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Messages - Celtic Thunder
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« on: February 13, 2026, 07:16:33 PM »
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada
Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, back slouched. The television was on but he couldn't say what the show was. He wasn't watching it, he wasn't watching anything really. His green eyes simply stared straight ahead, at absolutely nothing in particular as his ears tuned out the sounds of the "City of Sin" from outside of the window in the hotel room he called home.
His phone began to buzz on the corner of the bed, drawing his attention from whatever inner demons were torturing him from the inside out. He didn't move. His eyes shifted just enough to see the name light up on the screen. Ruairi O’Callaghan calling. The sight of the name of his best friend caused a tightness in his chest, one where he had to draw in a deep breath through his nose in order to steady himself.
He picked up the phone and hit decline, then dropped the phone back to the bed and resumed staring at nothing. Seconds later it started again, that same buzzing sound cutting through his mental fog like a swarm of bees trapped in his mind. Ruairi again. He let it buzz longer this time, hoping for it to stop on its own before he hurriedly declined it again. He just needed Ruairi to give up. He should have known better when the third call came.
He stared at the name and cursed under his breath. Ruairi always had been a right stubborn bastard. He snatched the phone up and stared at the name as if willing it to simply go away and leave him alone. But the phone continued to go off until he finally yielded and hit accept, holding it to his ear and spoke in a flat tone, hoping to pass for calm.
“Aye.”
“Ah, there y’are, thank Christ!" Ruaini declared from his end. "I was about to ring the bloody hotel desk and have them batter your door down! Three calls, Doyle, three! What in God’s name are ye playin’ at?”
Ciarán closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose, but kept his tone even, detached, as though discussing weather.
“I’m after answerin’, aren’t I? What d’ye want?”
Ruairi did not bite at the brusque tone. He took a breath and tried to steady himself.
“What do I want? I want t’know if my best mate is alive in there, that’s what I want!" Ruaini declared. "Your mam rang me this mornin’, then your sister rang me after, both of them in bits! They said ye barely call, and when ye do it’s two minutes of nothin’. All promises and no follow-through. They’re worried sick, lad. I’m worried sick.”
Ciarán’s gaze drifted down to the half-empty boxes of Chinese takeout on the dresser and forced a small laugh that didn’t fool anyone, least of all his best friend.
“I’m grand. Busy, that’s all. Ye know what it’s like over here, shows, travel, no sleep.” He reasoned. “Tell Mam and Niamh not to be makin’ a drama out o’ nothin’.”
Ruairi made a snort of derision, clearly not believing Ciarán. “Don’t feed me that shite, Ci. Not me. I knew ye when ye were nine! I know when you’re lyin’ through your teeth. Busy never sounded like this! Busy doesn’t vanish for weeks! Busy doesn’t ignore family!”
Ciarán’s fingers tightened around the phone, but his voice stayed stubbornly dull. “I said I’m fine. Leave it.”
Ruairi’s reply softened in volume but hardened in intent, the way a man lowers his voice when he is trying not to shout.
“No, I won’t leave it there.” Ruairi stubbornly refused. “Not this time. I’ve done the polite check-ins. The quick texts, tellin’ yer mam yer just wrecked routine, and I’m done pretendin’ that’s enough! You cut me off, you cut your own family off, and every time I mention home ye go colder than January rain! Somethin’ happened, and ye can keep denyin’ it, but I’m not blind!”
Silence stretched between them. It was ugly and heavy, like it was lingering - waiting.
“Just hear me for a minute. Come home.” Ruairi tried a gentler, coaxing approach. “Fly back t’Ireland for a few weeks. No pressure. I’ll sort the flights meself. I’ll pick ye up, and ye can stay at mine if ye don’t fancy your mam fussin’ over ye. We’ll go down by the water, get chips, do nothin’, just breathe. And when ye’re ready, there’s a place for ye at Celtic Thunder…”
Ciarán’s expression did not change, but he looked suddenly older in the dim light of the lone lamp he had afforded himself to turn on so he wasn’t basking in complete darkness.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No flights. No homecoming. No Celtic Thunder. I’m not comin’ back.”
Ruairi exhaled through his teeth and spoke faster, urgency climbing.
“Okay, listen, if this is about money, we can fix that. If it’s about the schedule, we fix the schedule. Set your terms! No hen nights, no private bookings. Just the stage and your people.”
Ciarán turned his head slightly and stared at his own reflection in the dark window, as faint and distorted as he felt himself. His reply came out thin, controlled.
“No.”
Ruairi’s temper flickered, then cracked.
“Would ye stop givin’ me one-word answers like I’m some gobshite telemarketer ringin’ at dinner!?” He barked. “I’m your friend, for feck’s sake! Your brother in all but blood! You don’t get t’shut me out and call that kindness!”
Ciarán flinched despite himself at the word brother. He swallowed and looked down and away from his reflection and instead, studied how his thumb and forefinger were rubbing against each other without him realizing he was even doing so.
“I’m not shuttin’ ye out. I’m just.. tired.”
Ruairi’s voice broke on the next line, emotion getting through despite his effort to keep it steady.
“You’re not tired, Ci, you’re disappearin’!” He pleaded. “I can hear it.!Your mam can hear it! Niamh can hear it! You’re in there and you’re hurt and I don’t know how t’help ye if ye won’t let me in!”
Ciarán closed his eyes, trying to fight against the tidal wave of love and friendship and bloody logic and reason that Ruairi was throwing in his path. The man always did know what buttons to push to get him to open up and quite frankly, it pissed Ciarán off royally.
Ruairi was not letting go.
“Come on, mo chara. Talk t’me. Even a little.” Ruairi’s words pounded in his head like thunder. “Tell me where this started. Tell me why Celtic Thunder makes ye go quiet. Tell me why the lad who used t’light up a room now sounds like he’s sitting in the dark countin’ cracks in the wall!”
Ciarán shut his eyes and let his head tip back a fraction, jaw tight enough to tremble. When he spoke, the words were almost mechanical.
“Drop it, Ruairi. Please.”
“No, I won’t drop it!” Ruairi answered immediately, firm and raw and pleading all at the same time. “Be angry at me if ye want! Call me a nosy bastard! Hang up if it makes ye feel better but I am not leavin’ ye alone in this! Not anymore!”
Could hear Ruairi take a deep breath to steady himself before continuing, “I should’ve got on a plane months ago and dragged your stubborn arse out for a walk and a fry-up and a real conversation! That’s on me. But I’m here now, and I’m askin’ ye, please, Ciarán, tell me what happened to ye!”
The plea settled into the room like dead weight. Ciarán did not answer. Not at first. He sat utterly still on the bed, phone to his ear, eyes open but unfocused. His breathing shallow and uneven. His face was blank in that frightening way that comes with wondering if anyone was home. For several long seconds there was only Ruairi’s quiet breathing at the other end, waiting.
Then, without any change in posture, without so much as a blink, a single tear escaped from the corner of Ciarán’s eye and streaked down his cheek…Dublin, Ireland -
2025
Inside the Dublin hotel penthouse, the show was already in full swing, bass hammering through the suite while shrieks and drunken chants acted as a chorus. Ciarán Doyle was in motion at centre of the performance, body moving along to the beat of the stereo with practiced perfection. His costume was long gone and his oiled up body was on full display in nothing more than a rainbow-tasseled thong that left so little to the imagination that anything less would probably be illegal.
He worked the room like an expert, sweat sheening along his skin as he played and teased the six women watching him with obvious delight and hunger behind their eyes. He planted a hand on the edge of the coffee table and vaulted over, landing in a damn near perfect split that sent another roar through the hen party. He gave the bride-to-be a teasing lap dance, retreating before hands could close on him as that was a Celtic Thunder no-no on both sides. He snapped into a body roll that made the whole suite erupt again.
At first, it ran like any other private booking. Women howled and clapped, banging glasses on tabletops, chanting over one another while phones wave in the air trying to catch every second. Ciarán spun out of a grab with an easy grin, redirected a “naughty hand” with a joking wag of a finger, and kept moving. He rolled his shoulders to the beat, then dropped smoothly to the carpet for a final sequence, skin flashing while the group of women roared their approval and the bride-to-be screamed with delight.
Then something shifted.
Someone crossed to the door behind him and the lock clicked with a sharp finality that did not belong in the middle of a party. Another woman reached the speaker and killed the music in one hard tap. The sudden silence landed heavy, broken only by a few stray giggles that sounded wrong. Ciarán straightened, chest rising with controlled breaths, one hand already reaching for the discarded clothes he came in as he nodded toward the exit.
“Right so, show’s wrapped, ladies.” He said with a smile. “Mind yourselves, have a great night now.”
He took two steps toward the door and three women blocked his path. His smile dropped. He angled sideways to pass and another body closed the gap. Ciarán’s posture changed in an instant, shoulders squaring, palms open, tone clipped and serious now.
“Move, now.” He insisted. “I’m done. Let me through.”
But no one moved. A hand clamped his forearm. He jerked free and turned, but another grip caught his bicep from the other side. He twisted, planting a foot, trying to break the holds with leverage instead of force, but someone drove into his shoulder from behind with enough momentum to take him off of his feet. He hit the bed hard, the breath knocked out of his body! The room exploded back into noise, laughter, shouting, cheering!
He bucked up, nearly free for a second, then weight dropped across his thighs and hips as he was being piled on!
“Stop it, for God’s sake, stop!” He shouted. “Get off me!”
Another set of hands forced his right arm flat. The cold band of the handcuff bit his wrist, the other end snapping closed around the bedpost! His left arm was dragged wide - another click!
“No!” He shouted, almost pleading! “I said no!”
He strained, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tearing as he pulled but the bed frame was as solid as the handcuffs! His ankles were yanked apart and fixed to opposite bedposts before he could kick clear, the restraints tugged tight enough to jerk him flat and rendered completely immobile!
Ciarán thrashed, hard, a full-body effort that shuddered through the mattress and frame, but there was no give! Someone’s hand grabbed his jaw and held it firm!
“No, wait, ple – Mmph! Nnnh!” A rubber ball gag was forced between his teeth and buckled behind his head, cutting his words into a muffled, broken sound. “Mmf! Mmph!
Nngh! Mmmf! Mmph! Nnngh!” He tried to shout and all that came out was raw noise swallowed by the room.
He could not sit up. He could not bring his knees in. He could not free a single limb.
Faces blurred at the edges of his vision, leaning in and out, shadows crossing the light. Laughter rose and fell in waves while he fought the restraints until his wrists stung and his ankles burned and his breath turned ragged behind the gag!
His eyes locked on the ceiling because there was nowhere else to look.
.......
The hallway outside the penthouse door swam in and out of focus. Ciarán stumbled into it and caught the wall with his palm, shoulder thudding against the wall as the corridor tilted sideways beneath him. He stood there bent and shaking, dragging air into his lungs in short, uneven breaths. Red and purple marks ringed both wrists and both ankles, already darkening into angry bruises.
His shirt hung crooked, buttons mismatched, collar half folded in. He took a step, then another. At the elevator, he saw his reflection in the mirrored doors and flinched. His eyes were glassy and hollow, jaw clenched around the strap marks at his cheeks, hair disordered, skin slick with cold sweat. The lift arrived with a soft ding. He got inside without looking up, one hand braced to the rail as the numbers dropped toward the lobby.</color>
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada
Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed with his phone pressed to his ear, shoulders rigid and eyes fixed ahead on the television screen where some family was busy making life seem too perfect. His confession of what happened to him that night felt like it left only the shell of his former self. On the other end, Ruairi did not speak for several long, painful seconds, but when his voice finally came through, it was rough with disbelief and grief.
“Holy God, Ci... Jesus, Mary and Joseph…" Ruairi’s voice was rough, filled with anger and anguish alike. “That-That happened t’ye and ye carried it on your own!? Sweet sufferin’ Christ!”
The anger in his best friend rose fast, but it was not anger directed at Ciarán. It was the helpless rage of a man hearing that someone he loved had been broken open but kept chugging along and ignored it simply because it was what he perceived as being expected of him.
“Why didn’t ye tell me, lad!?” Ruairi begged of him. “Why didn’t ye tell anyone at all!? We’d have come for ye! Why did ye sit in that alone!?”
“Because I knew how it’d sound.” Ciarán answered, his voice was low and worn thin from holding too much for too long. “Because I kept hearin’ it in me own head before anyone else could say it. That I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve seen it comin’. Because men aren’t meant t’say that happened t’them. And if they do? Half the world laughs and the other half asks what they did t’cause it! Because shame’s a cruel bastard, Ru, and it keeps ye quiet till the silence feels safer than people!”
“You should’ve gone straight t’the Gardaí.” Ruairi made a broken noise, then spoke again. “Jesus, Ci, tell me ye went. Tell me there’s a report, names, somethin’ we can still use!”
“I did go.” Ciarán gave a bitter laugh with no humour in it, eyes still hollow and vacant. “One of them looked me dead in the face and called me a liar. Another one smirked and said he wished a group o’ women would do that t’him. That’s what I got for tryin’ t’do it right.”
The line went quiet again, but this silence was different, thick with Ruairi’s horror. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before, trembling at the edges for a friend who suffered the ultimate in violation.
“That is bullshit!” Ruairi exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Ci. I’m so, so sorry!”
Ciarán’s fingers tighten around the phone. He swallowed hard and forced out the next words like splinters.
“Do ye know the worst part?” He asked. “Not the pain. Not even the pictures and videos they were takin’. After all six had their turn, they threw money at me. Like it was only a transaction. Like I was just a whore they’d paid for and were done with.”
