The door was stuck again, because of course it was. The back door of the kitchen always seemed to stick if you pulled on it too gently. He remembered from the first time he thought he had locked himself out in the alleyway to throw out garbage and the matron of the soup kitchen came looking for him.
She had complained to the church parish but the overall budgets were tight enough so they had to resort to trickery to open the door as opposed to a full-on repair.
With his palm flat, Ciarán pushed with his shoulder, forcing the door open and allowing Ciarán to slip inside, black hood up, gym bag over one shoulder, and the smell of onions, dishwater, coffee, and bleach settling over him before the door shut behind him.
“You’re late!” Called a woman's voice from the prep table.
Mrs. Marisol Flores, a Hispanic woman in her sixties, stood across the kitchen, working with a bustle that defied her age, issuing orders to the many other volunteers that hurried around the kitchen.
“By three minutes.” Ciarán replied, setting down his bag and moving to grab an apron.
“Four.” She countered in her thick accent.
“Well put me in front of a firing squad!” Ciarán declared, having knotted his apron strings and turned around to face her. The two engaged in a brief stare down before she smiled genuinely and said, “That's my boy “
The first time he had come to Saint Jude Community Kitchen, it had been in the middle of the day. He had not meant to. He had left his apartment because the walls felt like they were closing in tight and well-meaning friends and family simply would not leave him alone.
Marisol had been taking out trash when she found him looking up at the church affixed to the kitchen. A tall Irishman in an emerald green hoodie, hands in his pockets and looking like he was either lost or was trying not to break.
She had asked if he was hungry or looking for a bed, and it suddenly hit him like a freight train how bad he must have looked. He nearly walked away, but instead he asked if she needed help in the kitchen. Back in Ireland, he and his family were heavily into charitable contributions but with a catch. The Doyles believed for it to be a true act of charity, it had to be away from recognition.
Marisol nodded once, handed him a trash bag, and told him if he was not hungry, he could be useful. They always needed help.
That had been two months ago.
Ever since then, he showed up a minimum of twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays mostly. He chopped carrots, carried crates, mopped floors, fixed a loose pantry hinge, scrubbed pans and once spent nearly an hour helping someone look for a missing wedding ring that turned out to be folded into their own sleeve.
Now once he had washed his hands thoroughly, he busied himself with the one chore that Marisol said he was made for. Peeling potatoes. Because in her own words, *You're an Irish man. You should know your way around potatoes.”
Ciarán had temporarily forgotten himself in retorted, “That would be so offensive if it wasn't true.” And got straight to work.
Nobody asked why he came. That was part of why he kept coming.
“Skin on or off?” Ciarán asked, picking up a peeler.
“Off tonight.” Marisol answered. “We're mashing them.”
“Yer a cruel woman.”
“Keep talking and you can do onions too!”
He shut his mouth and started peeling. Daring he might be but he knew when to pick his battles.
There was comfort in this work to help the hungry, though he would not have said that out loud. No one stared. No one softened their voice when they spoke to him. No one treated him like some fragile porcelain doll.
In the ring, every movement was watched. In interviews, every word was listened to and dissected. Here, if he stood still too long, Marisol thought he needed more to do to keep busy and gave it to him.
He liked that.
He had not come here because he believed in people. People hurt each other. People believed your pain belonged to them because being a celebrity, you naturally gave up your right to privacy.
But people were also hungry.
That was the bit that made being angry at humanity inconvenient at best. It was easy enough to hate mankind as an idea. It was harder to hate the old man who thanked him twice for extra gravy. It was harder to be angry at the mother who pretended she was not hungry so her kids could eat first. It gutted him seeing the small child with second hand clothes and a dirty face act like that slice of pie was the Second Coming.
So Ciarán came here. Not because he was good, mind you. Not because he was healed. He came because some stubborn part of him refused to let the worst people he had known become the only proof of what people were.
By six, the kitchen was a loud and chaotic mess of efficiency. Food was pulled from the ovens. Someone dropped a stack of bowls and swore so badly that Marisol smacked him with a towel and told him the Lord heard every word.
Ciarán stayed in the back, where he preferred it. He stirred potatoes with a long-handled spoon, added butter when Marisol told him to stop being cheap and tried not to think about the weekend ahead. Soon enough there would be lights again. Cameras. His name said in that way people said it when they wanted the wrestler, not the man standing in a kitchen with mashed potatoes on his nose.
Here, he was just Ciarán.
