Chapter 20 #2
Caleb might be past the point of saving, but Asher isn’t. And Caleb will be damned if he lets GEW take any more from Asher. Whatever it takes, even if it ends with just him against the world.
STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT
There is a T-rex skull in Kennedy Prichard’s office.
Is this what the rich and famous do with their money? Holy shit.
Caleb takes a seat at the long carved marble table, awaiting Prichard’s arrival in nervous silence.
To his left, Asher fiddles with his tie, adjusting and readjusting it before he yanks it off with a frustrated growl.
The head of the PR team, a bald man in his sixties who shakes their hands and introduces himself as Mr. Jefferson, sits opposite them. He doesn’t look them in the eye.
Beneath the table, Caleb searches for Asher’s hand, but the door swings open and he is forced to pull back.
Dressed in a dark gray tailored Armani suit, Kennedy Prichard stalks in and takes his place at the head of the table. His assistant, who scurries in after him, arranges a stack of black folders neatly to his left.
“I’m going to be straight with the two of you.
” Pausing, Prichard shoots daggers at Asher who snickers behind his fingers.
Caleb concentrates on keeping his breathing even.
His legs jiggle up and down, body desperately wanting to pace around the room.
“I am not having a good day.” Like a shark lurking beneath the surface of the ocean, Prichard’s voice is deceptively calm.
“Are you completely stupid? Do you have any idea how your inappropriate behavior has made us look like fucking fools? Your unprofessionalism has jeopardized the future of this company.”
Asher glowers. “Inappropriate?
“Please, don’t feed me that love is love rhetoric. It’s so passé. But lucky for you, I’m feeling generous. Mr. Jefferson and I have come up with a way to get us out of this mess.”
He gestures to Mr. Jefferson, who rises to his feet.
“We’re going to take advantage of the fact that next week’s episode of Friday Night Fight takes place in Mr. Knight’s hometown.
Mr. Knight will betray Mr. Ross by cutting a promo, revealing how their so-called relationship was nothing but a ploy to earn Mr. Ross’s trust, eventually leading him to let his guard down, paving the way for Mr. Knight reclaim the championship when the time comes. Playing the long game, essentially.”
“But that isn’t true,” Asher argues.
“Watch your tone,” Prichard says.
Mr. Jefferson clears his throat. “From the preliminary numbers we’ve run, this move is predicted to cement Mr. Knight as the greatest heel of our generation.”
“What about Asher?” Caleb asks.
“It goes both ways. What pushes you as a heel is likely to similarly push Mr. Ross as a face. The audience falls for every sob story.”
The right side of Prichard’s mouth curls into a pleased smirk. “Simple yet genius, isn’t it?” he says loftily. He swivels around to regard Asher. “Mr. Ross, you’ve always wanted to propel your career—this is it. We have a rare win-win solution in our hands.”
He isn’t wrong. Obviously that narrative won’t fool everyone, but it would be much easier to push that lie for fans to buy into as opposed to trying to justify the clear breaking of kayfabe.
Caleb narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“After you reclaim the championship, to rehabilitate Mr. Ross’s image, we’ll send him back to the Performance Center, where he will lie low until the rumors settle down.” The chairman pauses. “I’m sure the both of you understand how that means you won’t be allowed to see each other moving forward.”
“You don’t own us!” Asher hands shake furiously. Caleb reaches for them, but the chairman glares at him, and he stills. The muscles down Asher’s neck and shoulders go taut, readying for combat. “Our private lives aren’t yours to meddle with.”
“The way I see it, it’s very simple. Who do you think leaked that match card from Fyter Fiesta? Don’t you see? I control your narratives. The decision has never been yours to make.”
“Or what?” Asher challenges.
“Or the both of you are fired.”
A silence falls over the room. Caleb is breathing so hard his vision swims.
Then Asher—his beautiful, brave Asher—straightens his back and says, “That’s discrimination. We’ll sue the shit out of you.”
Prichard plasters on an exceedingly fake frown. “Budget cuts. Such a shame.”
“Bullshit. People are smarter than that.”
“Are you sure? Take a look around you. Every June, we swap our logos for ones with rainbows. We do ‘Stand Up for Pride’ photo shoots with colorful lights. We plaster rainbows all over our merchandise. The bar is stupidly low. People gobble it up without a second thought.”
“That’s all performative! Displaying allyship only when it is convenient for you isn’t real allyship. You’ve told me since day one: put your goddamn money where your mouth is.”
For a long moment, Prichard says nothing. Then he slides two black leather folders across the table. One to Asher; the other to Caleb. “Your contracts. Page ten. Clause seven-zero-one.”
Like a ghost, Caleb hovers over his body, watching himself flip open the folder.
7.0.1 Breaking kayfabe is grounds for immediate termination.
Asher sucks in a breath.
“Do you honestly think you’ll stand a fighting chance against my entire legal team?” Fury flashes in Prichard’s eyes. “I’ve been lenient, but you boys crossed a line. This is a family business with family-friendly values. I will not have your actions turn away our loyal viewers.”
“But they already know,” Asher volleys back through gritted teeth. “The fans know that most rivalries aren’t fucking real, so what does it matter? You could easily integrate us into the story if you bothered to try.”
“And what?” Prichard sneers. “Destroy the bedrock of wrestling just for two gay boys in love?
Caleb open and closes his mouth a couple times. Say something, his brain screams. Fight back. But he can’t. Each time the chairman looks him in the eye, he regresses into that scared, lost boy again—the one who wished to break free but never had it in him.