Ruairi exhaled sharply, the sound of a man punched in the chest by helplessness.
“I’m sorry!” Ruairi “I-I should’ve seen it sooner, I should’ve pushed harder when y’got back! I could see somethin’ went wrong but …! I should’ve been there! You didn’t deserve any of that!”
Ciarán closed his eyes, building that wall back up that he just allowed Ruairi to bring down. “I know. I’ve to go.” He said calmly.
“Wait, just listen t’me for one more minute!” Ruairi pleaded. “Don’t hang up, please! We’ll figure this out! I can book a flight tonight, I can come t’...”
Ciarán ended the call before the sentence landed. The room fell silent. He sat motionless on the edge of the bed, phone still pressed to his ear for a second too long, staring into nothing.
“SCW’s Angry Cop. Is that anything like that game, Angry Birds? You know what? Not important!”
“Angry Cop… That’s what they call ye, and I’ll be honest, Liam, the name fits ye about as well as a discount police officer’s uniform. Too tight at the shoulders, inseam pinchin’ yer bollocks. It’s no damn wonder why yer so uptight, you’d have trouble dragging a needle outta yer arse with a tractor! So tell me this, lad. What’s the matter with ye, really? What's the source of all that fury ye drag around like it’s the only personality ye have to call yer own? Did your chief take away your little bell on your police bicycle, is that it? Did he pat ye on the head and say no more ching ching for Officer Davis, and now ye don’t know how t’pull over criminals without ringin’ a toy and puffin’ out your chest, ordering them into that little wicker basket by the handlebars? Because from where I’m standin’, your whole act looks like a man who mistakes noise for authority, and temper for strength.”
“So I’ll tell ye what let’s do, hm? Let’s walk through this proper, nice and slow, because you keep performin’ anger like it’s proof you’re hard, when really it’s proof you’re brittle. Cops with anger issues are a powder keg, everybody knows it, and it never ends clean. I’ve got me own reasons for distrustin’ police, and I don’t hide that for a second. But even without my history, this much is obvious: Men who can’t regulate themselves escalate normal, every day routines and interactions into disasters, then call it pressure, stress, or disrespect when the consequences come to bite them in the arse. So answer this like a grown man. How many times has that temper o’ yours gotten ye into trouble with the public? How many arguments became complaints, how many complaints became reports, and how many reports had your name stamped on them because ye couldn’t control your own pulse?”
“Now you’re tellin’ yourself this ring is your outlet, your healthy release, your noble wee method of workin’ through the rage. Grand story, lad! Right grand! How’s that goin’ for ye, Liam? Are ye calmer these days? More measured, more disciplined, or are ye still the same lit fuse with better lighting and louder music with an audience who can still read ye like a cheap Sunday paper? Because anger management literature, psychology, all of it says the same thing in plain language. Unmanaged anger wrecks judgment and makes a man blame everybody else for the fires he started himself! Most self-inflicted chaos comes from the same three places. Low control, high ego, and zero accountability. That’s not bad luck, lad, that’s pattern, and patterns get punished when they meet someone who can read them!”
“And newsflash! I can.”
“Here’s the reality check ye can’t arrest your way out of. You’re not on patrol now, and this isn’t your street corner. You’re in my world, in that ring, and in there you’ve no handcuffs, no nightstick, no badge to hide behind when things get uncomfortable! You won’t be dealin’ with scared kids shoutin’ police brutality from behind a barrier. You’ll be dealin’ with an Irish lad who knows how t’scrap, who can fight through pain, and who doesn’t fold when a loud man gets in his face! You bring rank to a wrestling match and it means nothin’. Your badge? Means even less once that bell rings. You bring rage without control and that is what is going to cost you in the end because I’ll turn it against ye until every mistake ye make becomes just another lesson stamped into your mind for you to run rewind in that noggin’ of yours, trying to figure out what went wrong an’ how you can possibly put the blame on anyone else BUT yourself!”
“So think o’ me as your therapist if that helps ye swallow what’s comin’. You bring me your anger, your excuses an’ your bruised pride, and I’ll give ye treatment in the only language a man like you ever listens to. Consequences. By the time that bell rings, your source of anger won’t be the chief or the criminal that escaped justice by some fluke in the legal system. It’ll be me, Ciarán Doyle, standin’ over ye while your plan falls apart and your temper finally meets someone it can’t bully.”
“Then we’ll see what’s left when the shouting stops, no costume an’ no authority. Just you, your choices, and the ticket comin’ due.”
“SCW’s Angry Cop? Keystone Cop is more like it.”
2
« on: January 30, 2026, 08:16:11 PM »
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada
Okay, so he didn’t do as promised the last time around when he told his mam that he would start looking for an actual apartment to stay in rather than this single budget hotel room. At least, not yet. He had his reasons. For one, his room had that particular kind of quiet you only got in places built for noise. Even with the curtains drawn and windows shut, Las Vegas still found ways to creep inside. Whether it be the noise of the streets outside or the faint pulse of light that made the walls feel like they were breathing. Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, shoulders hunched forward like he could make himself smaller by force of will. Every time he shifted his weight, the ache in his ribs answered like a reminder he hadn’t asked for.
His phone vibrated again in his palm, bright and insistent. He stared at the screen and saw the icon of his beloved Mam. He swallowed and took the call.
The screen filled with home. Not Ireland itself, not the smell of rain on stone or the familiar dark of the windows after tea, but the warm kitchen light, his mam’s ancient cat that kept its reign tight atop its throne, otherwise known as mam’s foot stool, and the kettle his folks got for their wedding from his grandparents, sitting back on the hob. His mother leaned close to the camera as if she could climb right through it, her face lined with worry. Beside her, his sister’s face appeared in the frame, bright-eyed in a way that made the contrast hurt. She had Ciarán’s cheekbones but softer, Ciarán’s dark hair but worn loose around her shoulders. Six years younger, yet right then she looked about sixty from sheer stress.
“Róisín.” Ciarán said, voice rough with lack of sleep and something much worse. “Hiya.”
“Ciarán.” His mother replied, the word sharpened with the kind of fear mothers had a knack for. “Are you sittin’ down? You look awful, love.”
“It’s just the camera.” He replied. “Makes everyone look like a corpse.”
Róisín’s mouth twitched. “You’re some dose.” She murmured. “Jaysus, Ciarán! We both saw what he done to you!”
His mother made a sound low in her throat, and the way her hand came up to cover her mouth, an emotional force of habit. “That animal.” She whispered dangerously. “They let him do it. They stood there and let him!”
Ciarán kept his face still, the mask slipping into place as naturally as breathing. “Mam, it’s wrestling. It’s…”
“It’s nothin’!” She cut in fiercely. “Don’t you stand there and try to sweeten it for me! I’m not a child! I watched him keep goin’ after the bell like it meant nothin’! Do you know what I felt? Do you know what your sister felt? We’re here on this side of the world, helpless, and you’re there lettin’ yourself be murdered for strangers!”
Róisín leaned in closer, her voice softer. “You won, Ciarán. You won the match and still you looked like you were bein’ punished for it.”
He shifted on the bed, and pain flickered across his ribs like a warning light. He kept his jaw set, eyes steady on the screen. “I won by disqualification.” He said, the words tasting bitter. “That’s not a win anyone wants.”
“But you did win.” Róisín insisted. “And he still brutalised you. That’s not sport, that’s a fella enjoyin’ the hurt!”
Ciarán exhaled through his nose, slowly. He could feel the bruise on his shoulder pulling tight when he moved. He could feel last week’s torment like it had happened just yesterday. It wasn’t the pain that haunted him. It was the helplessness of it, the way his body had betrayed him by being breakable.
Mam’s voice gentled, which somehow made it worse. “Listen to me now. You don’t have to do this. Do you hear me? You’ve proven what you are. You’ve nothing left to prove. Come home.”
“I can’t.” He said automatically.
“You can!” She snapped, then softened again, grief leaking in around the anger. “You can. You come back, and you dance. You were happy when you danced!”
Róisín nodded quickly. “You were, Ciarán! You were yourself. You weren’t-You weren’t carryin’ that look around. You know, Ruairí rang me?”
Ciarán’s brow tightened. “Ruairí?”
“Aye.” Róisín said. “Your best mate, Ruairí. He bought the rights, Ciarán. To Celtic Thunder. He’s puttin’ it back together proper, not that cheap tourist shite. He said he’d bring you in tomorrow if you’d let him!”
Mam leaned into the frame again, eyes shining. “He said you’d be a lead, love. He said you’d have the stage and none of this savagery.”
For a moment, just one, Ciarán felt the pull. The vivid, aching memory of rehearsals in a drafty hall, the stomp of shoes in unison, the thud of hearts beating in time. The way a crowd sounded when they loved you without wanting to see you bleed. It came to him like a door cracked open to a room he’d once lived in. Then the trauma resurfaced just as quickly and he slammed the door shut.
“I’m not quittin’.” He said, quietly but immovable.
Róisín’s face fell. “Ciarán…”
“I’m not quittin’!” He repeated, and there was steel now behind his words. “I know what it looked like. But I’m still standin’, aren’t I?”
Mam’s eyes flashed. “That’s your measure, is it? Still standin’? Christ, Ciarán. You’re not a martyr!”
He swallowed. The words he wanted to say sat too big in his throat. Instead, he said the safer thing. The simpler thing. “I’m fine.” Ciarán lied, and hated himself for it.
Róisín’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a pin. “You’re not.”
Mam’s voice went low, a warning. “Don’t you dare say you’re fine to me when your eyes are tellin’ me the truth. You look hollowed out, love.”
Ciarán stared at the screen and tried to keep his breathing even. “It’s been a rough week. That’s all.”
“A rough week.” Mam repeated. “And what about the next week? And the next? And what happens the day it’s not just bruises, Ciarán? What happens the day it’s…”
“Aye.” He said quickly, trying to cut off the image before it could form in any of their minds. “I get it. I’m not deaf.”
Róisín leaned forward, voice shaking. “We’re not tryin’ to rob you of somethin’ you love. We’re tryin’ to keep you alive.”
“I love you both.” He said, and his voice cracked just enough to make Mam’s face crumble. “I do. But you don’t understand what this is to me.”
“Then explain it!” Róisín pleaded. “Explain why you’d choose this over bein’ safe!”
Truth was, what he wanted to tell her was the truth. That when he was dancing, he wasn’t safe. His last time proved that, it just wasn’t something he ever wanted to talk about. Instead, he looked down at his lap. “Because I’m good at it. Because I fought to be seen for more than the lad who can shake his arse an’ show his goods. Because it’s nice to be cheered like I matter.”
Mam’s eyes filled completely. “You mattered before any crowd ever cheered, Ciarán Doyle.”
That should’ve been comforting. Instead it was a knife, because part of him didn’t believe it. He had learned how to feel real through performance. Quiet love was harder to hold. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m headin’ to Fresno tomorrow. Just wanted to talk before I left. I’m grand. Promise.”
Róisín’s jaw tightened at the word ‘promise’, as if she knew it was flimsy. “Ciarán…”
“I’ll ring you after.” He said too quickly. “After the show. I love you.”
Mam wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, angry at the tears. “I love you too.” She said, voice trembling. “And I’m tellin’ you now, if you ever feel like you’re sinkin’, you ring. You don’t sit there bein’ proud.”
Ciarán nodded, swallowing hard. “Aye. I will.”
He ended the call before he could say something that would betray him. The screen went black. His own reflection stared back at him for a half-second. Then it was just his home screen, the Cliffs of Moher back home.
Ciarán sat there with the phone in his hand like it weighed a ton. His throat burned. His chest felt tight, but he told himself it was the ribs. He stood, wincing, and crossed to the bathroom mirror. Under the harsh light, the bruising looked uglier, purple shadowing along his shoulder, a faint yellow line on his cheekbone. He stared at his own eyes, vacant and haunted.
He changed his shirt, pulled on a hoodie, shoved his phone and wallet into his pockets. It wasn’t a plan so much as an impulse to escape the room. He left the room and rode the elevator down with two strangers laughing loudly about nothing. He nodded at them when they glanced his way, put on a polite face, and stepped out into the lobby like a man walking on a stage.
Outside, the night air hit him warm and dry, smelling faintly of cigarettes and perfume. He told himself he’d just walk. Get his head right. Ten minutes. Fresh air. Motion. People. Anything but sitting still, alone with his demons.
Fremont Street was a living thing with the heartbeat of the city surrounding it. Music bled from every direction, live musical artists along the pavement, performing for appreciated tips. The lights of the casinos and hotels, hypnotic in their splendor. People by the hundreds in every direction. Just … living.
At first, it almost worked. The noise drowned his thoughts out. The lights made everything too bright for shadows. He blended into the crowd, just another tall bloke in a hoodie, head down, moving with the flow.
He watched a group of Japanese tourists take selfies like they’d discovered the meaning of life. He passed a man dressed like a cowboy playing a saxophone. He caught sight of a street performer painted silver and standing perfectly still on a platform, and for a moment the stillness fascinated him.
He breathed in. Breathed out.
“I’m fine.”
A chant, soft in his head.
“I’m fine.”
He made it another few steps. The sounds of Fremont sharpened, each one suddenly too distinctive. The shriek of laughter, the clatter of coins, the shouted lyrics from a nearby singer. The lights overhead seemed to tilt, the world closing in around him. His breath snagged.
“I’m fine.”
He kept walking. His heart hammered. His palms went damp. The crowd thickened. A woman’s perfume hit his nose, sweet and choking. Someone screamed happily at a performer and it went straight through him like a siren.
