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Messages - Celtic Thunder
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« 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?”
2
« 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.
3
« 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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