Sometimes not even that. Sometimes he was “Red,” other times “big boy.” Once, a woman out front had called him handsome and asked if he was married, and he had walked into the freezer trying to escape while Marisol laughed herself breathless.
“Red!” Marisol called. “Take this tray out. They need more rolls.”
He looked up. “Out front?”
“That is where the food goes, yes.”
He stared at the tray with all of those warm rolls glistening with butter. Nothing dangerous. Nothing worth the tightness that started under his ribs. He finally picked up the tray and pushed through the swinging door.
The first thing that he noticed was how tragically full the dining area was. Not just with homeless people in search of perhaps their only hot meal of the day, but people who were so down on their luck scraping by that they had to decide between rent money and a meal.
He moved to the counter where a line of volunteers were serving the people and set down the rolls when he heard it.
“Grandma!” It was a boy’s voice, low but not low enough. “That’s Ciarán Doyle!”
His shoulders tightened before he could stop them. He already knew what was coming and he slowly looked up and over to the direction the voice came from. The boy was maybe fourteen, skinny, brown hair falling into his eyes, hoodie too big for him. Beside him sat an elderly woman with short white hair and a cardigan buttoned to her throat despite the heat. Her tray was untouched. She looked at Ciarán, then at the boy.
The boy shrank a little.
Ciarán saw the phone in the boy's hand and it started to turn and he felt himself reacting. But this time it was not about himself. There were people bent over soup bowls with their heads down. A woman at the far end kept her face turned toward the wall. An older man had flinched every time the door opened. No one here had come to be captured in the background of someone else’s memory.
Ciarán held up a hand and shook his head. “Please don’t.”
The boy froze and his face paled. “I wasn’t gonna... I-I'm sorry!”
Ciarán looked at the boy properly, and the people working the line shifted uncomfortably. Ciarán then saw the panic threatening to take over a boy who was already experiencing the unfair hardships that life had to offer on a silver platter and he immediately regretted his tone.
“You’re alright.” Ciarán said, softer as he approached the table. “Just not in here, yeah? People deserve their peace.”
The boy nodded quickly. “Yeah. Sorry. I-I didn’t think!”
Beside him, the elderly woman with the white hair studied Ciarán over her untouched food. His gran perhaps? Maybe his guardian or, heaven forbid... both? Ciarán didn't know their story and it wasn't his place to. He just knew he came here tonight to stay anonymous and help... Well, one out of two wasn't bad.
He placed a hand on the back of the boy's chair and the other on the table, saying, “After dinner, if you still want one, we can step outside. One picture. No one else in it.”
Malik’s face lit before he could stop it. “Really?”
Ciarán nodded, nodding toward the elderly woman. “And she takes it, so there’s a witness if you make me look short.”
For the first time all evening, the boy laughed -- and the Grandma figure looked forever grateful for it.
When Ciarán came back through the swinging door, Marisol was at the oven, quickly and efficiently removing tray after tray of brownies and setting them on a table to cool. Ciarán stood at the table's edge and rubbed the back of his neck. “A lad recognized me.”
Marisol looked at him, a flicker of concern on her face. “Out there?”
“Aye. Fourteen, maybe. Sweet kid. He had his phone up for half a second.” Ciarán glanced toward the door. “I told him not to. Kid seemed embarrassed and I felt embarrassed for him.”
Marisol took that in, the maturity of the situation and the way he thought about the dignity of those people ahead of his own self discomfort at the recognition. Ciarán tried to smile but failed spectacularly. “That’s why I asked to stay back here.”
Marisol didn't press, she simply waited.
He looked down at his hands. “It’s not just because I don’t want people staring at me. I mean, I don’t, but it’s more than that. There’s people out there who don’t want to be seen. People hiding from someone. People ashamed. People who’ve had a rotten enough day without ending up in the background of a stranger’s photo.”
His jaw worked once.
“That’s not fair to them.”
Marisol’s face softened and before Ciarán could react, she reached up and stroked his long, red hair as if she were his Nan and not a mini tyrant boss in a kitchen. Ciarán startled, but met her eyes and she said, "You're a good boy. You know that?"
Ciarán huffed, trying to pass it off. "Debatable." Earning him a light swat to his bare shoulder with a dish towel before she put him back to work.
Afterwards, Ciarán stepped back into the dining room. Malik was helping his grandmother gather their trays, his old phone tucked carefully in his hoodie pocket as if he had decided not to risk getting his hopes up.
Ciarán approached their table and the boy looked up so fast his hair fell into his eyes. Ciarán nodded toward the side hall near the pantry door, where the wall was plain, the light was kind, and no one else would be caught behind them. “Still want that picture?”