“I’m…”
His chest tightened, not his ribs this time. Like a fist closing around the inside of him. He tried to inhale and the air didn’t go where it was supposed to. It just stuck. He just stopped moving.
People flowed around him as if he were a lamppost. His vision narrowed. His hands curled at his sides, knuckles whitening. He could feel the panic climbing, climbing, searching for the edge of him. He stumbled sideways, forcing his way toward the edge of the foot traffic, trying not to shove anyone or draw attention. He found a spot near a concrete pillar and pressed his back to it, eyes scanning the crowd, lungs refused to cooperate.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe like he was in training. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Simple. Controlled. But his body didn’t want controlled. It wanted escape. That was when a voice cut through the noise close to him, calm as the hand on the back of his neck.
“Hey. Look at me.”
He opened his eyes. A street performer stood a few feet away, mid-thirties maybe, hair pulled back, a small drum slung at their hip. He wasn’t in a flashy costume. He was just a performer with eyes that were kind and steady.
Ciarán tried to speak and managed nothing. The performer lifted a hand, palm open. “You’re not in trouble.” He said, voice low enough that it didn’t carry. “You’re just overwhelmed. It happens. All right? Follow me.”
Ciarán’s throat worked. He nodded once, sharp, because that was all he could do. The performer tapped the drum gently. Not a song. Just a slow, even beat.
Thum. Thum.
“In through your nose on two beats.” The performer said. “Out slow on four. Ready? One… two...”
Ciarán tried. The air came in shallow, but it came. He followed the drum beats.
Thum. Thum.
“Good.” The performer murmured immediately. “Again. One… two…”
He inhaled. His chest still felt tight, but the breath made a small dent in it.
“Out, two… three… four...”
He exhaled shakily, cheeks hollowing. The performer stayed where he was, not crowding him. Ciarán’s eyes stung, sudden and infuriating.
“There you go.” The performer said softly. “Keep going.”
The world didn’t quiet, not really. Fremont Street kept roaring around them like a storm. But inside that small pocket, the beat gave him something to grasp onto. His lungs began to obey again. The tight fist around his chest loosen. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched and trying to keep his face from crumpling in front of a stranger.
Ciarán blinked, and a tear slipped out anyway, quick and humiliating. He wiped it away with the heel of his hand like it was sweat. The performer didn’t react. Didn’t call attention. Just kept the beat.
Thum. Thum.
After a minute, the performer slowed the tapping and let the silence between beats extend. Ciarán’s breathing had steadied. His fists unclenched.
“You all right?” The performer asked.
Ciarán nodded, swallowing hard. “Aye.” He admitted, and this time it wasn’t a lie so much as hope. “Thank you.”
The performer gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “Anytime. If it comes back, same thing. Find a rhythm. Your feet. Your breath. A song. Doesn’t matter. Just something steady.”
Ciarán nodded again, more firmly, committing the advice to memory like a drill. He pushed off the pillar carefully, testing his ribs, and adjusted his hoodie. He didn’t feel cured. He still felt bruised and tired and a little raw around the edges. But he felt … better.
The performer tapped the drum once more and turned back, melting into the chaos of Las Vegas as if nothing unusual had happened. Ciarán stood there for a moment longer, letting the lights wash over him without swallowing him whole. He pulled out his phone, stared at it, then opened a message to Mam. His thumb hovered.
He typed, deleted, typed again, and finally left it simple.
“Love you. I’m okay. I’ll ring after.”
He hit send before he could overthink it. Then he tucked the phone away, drew in a slow breath through his nose, and started walking like a man who’d taken a hit and stayed on his feet.
“Alexander Raven.”
“I need ye to listen to me because I’m not here to sell you some feel-good fairy tale about courage and heart and all that shite they love to paste over a man’s bruises like it’s tape. I’m here because I’ve been told to be here. I’m here because last week I won a match on paper n while Brandon Hendrix booted the absolute shite out of me, and I didn’t even get the decency of a week off to breathe after it! Not a week to let the ringing in my skull settle! Not a week to let the ache in my ribs stop whisperin’ every time I laugh or I turn wrong! Not a week to be a human bein’ for five minutes! No, no. Instead they’ve looked at the mess Hendrix left behind and said, ‘Grand, Doyle, you’ll do. We’ll throw you in there with the most dangerous man in SCW next!’”
“That’s the joke, isn’t it? That’s the punchline. I’m meant to stand here and pretend that’s just how it goes in this sport. I’m meant to grin through a split lip an’ bruised ribs an’ say, ‘Sure! Let’s give me another!’ because that’s what a wrestler does. But I’m tellin’ you right now, I’m not grateful for it. I’m not thankful they’ve given me ‘another opportunity.’ I’m bitter, and I’ve earned the right to be bitter because there’s a difference between testin’ a man and tryin’ to break him, and some of you in the back have gotten far too comfortable confusing the two!”
“And Alexander Raven… You’re not a test. You’re a warning. You’re the kind of match they book when they want to see what’s left of someone after the world’s had its go at them. You’re the match they whisper about, the one that makes lads in the locker room go quiet for a second because everyone knows what you are. Not just dangerous in the ring. Plenty of men are dangerous when the bell rings. You’re dangerous because you don’t care what you have to turn a person into to get what you want. You don’t care if you have to drag them down to a place they can’t climb out of. You don’t care if you have to make it personal, make it ugly, make it something a man carries home in his bones!”
“But here’s the part you’re not going to like, Raven. I’ve already been dragged. I’ve already been made ugly. I’ve already had a boot pressed into me while people stood around and watched, and I’ve already had that moment where the air leaves your lungs and your pride tries to leave with it. So if your plan is to walk into this thinkin’ you’re catchin’ me soft because Hendrix did what he did, then you’re comin’ in with your head up yer arse! All Hendrix proved is that pain doesn’t end me. It makes me mean in a way I don’t always like, but I’ll use it if I have to!”
“Now, I’ve been watchin’ you. Don’t roll your eyes at that. You’ve been impossible to ignore, haven’t you? You’ve made sure of it. You’ve pushed and prodded and cried loud enough that the whole company had to turn and look your way, and fair play. It worked. You took the World Champion to the brink, and now you’ve got the chance to do it again. Not because you earned it quietly. Not because you walked the straight line and did the right things and waited your turn. No. You got it because you made noise. You got it because you demanded it. You got it because you kept pokin’ at the wound until somebody finally said, ‘Fine, fine, give him what he wants! Maybe he’ll shut up.’”
“And that right there? That tells me everything I need to know about SCW. It tells me you can do all the hard work in the world, you can bleed in silence, and still the man who gets rewarded is the one who throws the loudest tantrum in the locker room. You can get whatever you want if you cry loud enough. That’s the lesson, aye? Don’t be better, be noisier. Don’t be disciplined, be disruptive. Don’t earn, demand!”
“So here’s what I’m doin’, Raven. First, I’m acknowledging exactly what you are. I’m not going to stand here and pretend you’re just another opponent on the card, just another lad I’ve to outwrestle. You’re a threat, and you’ve proven it. You’ve shown you can push the World Champion to the edge, and you’ve shown you can turn a match into a nightmare when it suits you. That’s not hype. That’s reality. I respect reality a hell of a lot more than I respect reputations.”
“Second, I’m acknowledging what I am. Not the version of me you think you know. Not the ‘Irish lad who used to take his clothes off for money,’ the lad that people like to clap for because it makes them feel good. I’m a man who’s been hit, and hit, and hit again, and I’m still standin’ here talkin’ to you! I’m a man who doesn’t get weeks off to heal, and I still show up! I’m a man who can feel the weight of the world on his chest and still lace the boots because some stubborn part of me refuses to be told when to stop! That’s just who I am.”
“Third, I’m making this very clear. You're not using me as a stepping stone to make your point about Carter. You’re not using me as a message. I’m not here to be the collateral damage in your little campaign for attention. If SCW wants to reward the loudest man in the room, grand! Let them! But don’t mistake their choices for my consent. I didn’t agree to be sacrificed so you can keep your story moving!”
“And finally, Raven, I want you to know and understand that I’m not just angry at you. I’m angry at the whole bloody machine that thinks it can chew men like me up and spit them out and call it entertainment! I’m angry that Hendrix can brutalize me and walk away smirking, and then I’m expected to stand tall a few days later like I’m made of stone! I’m angry that you can howl for another shot at the World Champion and the company jumps, but a man who’s been kicked to bits doesn’t even get a moment to breathe! I’m angry and I’m taking that anger into our match like a weapon, because if they insist on booking me like a punishment, then I’ll fight like it’s one!”
“So you go ahead and bring that darkness you like so much. Because I’m going to show you something you can’t cry your way out of. I’m going to show you that there’s a difference between being loud and being unbreakable. You might be the most dangerous man in SCW, but you’re about to meet a man who’s already had the shite kicked out of him, didn’t get a week off to breathe, and still turned up anyway!”
“And that, Raven, should terrify you more than any chant ever could!”
3
« on: January 23, 2026, 07:22:15 PM »
Las Vegas, Nevada
The week after the holidays always had that sad, empty feel to it in Las Vegas, or anywhere for that matter. People wait with anticipation for Christmas and New years and just like that, the most anticipated time of the year is all over. Ciarán Doyle hated that part most. How quickly the noise disappeared and left him alone with the quiet that was heavy to both heart and soul.
La Quinta Inn & Suites didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t. The room was a studio with beige walls and a small kitchenette tucked along one wall, complete with a small refrigerator, cabinets and a microwave. A partisan wall split the room, giving the illusion of having more space than it did. On one side of the room was a desk with a chair and a lamp that threw light on a small stack of papers that he had yet to take care of. On the other, a bed that was ironically more comfortable than it had any right to be and above the headboard was a desert print of a cactus in the soft colours of a sunset. There was soft, plush carpeting underfoot rather than the prototypical hardwood floors so many hotels designed to use. That fact alone was something that sold him on this particular location.
The room gave a sense of belonging as opposed to just being somewhere that you might pass through. And Ciarán was doing neither. This was not a simple hotel for a random stop while on tour. For Ciarán, this was home. He’d been living like this by choice, week-to-week. He had his reasons, all of which had fallen on deaf ears where his friends and especially his family back in Ireland were concerned. They had questioned his life as an exotic dancer, but they flat out did not understand why he became a professional wrestler, putting that same body he would flaunt so openly previously directly in harm’s way.
But, where his welfare was concerned, and his comforts, they all thought he should at least have a steady place to call his own while in the states. It only made sense. By Ciarán’s logic, that was exactly what he was doing. Just … not how his loved ones intended.
He tossed his duffel onto the desk chair and stood there for a beat, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the sounds of the city outside of the hotel. His eyes fell to the takeout menus that were left in the room by management, something offered to every tenant in every room. The idea of delivery appealed to him, as lately he had little desire to cook anything fresh or homemade in his meager kitchenette.
He forced a breath through his nose, and let the mask slide down a fraction. Not off. Never truly off. Just … loosened. And just like that, the phone buzzed in his hand before he could talk himself out of it.
“Mam.”
He stared at the name until it blurred at the edges, then swiped to answer and immediately put on the practiced voice, warm and ready, like he’d been born with a spotlight pointed at him.
“Ah here.” He said, half a laugh as he answered. “How’re ya, Mam?”
“Don’t ‘how’re ya’ me.” His mam, Fiona Doyle, snapped, but he could hear the smile behind the reprimanding tone. “Did you eat, or are we callin’ coffee a meal again?”
He let out a quick chuckle, the kind that came easy. “I’m getting ready to, promise. That counts for somethin’.”
“Aye, it counts for the bare minimum.” She said. “Now, where are you stayin’?”
“Same spot.” He said, light as he could make it. “Just off the Strip. It’s grand.”
“Still the hotel.” She said, and the disappointment landed soft but sure. “Ciarán, love, why won’t you get yourself an apartment? Somewhere decent. Somewhere yours.”
He felt it then, that familiar tightening behind the ribs. Annoyance first, because annoyance was easier than the rest. He pushed off the wall and wandered toward the kitchenette, opening the fridge even though he already knew it was mostly empty. A bottle of water. Some fresh fruit that had seen better days. A couple of takeout tubs he’d promised himself he’d bin yesterday.
“Because rent over here is daylight bleedin’ robbery. I’m payin’ half for this lot what I would an actual apartment.” He said, sharper than he meant to. “Swear to God they’d charge you extra for air if they could, I swear.”
“But you can afford it.” She said, plain as anything. “Don’t be actin’ like you’re stuck.”
That stung, because it was true in one way and not true in another. He could afford the numbers. The rest was a different story.
“It’s not just the money.” He said, and his own voice surprised him, more honest. Then again, he was talking to his mam. “If I sign a lease, that’s roots. That’s me sayin’ I’m stayin’.”
“And aren’t you?” She asked, gentle now, and the gentleness was worse than being scolded. “You sound like a fella standin’ at the pier waitin’ on a boat that’s not comin’.”
He shut the fridge and rested his palm against the cool white door, like it could steady him. He could feel the dip of the week in his bones, the post-holiday blues, leaving his family in Ireland again, only to not have a spot or even an appearance at Inception VIII, then when everyone went back to their lives, he went back to a room that looked like a placeholder.
“I don’t know.” He finally said, quiet.
Then, because he couldn’t leave it there, he tried to build a wall out of words. “And would ya blame me? The cost of livin’ is cracked, and the whole place is in a state. Politics are a circus. Half of them are roarin’, the other half are fecking bigots cheering the kidnapping of kids!” He stopped himself before it turned into a rant he’d regret. He blew out a breath. “It’s chaos. Why would I plant myself in the middle of that when their President is a fecking lunatic?”
