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I mumble. “The only loving embrace I want is with Chey. But that’s between me and the ropes in the ring. I’m not admitting that to anyone, living or dead.”
All the way back to the locker rooms, I hear constant cheering and bleacher boot pounding. The sound is so thunderous that I wonder if the whole place will come tumbling down. With each move that incites the thunder, I know exactly where Camie and Chey are in their skit. The demon duo is bringing the house down and the money flowing into this joint.
Happy vendor, happy manager. Happy manager, happy trainer. Happy fighters, all around. I swear, I can smell the Benjamins.
I bang through the doors and grab a bottle of water from the bar. I smile at myself in the back wall mirror and adjust my long locks.
“Looking good, Ro, as usual.” I smirk and flop into the sectional.
Between gulps of water and the cheering eruptions that continue to rocket through the place, my thoughts — however much I try to stop them — wander back to Chey.
I want to walk up and kiss her, but I can’t. Mixing business with pleasure has never been a problem for me, but for some reason, it is today. Maybe I have a thing for redheads. Who knows? But I could get lost in her eyes. And her strawberry locks.
I get up and grab a couple of raw meat platters from the buffet table. Then I shove the red meat goodness down my gullet, and end the culinary assault with a big, long burp, all trying to distract myself from thoughts of Cheyanne.
I head back out and hit ringside through another entrance, diagonally across Dee Dee’s seat. Safety in distance, I figure.
I look up, and the girls are still going strong. The grunts and moans from their fighting foes are more comical than they should be. I think Chey and Camie are giving better than they’re getting. Good for them!
I watch their menacing flips, slaps, and half-Nelsons with pride. It’s a mix of trainer and manager pride. And with Chey, maybe something more.
Someone taps on my right shoulder. I turn around, and it’s Chad McAllister from the incredibly popular Ten Bells wrestling podcast. I’d recognize the guy anywhere, what with his red, white, and blue checkered leisure suit and overly gelled hair. The man looks like he fell off a 1970s time machine.
“Ronan! So glad I caught you. Can I have a minute of your time?” Chad flashes his big teeth. The gleam from his capped teeth is so bright I sense snow blindness coming on.
“Sure, Chad, but be quick. The girls are almost done.”
“Right you are. Okay, so I was hoping for an exclusive Q and A with both of your lovely ladies after the show. Your thoughts?”
Chad looks up at the wrestlers and gets hit with a sweat spray. I try not to laugh and casually hand him a towel from the corner supply.
“Uh, well, Chad, the girls would be thrilled at your offer, but you know, they are P.R. scheduled up to the roof. How ‘bout you leave it with me, and maybe we can pencil you in later in the week?”
I figure that’ll get him off my back.
I’m jonesing for the limelight for the girls, but know it’s too risky to even try. Unless…maybe change Chey’s name? Make it, oh, I don’t know, Chey’s character’s name. Kelly Forte. Is it worth the risk?
I engage in a bit more small talk and media niceties with Chad before sending him on his way. Straddling the line — to promote Disastra to the world, yet not get Chey in Archimedes contract fire — is a tough one.
I don’t have long to ponder before the final bell rings and the demon duo are declared the winners. The place erupts — confetti, balloons, even a cannon hurling out winner T-shirts to the crowd. I get buffeted back from Chey’s corner and have to fight my way back in. I’m laughing more than shoving.
Can the winning last? Will our luck hold out? And when will the cat jump out of the bag and Chey end up in a world of hurt with Raucous?
My thoughts dampen down the joy, but I don’t let Chey and Camie sense my doubts. The time to celebrate is tonight. The time to strategize is tomorrow. The worries can wait.
I grab hold of the ropes, jump in, and hurl the girls’ arms all the way up. Champions. What a feeling.
* * *
By the next morning, the celebration has petered out, and the three of us are back in the gym with our training faces on. The old wrestler saying, You’re as good as your last win, isn’t lost on any of us.
I catch the girls yawning. “Whoa! What’s that I see? None of that in here or it's twenty laps around the ring for the pair of you.”
Camie laughs, and Chey fake salutes.
“It was a late one last night, remember?” Chey says between another flip-top head yawn.
“Hey, if I remember correctly, it was you two who wanted to do the town. Screaming your heads off in the open-top limo all the way through Briarwood. Your caterwauling woke up the dead in the cemetery.”
