Chapter 23 #2
Asher stares down at the championship belt around his waist. He runs a thumb over the shining, heavy plate of gold.
There it is. The final piece. For so long he’s been grappling with it, too afraid to let this dream go.
But he is allowed to. He is allowed to grow past it.
He’s been learning so much about himself and how he fits into the world, stitched into the very fabric of it, about his value as a human being when the smoke clears and the lights go out.
His life now isn’t what he imagined it’d be a year ago.
And you know what? That sucks. The person he used to be is gone.
There is no going back. He will never be a version of himself that could have been either.
But that’s just how it goes. These are the little griefs he must carry with him to forge a future, one where he loves the person he turns out to be.
Prichard ducks through the ropes, but before he can continue, Asher reaches around, unclasps his championship belt, strides across the ring, and places it in Prichard’s hand. He exhales a shaky breath. Then he lets go.
“Take it,” Asher says quietly. A grim little laugh escapes. “It’s just a piece of metal anyway. I don’t want it. Not like this. Not with its tainted history.”
“You really are a stupid little boy if you think you can get off this easily. Actions do have consequences. This is yours.” Prichard leans in close. A muscle on his forehead visibly throbs. His face is red and ugly when he says, “You’re fired.”
There it is. Asher was never under the impression that this was anything less than a high probability outcome. But still.
“Asher.” Caleb rounds on him, the movement frantic.
Asher reaches for Caleb, wraps his fingers loosely around his wrist. He counts Caleb’s heartbeat.
From his side, Caleb, whose eyes shine with unshed tears, seizes his hand in return. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”
So Asher does. Because he has to let this dream change. He’s ready now. There are more important things than a gold belt. They will be remembered. They are part of something seismic, something that has started to shift. This is just the beginning.
And that is when the opening chords of a familiar lovelytheband song starts to play. Ava storms the stage, flanked by Bailey and Thea. The rest of the roster spills out behind the trio, with Alexei, Montez, and Malik holding security at bay.
“Did you miss me, old man?” Ava asks when their music stops. They make a show of twirling the mic in their hands. “I sure as hell did. In fact, I’ve been missing a particular conversation we had before. In case you decided to casually forget, allow me to refresh your memory.”
They point to the Titantron where an audio recording of Ava’s meeting with Prichard plays.
“You are incredibly talented.” Prichard’s staticky voice fills the arena. “But I won’t draft you to the main roster. We produce family-oriented programming and that’s the bottom line. I’m afraid you simply lack those family-friendly values.”
“Whoops! Am I breaking the fourth wall?” Ava waves into the camera.
“You see, that lack of family-friendly values, my dear friends,” Ava continues, “is the fact that I am proudly genderfluid and queer as fuck. Which, the last time I checked, doesn’t stop me from kicking ass and taking names.
” Ava walks down the ramp, the smirk on their face growing. “I could show you.”
“We’re sick of it,” Thea pipes up. “I used to think I could be so much more if you’d let me be.
Then I realized, why do I need a crusty old white man’s permission to shine as brightly as I know I can?
We’re sick of the way you treat us. Your last-minute match card changes put everyone’s safety at risk.
You don’t give the women’s division the respect and time they deserve.
You sexualize and fat-shame us. You demean our plus-sized wrestlers.
We’re amazing, and no matter how many times we prove it, all you care about is your wallet. ”
“And I think that’s a fucking shame, Kennedy.
” This is Bailey, her tone as sharp as her glare.
“Maybe you should use all that money to buy a mirror so you can take a long, hard look at yourself and ask, why is that? Is it okay? Is it morally okay? Is it ethically okay to have such a global platform and choose not to use it for good? And if you say yes, why is that so? If your excuse is ‘Well, that’s what’s best for business,’ then that makes you a shitty person, and you should look inward and come up with a better answer than that. ”
Asher leans through the ropes and Bailey places her microphone in his outstretched palm. To her left, Ava stretches up, cups his cheek, and grins at him.
“Every single day of my life, I’ve fought to be seen.
” Asher turns to Prichard. He plants his feet shoulder width apart and straightens his spine.
“I rip muscles clean off my bones and limp out of arenas each night just so you’ll give me a shot that I damn well earned.
And the very next day? I’m right back at it again.
I love this business. I love the fans. You may call it foolish recklessness, but to me, that’s hope.
It may just be a spark, but it’s enough to keep me going.
You may not like me, but you’re going to respect me.
You want to knock me down and kick me out?
I’m going to keep going. I’ll get right back up again.
Maybe that’ll happen tomorrow, next week, or a year from now, but mark my words, I will.
I don’t need a silly belt to know my worth.
Hell, I don’t need you. None of us do. There will always be a home out there for us.
But you? Without us, you’re nothing. So maybe we’ll go to the indies.
Find another company that treats us with the respect we deserve.
Start our own. Who knows?” Asher steadies his voice, eye contact unwavering and deliberate as he raises his chin.
“What I know is this: we’re not slipping through history any longer. ”
Clasped tightly around the mic, Asher’s hands, knuckles once split open and smeared with blood, now bruised and scabbed, still tremble.
But he doesn’t hide it. He lets the world see.
Because that is hope: fragile, hard-earned, and passionately violent.
He feels the earth beneath his feet, thinks back to centuries of community who have fought before him with dust and concrete clinging to matted hair, a riot insistent on weaving itself into history.
The fight has been arduous. Most days it still feels like an uphill battle, but here he is, spitting out a tooth as he rises from the ashes for another go.
Like those who have come before him, he will keep throwing bricks.
He will throw sticks. He will dig his fingers into the ground, dirt beneath his nails, and hurl it.
He’s been gifted a voice; he won’t ever stop using it.
And in the face of seemingly insurmountable hopelessness, he will choose to be kind too.
He will reach out and link hands with the person next to him.
They will take turns to hold one another when the world gets heavy.
They will dare to exist, defiant against anyone who tries to tell them otherwise.
“Here’s what is going to happen.” Ava stands at the foot of the ring and stares up at Prichard, unrelenting.
“If Asher and Caleb leave, we’re going with them.
All of us. You may think we’re just a spoke on the wheel and that the wheel is going to keep turning, but that’s where you’re wrong.
Underestimating us was your greatest mistake.
Without us, you have nothing. The show quite literally will not go on.
No one will pour money into your company. So, what’s it going to be?”
It starts with a hum, a faint rumble, an electric restlessness, and finally, a storm, flooding through the aisles and washing away everything in its path. Around them, the audience is yelling and jeering, louder than Asher’s heard them scream in years. They’re screaming for him. For them.
It is a moment decades in the making, furiously thrumming through the stands, a fight insistent on pushing through time.
It’s bigger than them, that tiny nagging hope that refuses to be squashed.
Asher staggers back under the weight of it all and Caleb is right there, by his side with a steady hand on the small of his back—a promise being kept.
After all, what is wrestling but a love story? What is it but a legacy enduring?
In the middle of the ring, Asher takes Caleb’s hand in his. Their fists, fingers curled tight together, raise high in the air. He feels it spread in his chest—hope—all the way down to his toes, his heart swelling, pushing past his ribs, watching it all burn down.