On the other end of the line, the silence stretched. He could picture her in the kitchen back home, hands on a tea towel, lookin’ out the window like Ireland might hand her the right words. “Because you deserve a home.” She said finally, simple and direct “Not a room you can be put out of if the card declines.”
His throat tightened, sudden and stupid. He reached for the old reflex of charm. He put a grin in his voice like he could fool her through the phone.
“Ah I’m not gettin’ put out.” He said. “They’d miss me. I’m the entertainment.”
“Don’t!” She warned, but there was love under it. “Don’t turn it into a joke if it isn’t.”
Ciarán stared at the desk, at the lamp, the little welcome card, the empty space where a life might go if he let it. Anywhere his eyes could find surface, some semblance of his being there. His fingers tapped the fridge door in a subconscious rhythm.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.” She replied, so gentle it felt like her hand on his cheek. “I asked you why you won’t let yourself have a place to come back to.”
He huffed a breath, half laugh, half sigh, and leaned his forehead to the fridge door, thankful this wasn’t a video chat.
“Because I do.” He said, steadying his voice by sheer force of will. “I’ve got Ireland. I’ve got home. If it all goes sideways here, I can get on a plane and I-I’m back where I belong. So why would I start pretendin’ this place is anythin’ more than a stop?”
Another pause. Not empty. Careful.
“Ah, love.” His mam said at last, and there was steel under the softness now. “Ireland isn’t a life raft you keep tucked under your seat on some plane.”
His mouth twitched. “Isn’t it?”
“No.” She said, firm. “Ireland is your home, aye. Your family’s here, aye. But you don’t get to use us like an emergency exit so you never have to build a life where you are.”
He opened his eyes and looked out of the window, staring at absolutely nothing in the distance. Yeah, real glad she couldn’t see him right now.
“You make it sound like I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong.”
“I’m sayin’ you’re doin’ what you’ve always done.” She replied. “You keep one foot out the door. You keep your bags half-packed. You tell yourself you can always come home, so you never have to risk feelin’ settled or risk bein’ hurt.”
His throat tightened again and he hated it. Hated how quick she could find the tender bits he’d taped over.
“I’m not…” He started to protest but she deftly interrupted.
“You are. And listen to me, Ciarán Doyle. You will always have Ireland. You’ll always have us. But I don’t want you comin’ back here as a man who never let himself belong anywhere else, waitin’ till you’re worn out and empty and callin’ it home when really it’s just where you ran when you couldn’t stand your own life anymore.”
That landed hard. He swallowed, staring at the carpet’s looping pattern until it stopped swimmin’. “I’m not runnin’.” He said, but the shine had gone out of his voice.
“Maybe not.” She said, soft again, like she’d reached through the line and eased a hand on the back of his neck. “Maybe you’re just keepin’ yourself from bein’ found.”
Ciarán shut his eyes. The room felt smaller. He could taste the metallic edge of panic he hadn’t invited.
“I don’t know how.” He admitted, so quiet he nearly missed it himself.
“I know,” she said, gentle as anything. “That’s why I’m askin’ you to try. Not for us. For you. For the part of you that deserves to come back to somethin’ that doesn’t feel like borrowed time.”
He breathed in slowly. Out slower. If only he could make her understand how he felt, or why he was feeling the way he was feeling. But how could he get her to understand if he didn’t understand himself?
“I’ll look.” he said at last. “Not promisin’ miracles. But I’ll look.”
“That’s all I wanted.” She replied, and he could hear her smilin’ through the worry. “And you’ll eat somethin’ green?”
He gave a weak laugh. “Yes, Mam.”
“And Ciarán?”
“Aye?”
“I love you.”
The words lodged in his chest, warm and awful and real. “Love you too.” He managed.
When he hung up, the room was still the room. But Ciarán stood there a little longer than he usually let himself stand in one place, phone in his hand, breathing steady until the heavy quiet stopped feelin’ like a threat and started feelin’ like a choice.
He sat on his bed, more heavily than intended and just stared. Until those emerald green orbs of his drifted onto the end table where this pamphlet of an Irish takeaway place called out to him. He slowly reached over and slid it into his fingers. He picked up his phone again and started to dial.
Baby steps.
“Brandon Hendrix. I’m gonna say this nice and slow so it sinks in through whatever thick skull you’re swingin’ around these days. You’re a big boy, aren’t ya? One of them rough ones. Broad shoulders, heavy hands, the kinda fella who thinks intimidation is a personality and bruises are a love language. I’ve seen your type since before I ever set foot inside of a wrestling ring. Men who learned early that if they’re loud enough and hard enough, nobody asks what they’re scared of. You stomp in, you puff up. I’ve seen fellas like you in the audience when I danced, trying to assert dominance over the performers because yer ladies came to look at us rather than settle for what they had at home. I’ve seen bulls like you backstage in SCW, thinkin’ yer the shit. Grand. Brilliant, even! Except it doesn’t scare me, Brandon. It just tells me exactly what you’re tryin’ to do.”
“Step one for you is always the same. Find someone you can throw around and call it ‘sendin’ a message.You don’t speak to anyone, you don’t prove anything. You pick a moment, you pick a body, and you try to carve yourself a reputation with somebody else’s blood and pain. And the maddening thing is, it used to not be like that with you. That’s the part that really sticks in my teeth. You were one of the good ones, once upon a time. You were one of the lads you could look at and say, ‘Aye, he’s rough, but he’s fair. He’s mean, but there’s a line.’ Then somewhere along the way you turned into a right prick, and now you carry yourself like the world owes you applause for being cruel.”
“Step two, you show the world you’ve no shame about it. Inception VIII an’ LJ Kasey. You didn’t go after him because you had a point to prove about him. You went after him because he was there, because he’s got a name people care about an’ because you knew the cameras would catch it and the crowd would react. And that reaction is the only thing you’re truly chasin’. You didn’t attack LJ to beat him. You attacked him to wear him like a trophy. That wasn’t a fight, Brandon. That was you turning a person into a prop so you could feel like the biggest lad in the room for five short minutes.”
“Now step three is where you start eyein’ me, isn’t it? You look around SCW and you see a new face and you think, ‘There’s a fresh story I can hijack. There’s a new name I can smear my boots all over. There’s a fella with an accent and a smile, and the crowd’s lookin’ at him. An’ if I put him down hard enough, I get the attention he was gettin’!’ That’s the plan. You’re not subtle, Brandon. You’re not clever. You’re just heavy. You plan to use me the same way you used LJ. To try an’ make yourself feel massive by makin’ someone else feel small. And maybe it works on lads who don’t see you comin’. Maybe it works on lads who still believe there’s some honour in you left to appeal to. But I’m not that kind of stupid.”
“Because here’s the part you’re not accountin’ for, yeah? I’m flirtatious, I’m fun, I’ll give you that. I’ll grin an’ wink. I’ll talk sweet an’ make the crowd laugh. An’ you’ll think that means I’m soft. You’ll think that means I’m here to entertain while you’re here to hurt. But I’m direct, Brandon. Direct enough to tell you the truth to your face without dressin’ it up. You’re not scary because you’re big. You’re dangerous because you’re careless, and careless men get surprised when the world hits back. An’ I will hit back. Not because I’m tryin’ to be a hero, but because you’ve made it personal by decidin’ I’m just another body you can use!”
“You want me scared. You want me dazzled by your size. You want me to panic when you start swingin’ like a brawler in a pub car park. But I don’t panic, Brandon. I watch. I learn. I wait for you to do what you always do, because you can’t help yourself. You overcommit. You lean too hard into bein’ the giant and forget in every story, the giant is always cut down. You throw that big weight around like it’s invincible, and you leave gaps. Gaps big enough a blind man on the moors could see and take advantage of. And before you start cryin’ about metaphors, I’ll make it simple enough so a simple man like you can understand. I’m gonna take your momentum, your ego, your temper, and I’m gonna turn it all against you until you’re the one wonderin’ how the room got so small!”
“And when it’s over, you’re gonna realise somethin’ that’ll sting worse than any hit you’ve ever taken. You can’t patch the hole where your honour used to be by tearin’ pieces off other people. You can’t keep attackin’ lads like LJ and thinkin’ it makes you a monster worth fearin’. All it makes you is a bully with a marketing plan. And I don’t mind bullies, Brandon. I’ve met plenty. They’re predictable. They’re loud. They’re brittle. They break the minute someone refuses to play the part they wrote for them.”
“So come on big boy! Come in rough. Come in mean. Come in thinkin’ you’re about to make yourself a name off my back. I’m tellin’ you straight, with all the Irish kindness I can muster. It’s not goin’ to go your way. Not this weekend, not with me. Because if you’re lookin’ for someone to use, you picked the wrong fella. An’ you’re about to find out what happens when the ‘right prick’ runs headfirst into a man who doesn’t flinch.”
4
« on: December 12, 2025, 07:39:15 PM »
Boulder, Colorado -
Friday evening
The sign was green, of course. Because why wouldn’t it be? Nothing spells Irish stereotypes like beer and anything green.
The forefront of the pub sported a painted shamrock and some vaguely Celtic knotwork Ciarán would wager was copied off of clip art. Below the shamrock, in an elaborate gold lettering was the name “O’Brennan’s Irish Pub.” The flag of Ireland hung in the window, and when the door opened, Ciarán heard the collective sounds of loud music, TVs blaring and laughter and chatting one might expect from any pub.
Ciarán stood on the pavement outside and stared at the door. It wasn’t home, but it was bright and noisy, and full of people. And that felt better than four hotel walls and his own thoughts. He breathed in the cold Colorado air and reached for the pub door.
Inside, there was a TV over the bar showing American football. Proof positive this wasn't a genuine Irish pub. Green string lights were draped around the mirrors. Jerseys and Guinness signs lined the walls, along with a framed, sun-faded photo of some cliffs that weren’t from anywhere close to Ireland, but the locals obviously weren’t aware. Ciarán snorted at the thought.
Heads had turned when he stepped in, partly because the door had let in a blast of cold air, partly because it was just natural curiosity. He gave the room a once-over, then made his way to the bar and took a seat near a couple of local lads, but far enough away to afford himself the comfort of privacy.
The bartender, a woman in her early thirties with a ponytail and a T-shirt that read “Kiss Me, I’m O’Brennan’s,” slid over with an automatic smile.
Bartender: Hey there. What can I get ya?
He leaned his forearms on the bar, already slipping into the rhythm.
Ciarán: Tell me you’ve somethin’ that at least pretends to be Guinness there, will ye love?
She laughed and reached for a tap.
Bartender: We’ve got Guinness. Might not stack up to the homeland, but it does the job.
He clucked his tongue, shaking his head with mock dismay.
Ciarán: Sure, that’s what ye all say. I’ll be judgin’ ye harshly now, mind. My mam’d never forgive me if I let a fake pass me lips.
He was half-joking, half-remembering the way his mother used to talk about pubs and how they didn’t know how to pull a proper pint. When she set it down in front of him, he thanked her properly.
Bartender: So where in Ireland are you from?
He smiled, taking that first sip. It wasn’t home, but it was close enough to fake it for an evening.
Ciarán: Killarney, County Kerry. Ye can tell by the way I talk shite, can’t ye?
She grinned, leaning against the bar.
Bartender: I could tell by the “mam.” People don’t say that here. What brings you to Boulder?
Ciarán: On tour with SCW. We’ve a show here Sunday night.
Her eyebrows shot up. The couple of guys in flannel on either side turned their heads, interest sharpening.
Bartender: Wait, like professional wrestling on TV?
He gave a small grin, tilting his head.
Ciarán: Aye, that’s the one. Tight gear, bright lights, lads throwin’ each other about for the craic. I’m on the card Sunday.
One of the guys nearby leaned in.
Local #1: No shit? My buddy was talkin’ about that. You’re actually on the show?
Ciarán lifted his pint in a small salute.
Ciarán: Me third match.
The bartender’s eyes raked over him more critically now, taking in the broad shoulders and the way he carried himself.
Bartender: Damn. That’s kinda badass. What’s your name again? In the ring, I mean.
He hesitated a beat. He’d been selling himself as someone else for so long in other lines of work that saying his real name and having it matter still felt new.
Ciarán: Ciarán Doyle. Same in the ring as out of it. Easier to remember when they’re shoutin’ abuse at ye.
One of the locals jumps in, having overheard.
Local #1: Dude, he’s on the roster page. Look, Ciarán Doyle. Says it’s your third match?
He turned the screen to show a promo photo: Ciarán lit dramatically, jaw set, eyes intense. The version of him built for posters. Ciarán rolled his eyes.
Ciarán: That lad looks far too serious. Needs a proper drink.
Bartender: Well, damn! We’ve got a celebrity in the house tonight! You better not get too beat up Sunday. I’m gonna tell people I poured Guinness for you.
That sparked a ripple of attention further down the bar; a couple more patrons glanced over, taking a longer look at him now that he’d been labeled.
Another man approached with a cautious grin.
Local #2: You’re really SCW? Dude, my roommate loves that show! You shoot pool?
The invitation was there. It would have been easy to shrug it off, finish his pint alone at the bar, keep his world small and quiet. But quiet was dangerous. Quiet was when and how homesickness came in through the cracks. Ciarán set his glass down and slid off the stool.
Ciarán: Ah, I might’ve tapped a cue once or twice. But I’m warnin’ ye now, I’m a terrible loser. I’ll be throwin’ the balls at yer head if ye beat me.
Local #2: Guess I’ll have to go easy on you then, Kerry. Name’s Nate.