Malik’s mouth opened, then shut and then opened again. “Yeah, please! Are you sure?”
Ciarán just smiled, doing what he did best. Put on a show. Ciarán led him and his Gran to the side hall and stood with his back to the blank wall. Ciarán put one arm lightly around the boy’s shoulders, loose enough that he could step away if he wanted. The boy beamed so brightly one could almost forget he had been eating in a soup kitchen only minutes earlier.
The elderly woman held up the boy's phone and said, “Smile! ... Or look haunted and dramatic. I understand that’s popular now.”
Ciarán laughed despite himself, and that was the picture she took. A real laugh. The boy grinning beside him.
From the kitchen doorway, Marisol watched with her arms folded. She did not call attention to it. She only smiled and gave one slow nod and Ciarán caught it over the boy’s head.
For once, being seen did not feel like being taken from. It felt like giving something back.
"Last week I climbed into the King’s Ransom Ladder Match asking for a chance, and now I am standing here having earned one. I didn’t like being in that type of match. I think I made that abundantly clear. But we play the cards we’re dealt, don’t we? And for me, it paid off in the end.”
“I won’t pretend that didn’t mean something to me. I wanted that opportunity. I wanted that spotlight that only comes with a Supercard event! I wanted that road to Summer XXXTreme XIV, and now that I have it! And I promise you this, I am not stepping onto that cruise ship just to make up the numbers! I am stepping on to face Ryan Keys as the challenger and stepping off as the new champion!"
"But before Summer XXXTreme, before the Ultimate X over the pool for the Roulette Championship, I have Zayvion Lyons standing across the ring from me. You know, the former champion. And Zayvion, let me say this clearly so everyone out there - especially yourself - can understand! You have nothing to be ashamed of. You lost the Roulette Championship to Ryan Keys, aye, but that means you had the Roulette Championship to lose in the first place. That is more than I can say personally. You stood at the top of that division. You wore the gold. You carried it into battle, and nobody can take that away from you!"
"Some people might mock a man for losing a championship. Some people might point and laugh because it makes them feel taller. Most of those men have never worn gold around their waists so to hell with `em! I am not going to do that to you, Zayvion. I am not going to pretend that losing the Roulette Championship makes you any less talented. If anything, you should take comfort in the fact that you are already more respected as a former one-time champion than Logan Hunter is as a former three-time title holder!"
"That is the truth of it. Championships matter, but how a man carries himself after the bell matters too. There are men who win gold and somehow make it look smaller around their waist. Then there are men who lose gold and still walk out with their name intact because everyone knows they fought for everything they had! That is you, Zayvion. You had the title. You fought for the title. You lost the title. Now the question is not whether you can survive the fall. The question is what kind of man climbs back up after landing hard."
"I have nothing but respect for you. As a man, as a fighter, as someone who walked into SCW with a name that already carried history and still wanted to carve out something of his own. That is no small thing. You come from great stock, lad. Eddie Lyons is a name that still lives on to this day because men like that do not fade just because time keeps moving. And Victoria? Any man or woman in this business could and should aspire to have even half the bloody command she carries when she steps into a ring! That is the kind of legacy around you, Zayvion. That is the weight on your shoulders. And to your credit, you have not let it crush you. You have taken it and tried to turn it into something that belongs to you and you alone!"
"So when that bell rings, understand what I am coming for. I am not coming to dance on the grave of your title reign, because that would make me a fool and a coward besides. I am coming to make you remember that the man who won the King’s Ransom Ladder Match did not stumble into the Ultimate X. He earned it."
"So bring me your anger, Zayvion. Bring me your pride. Bring me whatever is left burning after Ryan Keys took that title from you, because I know there is fire there yet! Bring me the weight of the Lyons name and the hunger to make your own roar louder than all of them put together! Bring me the man who refuses to be remembered only for the night he lost!"
"And I will bring you Ciarán Doyle. I will bring you the man who climbed the ladder, took the King’s Ransom and punched his ticket to Summer XXXTreme XIV! I will bring you respect, aye, but do not mistake respect for hesitation. You have held the Roulette Championship. I have not. And that, Zayvion, is exactly why I am fighting like a starving man with the feast finally in sight."
"When we meet, it will be about two competitors standing in the ring with something to prove and no room for excuses. You are trying to show the world that losing the Roulette Championship did not break you. I am trying to show the world that winning King’s Ransom was only the start. So let us give them a match worthy of both stories!"
