then he begins, digging strong yet careful thumbs into the meat of Asher’s shoulder after hovering awkwardly for about a decade.
“Tell me about you,” Asher murmurs with his eyes closed, still a little mystified as to how the fresh fuck he has ended up with his head on Caleb’s lap. “What do you do when you’re not being a wet blanket?”
Caleb’s fingers brush against the tip of Asher’s spine. Asher feels his body sigh into the touch. “I, uh, read?”
“You’re literate? Wow, you do contain multitudes.”
“Are you ever not a little shit?” Asher can feel Caleb rolling his eyes. “I inhaled books as a kid. Then life got in the way and it tapered off. When I met Bailey, she started loaning me some of her books before I—yeah. I got back into the swing of things while on the road.”
“That’s cool. What do you read?”
“Anything.” Caleb pauses for a beat. “But I do like historical fiction. There aren’t many people for me to talk to, so I ended up getting into audiobooks to fill the silence.
Anything to distract me from the mortifying ordeal of being alive.
And for a few hours, all these problems aren’t mine to deal with. ”
He laughs humorlessly before going quiet.
“Historical fiction makes me feel like I’m connected to something bigger than myself.” A minute later, Caleb says a little hesitantly after the extended silence, “Like I’m not alone.”
Which is actually a really lovely sentiment. And also kind of sad.
Asher doesn’t know how to respond to that, but he doesn’t have to, because over on the coffee table, Caleb’s phone buzzes.
“Time for your meds,” Caleb announces.
Asher’s stomach does a weird sort of parkour move. Caleb has alarms set for him? Caleb begins to nudge Asher off his lap so he can rise to his feet, and the idea of losing that minute skin contact makes Asher’s chest seize once more. His hand shoots out.
“Five more minutes,” Asher wheedles. Caleb tuts, and Asher flops over with a groan. He blinks blearily at the ceiling. “Can I look at the books you’ve read?”
“Yeah, okay. They’re on—” Caleb’s eyes narrow. “Nice try, Ross. No screen time.”
“Knight,” Asher says with mock solemnity, “I might combust if I don’t have a phone in my hand within the next minute.”
“You’re not cute when you whine,” Caleb tells him. The slight crinkle of his eyes says otherwise.
Caleb looks younger when he smiles. Most people do, but when Caleb does, it transforms him back into a boy Asher doesn’t recognize, but wants to get to know. He smiles like a secret is being shared, like he isn’t quite sure he’s allowed to. His heart remembers, but his brain hesitates.
“Just one minute. I promise to be the best patient ever.”
Before he heads into the kitchen, Caleb sighs and hands his phone over to Asher. It’s a battle he never stood a chance of winning.
Then Asher sees it.