They wove through the bodies and tables to the pool table at the back. A couple of people drifted over to watch. After all, an Irish accent and a TV wrestler were exotic currency on a Friday night in Boulder.
The night settled into a rhythm of shots, bad jokes and friendly back chat. Ciarán looked to be in his element. He leaned casually on the cue. He used his hands when he talked. When he sank a tricky shot, he threw his head back with a laugh that made heads turn.
Nate lined up his next shot while his curiosity grew.
Nate: So, SCW, huh? Who you wrestling?
Ciarán chalked the tip of his cue, staring at the white dust gathering on the blue.
Ciarán: Fella named Logan Hunter. Big name, bigger mouth, too.
One of the onlookers, a woman in a Broncos hoodie, pulled out her phone.
Local #3: What time is the show? My brother’s into wrestling. I might drag him.
Ciarán: Sunday evenin’, doors open six. Come along, give us a shout. I’ll pretend I don’t know ye when I’m gettin’ choked out in the corner.
That drew another burst of laughter. The interest felt good, warming him from the outside in, but it was still attention, still performance. He knew how to ride that wave, how to keep it from cresting into anything real.
As the game wore on, he let little pieces of himself slip into the banter, carefully edited and polished.
Nate: So what do you miss most? About Ireland?
Ciarán lined up a shot, eyes narrowing.
Ciarán: The rain, maybe. Back home it hits ye from every angle. And everyone knowin’ everyone. Your mam hearin’ about what trouble you’re in before you’ve even finished bein’ in it.
He took the shot, the cue ball striking the red stripe into the pocket. He straightened with a flash of triumph.
Ciarán: And the chips. Jaysus, ye don’t know chips here at all, do ye?
That got another round of laughter. It was easier to talk about chips and rain than to talk about waking up in a foreign hotel and reaching for his phone, fingers already typing his mother’s number before he remembered the time difference and the way her voice went quiet when she asked when he was coming home and he didn’t have an answer.
He sank another shot, putting on a victorious swagger.
Ciarán: Look at that, will ye? There’s hope for me yet.
Later, after another pint and another game, the night began to come to a premature end. On his way back to the bar to close his tab, the bartender leaned in, resting her elbows on the wood.
Bartender: Hey, if I’m off Sunday, I might swing by that show. Gotta see if you’re as entertaining in the ring as you are over a pint.
He smirked, despite himself.
Ciarán: Oh, I’m worse in the ring, love. At least there I’ve the chance to hit someone who deserves it.
Bartender: Now that I gotta see!
She waved him closer with a conspiratorial grin.
Bartender: You good, Killarney? Need me to call you a ride?
He hopped back onto the barstool with a little bounce. His cheeks were warm, his limbs loose.
Ciarán: I’m grand, I walked from the hotel. You’ve survived my company for a whole evenin’, that’s a medal for ye. What’re ye doin’ with yourself after your shift?
She shook her head with a flattered smile that showed teeth.
Bartender: Going home to my dog and my couch. Very glamorous American nightlife.
He clutched at his chest theatrically.
Ciarán: And here's me thinkin’ I’d be swept away on a Colorado adventure!
She laughed, ringing up his tab.
Bartender: Dare to dream! That’ll be fifty-two even. And good luck Sunday. I’ll say I knew you when!
He pulled out his card, glancing once more at the mirror behind the bar. He looked like he was having the time of his life. He looked like a stranger wearing his skin.
He added a generous tip, remembering his mam’s lessons for a job well done.
Ciarán: Listen, thanks for the hospitality, yeah? Ye did the pint justice. Tell your boss there’s at least one Irish lad who’ll not report ye to the embassy.
Bartender: I’ll let him know we passed inspection.
He left them with one last wave, one last smile and then pushed the door open and stepped back out into the Boulder night. The cold hit him immediately. And his smile faded all too easily.
He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and started walking. His legs knew the way back to the hotel. By the time he reached the hotel, his warm buzz had chilled into something heavier. Part of him wanted to keep walking right past the hotel but he didn't.
Once inside, his room greeted him with a finality that practically made his blood chill. He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second with his back against it, as if bracing himself against the weight of nothing.
The personality he had been wearing all night. The funny, flirty Irish lad. The life of the party. It all fell off him like a coat that was suddenly too heavy.
He let his jacket slide off his shoulders and dropped it on the nearest chair instead of hanging it up proper. He kicked his boots off and didn’t bother setting them right. Empty takeaway containers sat on the desk from the previous night, a crumpled paper bag and a plastic fork. His suitcase lay open at the foot of the bed.
He crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge, elbows on his knees. He stared at the patterned carpet, his eyes unfocused. He knew he should shower. Wash off the bar smell. He knew he should perhaps check his timetable for Sunday and his match with Logan Hunter. All the little tasks of a professional on tour.
Instead, he reached for his phone.
The lock screen glowed to life in the darkened room, the only source of light save for the city lights through the open curtain. He swiped it and went straight to his messages. A family group chat sat near the top, unread messages from earlier in the day when he had been on the move. He scrolled back up, skimming through.
Mam: How’s the travel, love? You eat anythin’ proper yet?
A photo from his younger sister, making a face for the camera.
Sis: Ma’s after burnin’ the stew again. Come home and cook for us!
He smiled, a small thing that didn’t reach his eyes. His thumb hovered over the text box. He started to type.
Ciarán: I had a great night. Place here tries to be Irish. It’s gas. Miss ye. Wish…
He stopped. His chest tightened. He stared at the words “miss ye”. It felt too much like an admission he wasn’t ready to send across an ocean. He held down the backspace key with his thumb. The sentences vanished, leaving the text box empty again.
He paused, then tried again.
Ciarán: All good here. Had a pint for ye, Mam. Show’s on Sunday. I’ll send a pic.
He hit send and immediately hated how cheerful it looked.
There was no immediate reply. It was the middle of the night in Ireland and they were asleep. He was awake in a hotel room in Colorado, lit by the screen light of his phone and left wondering why he didn't grab a bite to eat while he was out.
He scrolled aimlessly through social media next. Notifications from fans and casual followers. A thirsty comment sat under a shot of him bending over in the ring to grab his opponent. He thumbed past it all with a hollow kind of detachment. These people thought they knew him. They knew the character. They didn’t know the man sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, alone.
He tossed the phone on the bed beside him and scrubbed both hands over his face. His skin felt too tight, his chest too heavy. He stood up quickly, walking to the window and had a look outside.
Outside, all he really saw were sources of light. Streetlamps, neon signs, car headlights gliding along the roads. Somewhere far off were the mountains, outlines dark and solid. He searched for a shape that even vaguely resembled anything from home but found nothing. His throat tightened and he drew the curtain shut.
He crossed to his suitcase and knelt, rummaging past folded shirts and rolled gear until his fingers brushed something small at the bottom. He fished it out, a slightly battered St. Christopher medal on a thin chain. His mam had pressed it into his hand the day he left, her lips moving in silent prayer as she did.
Her voice echoed in his head now, thick with worry and pride.
“Mind yourself, love. Don’t go forgettin’ where you come from.”
He sat back on the carpet, legs stretched out, the medal resting in his palm. The metal was old, the edges worn smooth by time. He closed his fingers around it and pressed it to his forehead for a moment, eyes shut.
Ciarán: Right. You’re grand. You’re fine. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
It was a trick he knew too well. Talk to himself like he’d talk to a friend who was spiraling. But the words did him no good and he didn't try further for himself like he might a friend or family member.
He pushed himself up to his feet and moved to the nightstand where his phone was where he had dropped it. He picked it up again and flicked through his music until he found a playlist titled “Home.”
The first song was an old ballad his father used to sing, something slow and sad. He hesitated, thumb hovering over it, then tapped play. The opening chords were low and familiar. He stood there in the middle of the room, one hand holding the phone, the other curled tight around the medal, as the first line in Irish slipped into the air.
He lasted thirty seconds before his thumb stabbed the stop button. The music cut off and the silence that rushed in afterward was somehow worse.
He dropped the phone back on the nightstand with more force than necessary, the clatter loud in the quiet room.
Ciarán: Can’t even listen to a fuckin’ song without goin’ to bits.
He said it with a bitterness that surprised him. He sat on the bed again, letting himself fall back, sprawling across the duvet, arms spread, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His jeans dug into his hips, his shirt bunched up under the small of his back. He did not move to fix either.
The subdued sounds from the city outside and his own steady breathing were the only sounds in the room. His mind, freed from the distractions of being someone else, began its slow, familiar spiral.
He thought of his mother at the kitchen table with her tea, the way she always sat stiff and silent with worry over one of her children. He thought of friends who could walk into their local and know half the room, of cousins who would be there for birthdays and holidays he might miss because he was in some other country pretending to be larger than life.
A pulse of something heavy rolled through him, like a wave over sand. It wasn’t sharp like panic or hot like anger. It was dull, thick, slow. His entire person felt swallowed by it.
He lay there in his clothes, staring at nothing, long enough that his back started to ache and one leg developed that pins-and-needles sensation. And yet, he still didn’t sit up.
He blew out a slow breath and finally rolled onto his side, dragging himself up just enough to grab the remote. He clicked the TV on, not caring what channel it landed on. Some old, American sitcom filled the room, something about four old women living together in Miami. Grand. He left the volume low, just enough to make the silence less sharp.
The St. Christopher medal was still in his hand. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a quick, almost embarrassed kiss to it the way his mam did at Mass, then closed his fingers around it again. He curled on top of the bedspread, shoes still on, the TV flickering shadows across his face. Inside room 417, Ciarán Doyle lay alone in the half-light, the life of the party gone quiet, as sleep finally dragged him down into a restless silence.
“A’right, let’s get this outta the way first, yeah?”
“Aiden Reynolds, fair play t’ye. I’m not too proud to say ye got one over on me. I walked into that match thinkin’ I was ready for every trick and you still found a way t’plant me on me arse and walk out with the win. That’s not luck. That’s just a good night’s work from a tough bastard who came prepared. So good on you.”
“Now, my path’s crossed with a different sort. I’m walkin’ into a match wi’ a man who is literally afraid of his own girlfriend. Logan Hunter, explain this t’me, will ye? How in the name of sweet suffering Jaysus am I supposed t’be intimidated by a fella who jumps when his lady raises her voice? Ye don’t stand up straighter when she walks into the room, Logan, ye shrink. Yet we’re all meant t’pretend you’re man I should be losin’ sleep over.”
“Let’s talk about Brooke for a second. She runs right over ye, doesn’t she? She makes the calls, she throws the tantrums, and ye just trail along behind her like a lost pup hopin’ she’ll throw you a scrap of affection. She doesn’t care what ye’re put through. She doesn’t care if you’re humiliated, as long as she gets what she wants. And ye’re too scared of losin’ her to say a single word against it.”
“That’s how this whole mess started, isn’t it? These punishments. By all rights, Brooke should be the only one gettin’ punished. She lit the fire. But somehow, someway, it’s you payin’ the price every week. And it’d be almost sad if it wasn’t so pathetic to watch.”
“Evelyn Hall stood there and laid it all out on the table. It would end if Brooke apologized. That’s it. One apology. One tiny moment where Brooke admits maybe she’s not the center of the universe and other people’s rules might matter. One word of humility and the punishments stop. But Brooke refuses, deciding her pride is worth more than your well-being. And you do absolutely nothin’.”
“Ye don’t stand up to her. Ye don’t take her aside and say yer finished bleedin’ for her ego here. No. Ye swallow it and nod along. Ye let yourself be punished over and over for somethin’ you didn’t even do. Because the idea of Brooke bein’ cross with you scares you more than the thought of another public humiliation. And that’s the same man I’m meant t’be afraid of steppin’ into a ring with? Ooo!”
“This is the boogeyman that I’m meant t’look across the ring at and think ‘what a dangerous threat’? Ye’re not a threat, Logan. Ye’re the poster boy for what happens when a wrestler lets someone else hold the leash. Every time Brooke snaps her fingers, ye flinch. Every time she scowls, ye lower your head. And every time the punishments roll on, you take it, even though the escape clause is right there in front of you. I’m not intimidated by that. I’m insulted I’m even bein’ asked to treat ye like a threat!”
“Now I hear you’ve convinced yourself ye’re gonna be the next Roulette Champion. Maybe, by some weird twist of fate, you will manage to pull it off. Maybe the stars line up, the wheel spins just right, and the universe decides to give you a shiny belt to cling to while Brooke takes all the credit. But let’s not pretend what that would really be, yeah? Because most of the credit for anything you’ve done lately, and anything you might do, doesn’t rest on your shoulders. It rests on the way Brooke inserts herself into your matches and bails you out every time you start to drown. I mean, we’ve all seen it. The referee’s back is turned and Brooke’s claws are in someone’s eyes or she’s shriekin’ like a banshee on the apron. She doesn’t have faith in you to get the job done on your own, Logan, and you know it. If she did, she wouldn’t have to cheat for you. She cheats because she knows she’s the only reason you’re still in the conversation.”
“I’m not daft. I know I’m not just dealin’ with Logan Hunter. I’m also dealin’ with Brooke, screamin’ on the outside, lookin’ for any little crack she can pry open. I’m expectin’ the two-for-one odds. I’d say it’ll be three-for-one, but truth be told, Marissa seems like the only one of the three of ye with her head screwed on straight.”
“Logan, you’re walkin’ into this match thinkin’ it’s just another punishment. The championship contender against the wet behind the ears rookie. But I’m not part of that story. The way I see it, the second you kept your mouth shut, the second you decided you’d take the punishments rather than stand up to Brooke, you made your choice. You chose this path. You chose to be the man who suffers in silence instead of the man who fights back. So when I step into that ring with you, I’m not walkin’ in feelin’ sorry for ye. I’m walkin’ in seein’ an opponent who had a dozen chances to stand tall and chose to stay on his knees.”
