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.”