“That’s the difference between us. I make my own luck with my fists, my boots, and the stubbornness of an Irishman who doesn’t know when he’s meant t’stay down. It won’t matter how carefully Brooke meddles and twists matches in your favor. Cuz there are some lads you just can’t cheat your way past. I’m one of them.”
“And here’s the thought that keeps turnin’ over in my head, Logan. When I put your shoulders to the mat for the one, the two, and the three, when the ref’s hand comes down and your grand dreams of Roulette glory flicker like a candle in a storm, what happens then? What happens when the company looks at the situation and realizes that the man they penciled in for a Roulette Title match against Vincent Lyons Junior at Inception VIII can’t even survive Ciarán Doyle without his house of cards collapsing around him? In a business where momentum is everything, where perception shapes reality, how long d’ye really think they’ll keep your name in that slot if I beat you clean in the middle of the ring?”
5
« on: November 28, 2025, 06:15:07 PM »
Previously in the tale of Ciarán Doyle…
The roar from the other side of the curtains was so loud, compacted screams of delight, whistles and catcalls, was so strong that Ciarán could have sworn he felt it in his teeth! The young Irishman was this close to turning tail and bolting when he felt Ruaoro’s hand on the small of his back.
“Go!” Ruairí urged behind him, pushing him through the gap in the middle of the curtains and all Ciarán could blessedly see was the glare of the stage lights! A blessing in disguise as if he had been able to see the audience themselves, then he might have frozen - and he was still this close to doing so!
Ciarán’s eyes were glued to Ruairi, watching his every move and mimicking him as best he could without looking completely foolish. As the music pulsed across the entirety of the nightclub and the cheers and whistles washed over the men, they hit their first formation of two lines, then a staggered V and he did exactly what Ruairí had told him to do. He watched his mate like a hawk and copied every move half a beat behind. Step forward, roll a hip then turn. Hands dragging up oiled torsos, hips popping to the bea....
Seriously, how the feck did he get talked into making a complete arse out of himself!?
Ciarán wasn’t perfect. More than once he stepped left when the line went right, or his arm came up just a fraction too late. But every time he fucked up, he locked back onto Ruairí and corrected himself, falling back into synch!
And just like Ruairí had promised him, nobody out there seemed to give a shite. They were too busy screaming and fawning over thrusting pelvises and oiled up pecs. The rush of it washed over Ciarán, an insane blend of terror and adrenaline that had him grinning despite himself.
Midway through the number, the formation split. The music shifted, driving into a heavier, dirtier beat. One by one, the dancers peeled off from the line for a quick centre-stage moment under the brightest spotlight, ten seconds each to do something dirty enough to send their section of the crowd into orbit. And seeing this had Ciarán practically shitting himself.
A lad with a buzzcut dropped into a spinnarooni before righting himself and running his hands up his thighs. Ruairí’s turn brought a roar from the front row as he mimed loosening his belt and unbuttoning his pants, teasing the audience thoroughly.
And then there was space in front of Ciarán. The others had fanned back. He felt as if his heart had plummeted into his stomach suddenly.
“Go on!” Ruairi urged from the line behind him.
His mind was completely blank. He stood there like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi. He heard a woman near the front shout, “Take it off!”
With absolutely nothing else to grab onto, he did the first thing his panicked brain offered. He lifted both hands behind his head and rolled his hips while turning his body in a complete circle where he stood. The reaction was instantaneous as his movements drew immediate cheers and shrieks of delight!
Ciarán felt his face burn, but the reckless bit of him kept the grind going for one extra beat before he stepped back into formation.
“Ya filthy hoor!” Ruairí hissed happily as he slid in beside him again. “Told ya you had it!”
“Shut up and get me out of here!” Ciarán muttered, breathless.
The track changed again and just when Ciarán thought he had the pattern of the number clocked, the line turned as one and headed not back upstage but straight down the steps and into the crowd.
“What are we doin’!?” Ciarán hissed between his teeth.
“Mingle!” Ruairí shouted back over the roar. “Try not to get mauled!”
And then he was gone, swept off toward a cluster of women waving bridal sashes, leaving Ciarán nudged forward by the lads behind him until his boots hit the club floor. The table right in front of him erupted in schoolgirl delight.
“There he is! Grease-boy!” A woman in a veil squealed, clearly having had more than her fair share of drinks. She had a plastic tiara that read “Bride To Be” and a sash with the words “Last Fling Before the Ring”. Her friends, each in a “Team Bride” t-shirt, moved closer around the table.
A hand ran a path down his chest. Another slipped a twenty (deep) into his belt. The bridal party and the bride herself all crowded around in front of him as someone held their phone out for a group selfie.
For half a second, all he could manage was a startled laugh. “Jaysus, ladies, steady on, will ye?”
“Aw, he’s shy!” One of them shrieked with delight. “Do the hip thing again!”
They clapped and chanted, “Hip! Hip! Hip!” like a drunken chorus.
What else could he do? He didn't want to refuse and cause a bad review for Ruairi and his buddies. So Ciarán placed his hands behind his head and repeated his move as best he could in the tight space. The table went absolutely feral.
“Best. Night. Ever!” The bride declared. “If this weddin’ doesn’t work out, I’m comin’ back for you!”
A familiar hand landed between his shoulder blades. “Sorry ladies!” Ruairí’s voice came as he slid in beside him. “Borrowin’ him back for a minute. Union rules, y’know.” Already steering Ciarán away with an arm around his waist, guiding him through the crush of bodies and back toward the steps. “Come on, superstar. Finale time.” Ruairi declared.
“Don’t you ever say ‘mingle’ to me again!” Ciarán muttered as they climbed back toward the stage.
Ruairí just laughed. “You smashed it, Doyle. Now focus.”
They slid back into position as the others reformed the line. The final chorus hit and they moved together to the beat, the whole stage pulsing. Ciarán lost himself in it, still not perfect but keeping up as best he could with the steps he memorized.
On the last beat, the lads struck their final pose and the club detonated into screams, whistles and applause. Then the house lights dipped and the line peeled away in slick, practiced order, backstage and behind the curtains as the MC again took control of the show.
Backstage was a blur of sweat, laughter and the high that came after a good show. The moment they cleared the curtain, the line of lads gave one another high fives and hugs, congratulating one another on a successful show. Ciarán stood there, heart still batterin’ his ribs, still coming to terms he just did … that! Before he could gather himself, one of the dancers, the same buzzcut lad from earlier, strode over and clapped him hard on the shoulder.
“Cheers, mate!” He said, grinning wide. “You saved our arses!”
Another fella with long hair tied back in a bun chimed in as he passed, giving Ciarán’s other shoulder a squeeze. “Would’ve been a shambles without that extra body out there. Thanks, Doyle!”
“Good man!” A third added, flicking his tie at him as he walked by. “Hard to believe it was yer first time the way you did that hip circle.
Ciarán could only manage “No worries.” His cheeks burning hotter with every compliment.
Ruairí appeared in front of him, eyes bright as Christmas. He slapped both hands onto Ciarán’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “See? Wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
“Wasn’t so…!?” Ciarán gaped at him. “Are you completely deranged!?”
He threw his hands up. “I made a holy show of meself out there!” He ranted. “I got molested six different ways by strangers and I’m fairly sure that I just might be engaged now!”
The nearby lads burst out laughing!
“Ah, would you stop!” Ruairí said, rolling his eyes. “You’re makin’ it sound worse than it is! You did grand! Crowd loved ya! You definitely pulled a few tips as well, don’t be coy!”
“Oh, I pulled tips alright!” Ciarán snapped. “Down in the promised land, apparently!”
Before anyone could ask, he hooked his thumb under the waistband of his trousers, ignoring the surprised chorus of “Steady now!” and wolf whistles, and reached down the front of his pants, expression twisted in indignation as he fished around.
“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!” He muttered. “Could they not have used me belt like normal people?”
He finally got a grip on the wad and yanked his hand back out, holding up a crumpled bundle of notes. “There now!” He said, waving the wad in Ruairí’s face. “Look at this! I think I’ve just committed adultery with an entire bridal party via legal tender!”
The lads roared. With laughter, each one of them having experienced much the same throughout their careers.
Ruairí leaned in for a closer look, still grinning. Ciarán glanced down at the money himself, intending to dramatically fling it in his friend’s direction, and then did a double take.
“Hold on…” He said, squinting. “These aren’t singles. These are twenties!”
His brows shot up towards his hairline. “Who the hell is stuffin’ twenties down me jocks like that’s normal behaviour!?”
Ruairí snorted. “Hen nights, lad.” He replied with incredulous delight for his buddy. “They come loaded!”
He pointed with his chin at the bundle still in Ciarán’s hand. “There’s a fifty in there as well, look.”
Ciarán fanned the wad out with reluctant curiosity and sure enough, there it was. A crisp, brand new fifty. “Jesus wept… I’m gonna have to tithe this on Sunday. Cleanse me soul.”
“Or…” Offered a smooth, amused voice from beside them. “You could consider it an advance?”
Both Ciarán and Ruairi turned to find the group’s manager Seán, having materialized from somewhere behind them, a faint, satisfied smile on his face.
“Hell of a debut, Doyle.” He said. “Crowd went mad for ya! That hen table in front is already askin’ if you’re on again next week.”
“Absolutely not!” Ciarán said in reflex, clutching the money like it might either bite him or vanish entirely.
Seán chuckled. “You say that now. But….” He tipped his chin at the wad of cash. “There could be more where that came from. Bit of part-time work? Couple of nights a month? Easy money.”
Before Ciarán could even form a refusal, Ruairí was already chiming in, eyes alight with mischief. “And if he ever decided to go the full monty…” He added happily, “He could really…!”
“Nope!” Ciarán cut across him, voice going up a full octave. He stuffed the notes into his pocket like contraband, face scarlet. “No! Absolutely not! The answer is no from now ‘til Judgement Day! I am done! Finished! Career over before it even started! Now where…!” He demanded, turning around and looking down the hall for a dressing room or shower - something! “...Can I wash this shite off me?!”
He stomped off down the corridor, muttering under his breath about oil and hips and defiling currency! One of the lads leaned out of a dressing room to point helpfully toward the showers, barely holding in his laughter.
Ruairí watched him go, that wide, fond grin still plastered across his face. Beside him, Seán folded his arms, eyes tracking Ciarán’s retreating, very popular backside. “Stubborn, that one.” He sighed. “Shame. He’s a natural.”
Ruairí shrugged one shoulder, utterly unconcerned. “Give him a bit. Once he’s not feelin’ like a greased pig on display and he’s counted that wad properly?”
He flashed the manager a knowing smile.
“He’ll be back.”
Pussy Willow: And you weren't.Ciarán Doyle: And I wasn’t. Two faces filled the screen, SCW reporter Pussy Willow and newcomer, Ciarán Doyle. Revealing that the entire story from the past week and this, had been a podcast interview broadcast on-air.Ciarán Doyle: Not even a little bit. Back then if you’d have told me I’d be standin’ under lights with that kind of carry on, I’d have laughed you out of the room. I had all these grand ideas about dignity and keepin’ to myself. I thought I was above that sort of thing.Pussy Willow: So what changed your mind?Ciarán Doyle: The money. Plain and simple. I’d love to dress it up, but it was the bills on the table and the landlord bangin’ on the door. Rent doesn’t care about yer pride. The `lectric company doesn’t give a shite about yer boundaries. I was knowin’ if somethin’ didn’t give I’d be sleepin’ in a doorway. Simple as that. An' me lad Ruiain meant what he said at the time. Goin’ full monty was where the real coin is.Pussy Willow's eyes shot up.Pussy Willow: So does that mean...?Ciarán nodded.Ciarán Doyle: That somewhere out there on the wide and wonderful internet, there are pictures and videos of my banger floatin’ about, yeah. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend there aren’t. Somewhere some poor gobshite’s phone is full of angles of me I definitely never imagined bein’ archived for posterity.Pussy Willow: And now here you are, not dancin’ for rent money but wrestlin’ for a career. Your second match in and they’ve already lined you up with Aiden Reynolds. That’s a big jump. What does that tell you?Ciarán Doyle: It tells me exactly what the brass think of me. My first night in, I do what I’m brought here to do and I get me hand raised. I prove I can walk the walk inside those ropes. Now for match number two, instead o’ givin’ me another soft touch and lettin’ me coast, they throw me in with Aiden feckin’ Reynolds! A right bastard with anger issues and a chip on his shoulder the size of a tour bus. That’s them sayin’, all right Doyle, let’s see if you can swim with a shark!Pussy Willow: What do you see when you look at Aiden Reynolds as an opponent?Ciarán Doyle: I see danger, first off. I’m not stupid. I see a former Roulette Champion, a lad who’s been in there with killers and come out the other side still standin’. I see Wolfslair an' everything they're about all over his history. I see the fella who took Helluva Bottom Carter, the World Heavyweight Champion himself, right to the edge two pay-per-views in a row. Aiden dragged him into deep water, twice, and made him swim for his life! That tells me I’m facin’ a man who knows how to hurt, and how to keep goin’ when he’s hurt!Pussy Willow: And yet you’ve also called him the bridesmaid, not the bride, especially when it comes to names like Alex Jones and Austin James Mercer. Can you explain what you mean by that, without takin’ anything away from those guys?Ciarán Doyle: Aye. Alex Jones and Austin James Mercer? They're what you might call the stabdard bearers of the men in Wolfslair. They’ve put the work in. They’ve held the big gold more than once. And when you stand Aiden beside big name lads like that, he’s always right next to the top but never quite reachin’ it. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. The guy everyone looks at and says any day now, he’s gonna break through. Almost world champion. Almost the face of the brand. That eats away at a man more than any loss.Pussy Willow: Do you think that’s where some of the anger comes from?Ciarán Doyle: I do, yeah. When you’ve been that close that many times? You look at the world like it’s robbed you. I watch the way he carries himself. It’s the body language of a man who thinks the universe owes him a refund. He’s barely holdin’ it together. And that makes him dangerous because a man who feels cheated doesn’t mind cheatin’ opportunity out of the next guy if it gets him where he wants to go.Pussy Willow: So you respect what he’s done. Why is that?Ciarán Doyle: Because I’d be an eejit not to respect Aiden Reynolds! The man tore the World Champion apart before he just barely lost! I’ve watched tapes of his matches. I’ve seen what he's capable of. But I’m not the one carryin’ his history on my back, now am I? That’s the difference between him an' me. Every time he’s stood in the ring feelin’ the world slip through his fingers, that’s that much more weight on his back. Me? I’m comin’ in fresh with no ghosts of wrestlin' past in me ear. So while he’s draggin’ his past behind him, I’m runnin’ toward my future. I know what I’m walkin’ into. He doesn't.Pussy Willow: You’ve talked a lot about roles in wrestling. Where do you see Aiden’s role right now? And your own?Ciarán Doyle: Right now, Aiden is the measuring stick. He’s the man they send newcomers through to see if the hype is real. The bosses know that fella is a loose cannon that's going to break the new lads down bone by broken bone. You want to know if some new fella can hang with the big boys? You put him in with Aiden Reynolds. If he breaks, you can save yourself bother. If he survives, you got an investment. But here’s the truth of bein’ the measuring stick. You’re a tool. No more, no less. My role? I'm the one the office and the locker room are still tryin’ to figure out. I’m the question mark.Pussy Willow: If he’s the measuring stick, what kind of match do you expect to have against him?Ciarán Doyle: Step by step you mean? Bell rings, and he comes at me like a bull. That’s what a man with his anger does. He tries to set the tone, tries to hit me hard and early. I’m ready for that storm. I’ll take some shots, I’ll eat a few stiff ones, but I’ll still be standin’ there, hittin’ back. Then we get to the grind, the back-and-forth. Every time he hooks my leg and hears two instead of three, that chip on his shoulder gets heavier. And that’s where I make my living. In the moment where his temper gets ahead of his talent, I slip in, I catch him, and suddenly the bridesmaid is lyin’ on his back while the ref’s hand hits three.Pussy Willow: Are you tryin’ to take his spot, then? To leapfrog off his name and step into the conversations he’s been havin’ for years about titles and main events?Ciarán Doyle: Of course I am. What’s the point of gettin’ in there if you’re not tryin’ to move up the ladder? He’s spent years knockin’ on the door, and that constant knockin’ has worn the wood down. I’m showin’ up now to kick what’s left of it in. Every time they put a name opposite mine, I’m thinkin’ about how I can use that name as a step upward. When I beat Aiden, it’s not just a line on a win-loss record. It’s proof that I’m not just a fun new toy. I’m a threat. He stays the man who could have had it all. I become the man people start whisperin’ about.Pussy Willow: Final thought. When the match is over and people look back at Ciarán Doyle versus Aiden Reynolds, what do you want Aiden to feel, and what do you want the fans to remember?Ciarán Doyle: I want Aiden to feel that sick twist in his gut he knows all too well. That he did almost everything right and it still wasn’t enough. I want him lyin’ there, starin’ up at the lights, wonderin’ how he let it slip again. As for the fans, I want them to look at that match and say, that was the night Ciarán Doyle stopped bein’ an interesting newcomer and started becomin’ a problem. I want them to remember that I stepped in with a former Roulette Champion, a Wolfslair bruiser, the man who took Helluva Bottom Carter to his limits, and I won. That’s the story I’m writin’ here. I’m the lad who’s only just gettin’ started.Pussy Willow: Thank you, Ciarán. And good luck this Sunday.Ciarán Doyle smiles as the podcast interview is brought to its conclusion.
6
« on: November 21, 2025, 08:22:07 PM »
Dublin, Ireland -
A fair few years ago
Night in the city of Dublin had already fallen and the bass from the club could be heard clear to the outside, some in the long line of predominantly women dancing in place as they waited to be let inside. The Velvet Stag, as the sign above the club indicated, was clearly one of Camden Street’s top attractions, especially with the live entertainment regularly on offer.
“Jaysus, you owe me for this.” Ciarán Doyle muttered, his lips pressed into a thin line, lowering his head from gazing at the neon sign, one of very few men in the immediate vicinity. He was not in the long line, waiting to go inside. He was standing off to the side alongside another man, near the security letting the patrons in a few at a time.
“Relax, will ya?” His friend grinned. “It’s a club. There’s tunes. There’s drink. There’s me. Either way, you win!”
Ciarán shot him a look. “You better appreciate this! I don’t usually be hangin’ around feckin’ male strip shows!”
Ruairí O’Callaghan laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I do appreciate it. Cross me heart.” He traced a quick cross over his chest and continued. “But think of it this way. You get to spend the night in a club packed with a load of wound-up women! Could be worse ways to pass a Friday.”
Ciarán rolled his eyes. “You’re makin’ it sound like a charity case.”
“Ah, you love it!” Ruairí said. “C’mon, before the manager has a stroke.”
They moved with the crowd into the entrance, showing that the Velvet Stag’s interior was pretty much what one might expect in the Dublin nightlife. Dimmed, neon lights overhead and exposed brick walls. The lit up dance floor. Velvet-upholstered seating and marble-topped tables. Everywhere there were groups of women gathered in sashes and birthday tiaras, enjoying themselves with drinks raised.
Ruairí leaned in to smile. “See? Prime huntin’ ground.”
“Yeah,” Ciarán said dryly. “Because nothin’ says romance like plastic willies and dodgy tiaras.”
Ruairí just laughed when a staff member with a headset met them near the stairs. “Ruairí, you’re late!” She then noticed Ciarán. “This your plus-one?”
“Yeah, this is Ciarán,” Ruairí said. “He’s only mildly judgin’ us all.”
Ciarán gave a silent polite smile and a wave.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have fun!” She winked before turning to Ruairi. “First set’s in ten. Ruairí, backstage. Now.”
Ruairí turned to Ciarán. “Grab a pint and find a good spot. Give us a cheer!”
“I’m not roarin’ your name while you’re grindin’ on hen parties,” Ciarán said.
“You’re a saint, Doyle!” Ruairí called, already being ushered away.
Ciarán shook his head and pushed toward the bar that stretched along the entirety of the club’s side wall. He managed to flag down a young man with a well-trimmed goatee and a shamrock tattoo on his forearm.
“What’re ya havin’?” The bartender shouted.
“Pint of Guinness there, if you don’t mind.” Ciarán called out, settling onto a vacant barstool.
“Good man.” The bartender nodded. He poured it like an expert, no head of foam, and slid the pint across. “There ya are, boss.”
“Cheers.” Ciarán paid and wrapped his fingers around the cool glass and took a long, steadying pull and watched as the DJ’s voice boomed out.
“Ladies of Dublin! Welcome to Celtic Thunder!”
The place erupted with screams, whistles and applause that grated on Ciarán's ears. He shook his head and took another drink. “Feck’s sake…”
“You in with one of the hens, are ya?” The bartender observed.
“Just here with one of the lads,” Ciarán said. “Big eejit with the dimples. Answers to Ruairí.”
The bartender laughed. “Ah, him! You’d wanna keep an eye on him or they’ll whip him out the fire exit!”
“That’s his own problem!” Ciarán laughed. “I’m just here for the beer.”
The music kicked on as the opening performance began. The curtains parted and a line of men stepped out in matching black trousers and no shirts, spreading out across the stage in formation. Ciarán watched with a slightly disbelieving expression on his face as the dancers moved in sync with spins and gyrations, teasing the crowd. It was cheesier than he’d expected.
He shook his head again and turned back to the bar, continuing his chat with the bartender as time passed and the numbers blurred into one another. Ciarán was in the middle of telling the bartender about a disastrous stag party in Galway when someone rushed up beside him.
“Are you Ciarán Doyle?”
He turned, brows knitting. A young woman stood there, a staff badge pinned to her chest. She looked like she’d legged it through the building.
“Depends. Am I in trouble?”
“I’ve been tryin’ to find ya!” She huffed. “You need to come backstage! Yer mate’s lookin’ for ya!”
Ciarán straightened on his stool. “Is he alright?”
She stammered an answer, her eyes wide. “He just said it’s important. C’mon!”
She didn’t wait for an answer, already moving toward a side door marked “Staff Only”. Ciarán set his pint down and followed. They slipped through the door into a brightly-lit corridor.
At the end of the hall, he saw Ruairí, half dressed in black trousers and standing next to a shorter man in a dark blazer that looked like he was about to have a heart attack from stress.
“There he is,” Ruairí said, pushing off the wall.
Ciarán came to a stop, asking. “What’s the story? You alright?”
“I’m grand, relax,” Ruairí said. His gaze turned to the man beside him. “This is Seán Keane, the manager. Seán, this is the lad I was tellin’ ya about. Ciarán.”
Seán gave a brisk nod, his gaze flicking over Ciarán. “Howya, Ciarán. Sorry to drag you away from your pint. Bit of a disaster on our hands.”
Ciarán’s unease deepened. “Will someone tell us what’s actually goin’ on?”
Ruairí rubbed the back of his neck. “Right, so…! One of the lads, Dara, just got a call. Proper family emergency. He’s already legged it out the door.”
Seán cut in. “He had to go. No question. But the timing’s bleedin’ brutal. We’re one man down for the second half, and Dara’s not just background. The whole run of the show is built on a full line.”
Ciarán frowned. “What’s that got to do with me? I can’t fix your choreography.”
Seán and Ruairí shared a look.
Ruairí stepped closer, eyes turning properly hopeful. “That’s the thing. We were thinkin’ maybe you could.”
Ciarán blinked. “You what?”
“Fill in?” Seán said, blunt as anything. “Just for tonight. Step into Dara’s place for the group bits. We can stick you into formation, keep the structure so the lads don’t lose their marks.”
Ciarán stared at him, then at Ruairí, then back again.
“You’re takin’ the absolute piss!”
“Just hear us out a second!” Ruairí said, hands up.
“No! Absolutely not!” Ciarán shot back, shaking his head. “I am not a dancer!”
Ruairí said. “You are a dancer! I’ve seen ya at weddings! Don’t be lyin’ to me.”
“Dancin’ half-locked at me cousin’s wedding is not the same as…!” He gestured around. “...This! An’ I dance with me clothes on, thanks very much!”
“Not always.” Ruairí muttered, then winced when Ciarán shot him a look that could strip paint. “Alright, sorry! But serious now! You’ve rhythm! You pick things up quick!”
“An’ we’re not askin’ for the full monty.” Seán cut in, practical and brisk. “Just shirt off, trousers on. The focus is still on the full line, not just you. The women’ll assume you’re one of ours!”
Ciarán stared. “You want me to go out there half naked, in front of a rake of drunk women, and pretend I know what I’m at?”
“You won’t be pretendin’!” Ruairí said. “You do know. You’ve the timing. You just stick to me. I’ll be right beside ya. I go left, you go left. I drop, you drop. It’s easy!”
Seán said quickly. “Look, the main thing is the line doesn’t have a big ugly gap in it. If we cut Dara completely, the spacing goes to shite! It’ll look like amateur hour, and word of mouth’ll kill us!”
Ciarán dragged a hand down his face, heart hammering. “This is cracked!” He said. “Properly cracked! I came in for a quiet pint and to laugh at you, not to…!”
“Ciarán.” Ruairí stepped closer, hand landing on Ciarán’s shoulder. “Look at me, will ya?”
Reluctantly, Ciarán met his eyes.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ if I didn’t think you could hack it!” Ruairí said. “You know that, yeah? Dara’s sittin’ in a taxi right now, sick with worry, and we’re back here tryin’ to keep the show from fallin’ to bits. The lads rely on this gig. If the crowd turns, it hits everyone.”
Ciarán huffed and Ruairí continued. “It’s one night. One set. You go out, you follow me. We get through it, and you can rip the piss outta me about tonight for the rest of me life!”
Seán nodded. “We’ll pay you Dara’s rate for the night. Plus whatever tips come your way. But right now we’ve about twenty-five minutes before you’re meant to be on for the second half.”
“Twenty-five minutes? I don’t even have clothes for this yoke!” Ciarán protested, gesturing at himself. “I’m in jeans and a shirt!”
“We’ve wardrobe,” Seán said. “We’ll find somethin’ near your size. We’ll oil the torso, job done. Trust me, they won’t be lookin’ at yer outfit!”
“I am not gettin’ oiled up like a turkey!” Ciarán muttered.
“You are, yeah.” Ruairí said. “Everyone does. It’s the law!”
“This is ridiculous.”
“That it is.” Ruairí agreed cheerfully. “But it’s the best ridiculous option we have. Please, man?”
Ciarán looked between them. Seán’s stressed face, hopeful in spite of it. Ruairí’s familiar eyes, all the usual cheek peeled back to something pleading. Ciarán let out a slow breath, like something loosening and giving up inside of him. Ciarán closed his eyes for a beat, then opened them again.
“Alright.” He said. “Fine! I’ll do it. Just this once, do you hear me?”
Ruairí’s face split into a grin as Seán exhaled hard. The easy part was over. Now came the hard part - pun not intended….
Later backstage….
Ciarán stood there, heart racing, wondering what in the name of God he’d just signed himself up for. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Ruairí, staring wide-eyed at the bottom of the curtains.
“Holy God!” He muttered under his breath.
He was not wearing his jeans anymore. Wardrobe had descended on him the second he’d said yes. Now he was poured into a pair of black trousers that sat indecently low on his hips, tight enough to show every curve of his ass and thighs along with a pair of polished black boots.
Up top, there was nothing. No shirt. No vest. Just a simple black tie that nested between his developed pecs that looked shiny from the oil.
The oil he had very much not agreed to.
“I said I’d dance!” Ciarán protested. “I never said I’d be basted like a Christmas turkey!”
“Everyone gets oiled, love.” The female tech insisted, already squirting something into her palm that smelled of coconut. “Arms up.”
He shot Ruairí a betrayed look as his friend leaned on a costume rail, laughing.
“Don’t you dare!” Ciarán warned.
Before he could escape, the dresser’s hands were on him, brisk and efficient, smoothing warm oil across his chest and shoulders and down over his arms.
“Jaysus, would you pack it in!” He flinched. “I feel like a feckin’ steak!”
“You’ll thank me when you see the photos.” She said, utterly unmoved with his grousing, finishing with a quick pass over his collarbones.
“I feel like a greased-up pig at a country fair!” He muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Ruairí, eyes still locked on the curtains.
Ruairí snorted, giving him a slow, appreciative once-over. “You look unreal, would ya stop! The women out there are gonna lose their heads!”
“That’s what I’m afraid of!” Ciarán said. “I’ll slip and go skatin’ off the front of the stage like a bar of soap!”
“Then at least go knees first.” Ruairí said. “They’ll think it’s part of the act.”
He reached out suddenly and grasped Ciarán’s forearm, his eyes running over his friend, taking in the tense shoulders and the clenched jaw.
“Jaysus, yer shakin’.” He said quietly. “Look at you.”
Ciarán glanced down at his shaking hands. “Grand…” He said. “That’ll make it easier to shake me outta these pants, won’t it?”
Ruairí barked a laugh at that, and just beyond them, the rest of the lads were lining up. Someone cracked a joke about not tripping over a bridal sash on the floor, and a ripple of laughter ran through them, everyone but Ciarán that is.
“Right, places!” Seán strode into the group of his dancers. “Stick to Ruairí like glue.” Seán said to Ciarán. “You’ll be grand. Don’t overthink it. Smile. Or smirk. Whatever you’re capable of. They’ll eat up whatever ya give ’em.”
“That’s comfortin’,” Ciarán muttered but Seán had already moved on, ensuring everything else was in order just on the off chance that Ciarán was not able to pull this off and nothing else could possibly happen to compound the problem.
“Here.” Ruairí said, reaching up to straighten Ciarán’s tie, tugging it a little looser, letting it drape down between his pecs, hiding a little more than wardrobe originally intended. “There, bit of mystery. When we yank it off later, they’ll scream the place down.”
“Why are you speakin’ like this is normal?” Ciarán demanded.
“This is my job, remember? It is normal for me.” Ruairí chuckled. “And in about five minutes, it’ll be normal for you too. You’ll see.”
Ciarán swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “If I survive five minutes.”
Ruairí leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, his voice dropping to something only Ciarán could hear. “Breathe in.”
Ciarán inhaled, his breath shuddering despite himself.
“Breathe out.”
He let it go, slow, still shuddering.
“Good man.” Ruairí reassured him. “You’ve got this. Just remember, if you get lost, you look at me. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ciarán said, voice low.
Ruairí grinned, gave his shoulder a last solid pat, and turned him gently so he was facing the curtain dead-on, slotted into his place in the line of gleaming bodies. A couple of the lads gave him quick nods of encouragement, knowing and recognizing what he’s doing for them.
Through the curtain, they could hear the MC’s voice booming now, clearer than before.
“Alriiiiight, Dublin!” Celtic Thunder’s MC shouted into the microphone, his voice carrying to every corner over the music. “Have ye got any energy left for us tonight?”
Another wave of cheers, whistles and ear splitting shrieks!
Beside him, Ciarán felt Ruairí lean in one last time, his lips close to his ear. “That’s your cue.” He said with a grin in his voice. “No backin’ out now.”
“Feck off!” Ciarán hissed, but it came out with obvious nerves.
The opening beats of the track thumped even louder, loud enough Ciarán could feel it in his feet. The curtains shuddered as one of the stagehands grabbed the rope.
“Ready lads?” Sean called down the line.
There was a chorus of confident responses from the young men waiting to hit that stage. And Ciarán? Ciarán’s heart hammered against his ribs, eyes wide as he stared straight ahead. The curtains parted and he felt Ruairí’s hand on the small of his back, ushering him out onto the stage…TO BE CONTINUED -
I know, I’m a wicked little tease, ain’t I?
“Right, first off, I owe you lovely lot a bit of an apology, don’t I? I just left you good folk on a bit of a cliffhanger with that little story about me shakin’ me arse on stage in Dublin. Trust me, I had a good reason. Wrestlin’ an’ dancin’ have one thing in common, yeah? You always leave them wantin’ more. You don’t give the whole show away in one go. You give ’em a taste. You watch their eyes light up, and then you make ’em come back to see how the story really ends.”
“And speakin’ of stories, I’ve been sittin’ here wonderin’ for a while whose story I was goin’ to be the sacrificial lamb for in me first proper outing in the ring. Me SCW debut, as it were. I thought it’d be somethin’ obvious. A name like Anthrax, or the Troll, one of the big mad yokes they send out to see if the new lad swims or sinks. That’s how it usually goes, isn’t it? Feed the fresh meat to the monster or the basement sweller and see what’s left. So imagine me surprise when I see the card and it’s not Anthrax or the Troll. It’s Brayden Hilton. Third generation star. Golden boy lineage. And the son of SCW’s current World Bombshell Champion, Crystal Caldwell. If you could see me right now, this’d be the bit where I’m rollin’ me eyes so hard I can see into last week. ’Cause honest to God, I reckon I’d have a better match against Anthrax or the Troll than I will draggin’ Brayden through his own ego.”
“Now, I’m not just talkin’ out me arse here, yeah? Let’s actually look at Brayden’s track record, because it reads less like the rise of a third generation prodigy and more like a cautionary tale. Fella shows up August 8th, 2021, big debut, all puffed up, runnin’ his mouth at Fenris of all people. And what happens? He gets his head kicked clean off his shoulders. That’s not me exaggeratin’, that was just a common Sunday for Fenris. And I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ he must never have gotten that head properly reattached, because look how he follows up for the rest of his SCW career.”
“August 22nd, same year. Triple Threat against Caleb Storms and Cassian Reed. You’d think the lad might tighten up, yeah? Learn from the Fenris experience. But no. He drops that one too. Now, I’ll be fair. He didn’t take the fall. He wasn’t the one pinned. But let’s not be daft. If you don’t win, you still lose. You’re still walkin’ to the back with nothin’ to show for it but embarrassment and excuses. Brayden can wrap it any way he likes, the record still says the lad couldn’t get it done.”
“Then we skip on a bit to October 10th, still 2021, and he’s up against David Shepherd. Fresh chance, clean slate, right? Nah. Loses that one as well. By this point, if you’re keepin’ count, we’re not talkin’ a rookie rough patch anymore. We’re talkin’ patterns. And the pattern is Brayden Hilton showin’ up, talkin’ big, and goin’ home lighter in pride than he what came in with.”
“But we’re still not finished. Not by a long shot! November 7th, 2021, High Stakes XI. Big stage, big eyes on the show, and Brayden finds himself in a Fatal Four Way against Mac Bane, Señor Vinnie, and Miles Kasey. That’s some serious company, no doubt about it! And what does he do with it? He tanks it. Doesn’t rise to the occasion, doesn’t shock the world, doesn’t steal the show. Just another notch in the L column while the real killers in that match go on to bigger and better things.”
“First time we see him back after High Stakes is November 28th, and he’s across the ring from Ken Davison. Another chance, another fresh bell. And once again, the ending’s the same. Loses that one too. Then on December 4th, he’s dropped into another Triple Threat, this time against Lincoln Daniels and Alexander Raven. New mix of talent, new opportunity to prove he’s learned anything at all. Result? Same story. Lost again. At this point, if you’re Brayden, you’ve either gotta dig deep and reinvent yourself, or you quietly wander off before people start usin’ your win-loss record as a punchline!”
“And clearly that last one stung because we don’t see him again for a while. He disappears, vanishes into thin air. Poof! And when he finally slinks back into the light on February 19th, 2022, he’s starin’ across the ring at Austin James Mercer. And what happens? He gets pulverised. You can dress that up all you like with any excuse you can come up with. The result is the same. He ate another loss, walked to the back, still not a single win to his name.”
“Now here’s the part that really gets me. Despite all that, despite this whole catalogue of disappointment, Brayden’s still struttin’ around backstage like he’s the second comin’! Tries to issue an open challenge to Kris Ryans, like he’s earned the right to say that name. And Kris Ryans, multi-time champion, Hall of Famer, just goes, ‘Nah! I’m grand, but thanks!’ Wouldn’t even give him the time of day! Wouldn’t waste the mileage on the boots! That’s how little weight Brayden’s name carries when all he’s done is talk loud and lose louder.”
“Last time we see Brayden in that run is April 3rd, and it’s against Mark Cross. Different opponent, same ending. He tanks it. Again. No twist, no surprise, no heroic underdog story. Just Brayden Hilton linin’ up another loss in an already impressive collection.”
“So let’s do the sums together, will we? ’Cause I know numbers can be tricky when your head’s been kicked in as often as his has. By my count, that’s eight matches. Eight back to back showings. Eight straight losses. Not one solitary win in the whole bin. And sure, fair enough, a few of those names are stiff competition! A couple of Hall of Famers in there. Some former and future World Champs to boot! But the way Brayden struts around the place now, chest out and feathers up like a right peacock, you’d swear he’d pulled a miracle out of the bag somewhere along the way. You’d swear there was at least one night where he backed up the talk. But no. He just fades away into SCW’s history like a bad subplot, and we don’t see him again. Until now that is.”
“Funny timing that, isn’t it? Man hasn’t been seen in three bloody years. Never won a match here. Not once. No stock. No leverage in negotiations. But the very moment his mam wins the World Championship, suddenly there’s a contract on the table for young Brayden. Suddenly the doors that were closed are open again. Suddenly he’s back bein’ called a future star. Where I’m from, we’ve a phrase for that. That’s called bein’ a nepo baby. That’s not grind. That’s not hunger. That’s not even ‘I clawed me way back because I love this business!’ That’s, ‘Me mam’s got gold, so I got lucky!’”
“And it doesn’t stop there, does it? Either he’s hidin’ behind his sister while she does more damage than he does, lettin’ her throw fists and or take the brunt of the damage while he plays in the background, or he’s leanin’ on his mam’s name like it’s a crutch! When your ring gear is stitched together out of other people’s accolades, you can’t be shocked when no one takes you seriously. When the Hilton legacy walks into a room now, it’s Crystal makin’ the floor shake. Brayden’s just the echo of the door slammin’ suit in his face.”
“For a third generation star, the star’s light clearly went dim somewhere along the line. The grandparent built somethin’ to stand on. His mam is World Champion, carryin’ the top prize and doin’ the family proud between those ropes every single night. And what has Brayden done to honour that family name? Nothin’ but run and hide when the goin’ gets tough! First sign of real resistance, he disappears. First stretch of bad luck, he vanishes for three years and only creeps back in when the path is greased for him by someone else’s success. That’s not legacy. That’s not pride. That’s a passenger climbin’ onto a train someone else paid for.”
“Now, I’m not gonna stand here and pretend he’s got nothin’ goin’ for him. That’d be stupid, and I’m not stupid. Brayden does have one very real advantage over me: experience. He’s been in there with some serious hitters. He’s stood across from monsters and legends and men who don’t know the meanin’ of takin’ a night off. He’s felt what it’s like to get smashed on a big stage, heard the bell ring when it wasn’t his hand gettin’ raised. That counts for somethin’, I’ll give him that. He’s walked this road before I ever laced a boot in SCW.”
“But here’s the part he’s not ready for. He is not, absolutely not, gettin’ his first win in over four years at my expense! I don’t care what his surname is! I don’t care who’s holdin’ the World Title in his house! I don’t care how many times he’s practiced lookin’ intense in the mirror with that bulldog nose sneer of his! This third generation star is walkin’ into that ring with a clean slate on paper and a dirty record in reality, and I’m not about to be the soft landing he never earned. If he wants to restart his career, he can do it somewhere else, on someone else’s bones. I’m not here to be his rebound victory. I’m here to make sure his story picks up exactly where he left off. Flat on his back, starin’ up at the lights, wonderin’ where it all went wrong.”
“So Brayden, if you’re listenin’, remember this one thing from your Uncle Ciarán, yeah? You can come out to your fancy music, you can wear all the right gear, you can stand in your ma’s shadow and hope a bit of that shine rubs off on you. But once that bell rings, there’s no mammy, no sister, no family name standin’ in there with you. There’s just you and me. And when it’s all said and done, when the ref’s hand comes down for three, you’re gonna realise somethin’ very simple. The only thing you inherited in this place is expectation. The beatin’ you’re about to take?”
“You’re earnin’ that all by yourself.”
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