OFF CAMERA
Las Vegas, Nevada
Ryan Keys’ backyard
Las Vegas. Ryan’s backyard. Bad idea already in full swing.
Ryan Keys is standing out there in the grass with the SCW Roulette Championship slung over one shoulder, sunglasses on, grinning like the poles behind him aren’t currently fighting for their lives.
They are though.
One pole is already leaning hard. Another one looks like it got sweet-talked into this whole thing and is now having serious regrets about being supportive. The cables are up there, technically, but nobody in their right mind would call that mess “designed.” It looks more like Ryan got halfway through measuring, got bored, and figured pure confidence could finish the job.
The crash mats aren’t really arranged so much as just... scattered. One over by the fence. Two kinda under the cables. Another one slightly off-center because apparently Ryan thinks pain is something you can negotiate with.
There’s a folding table nearby. Water bottles everywhere. Athletic tape. A bowl of fruit that nobody has touched. And that drill sitting way too close to Ryan.
Aron has already moved that drill twice.
The sign taped to the table is crooked enough to feel honest.
RYAN’S TOTALLY SAFE SUMMER XXXTREME TRAINING ZONE
Underneath, squeezed in smaller letters:
PLEASE DO NOT DIE HERE. WE MEAN IT THIS TIME.
Ryan gives the camera one firm nod.
“I think this thing will hold.”
Behind him, one of the poles leans a little more.
Ryan doesn’t turn around.
“Structurally? Feeling great.”
A cable gives a long, ugly creak. Ryan lifts one finger.
“That’s it settling in. Trust the process.”
The whole thing comes down, but not all at once. That would be too easy. First the cable drops. Then a pole buckles. Then the rest follows in a loud crash of metal, mats, and one lawn chair folding itself into retirement.
Ryan stands there for a second. The sunglasses hide most of his face, but not enough.
“...Aron?”
The camera swings over to Aron Baltasarsson standing off to the side with his arms crossed. He stares into the lens.
“No.”
Ryan points back without looking.
“You didn’t even hear the idea.”
“I heard gravity winning.”
A small pause.
“Again.”
Smash cut.
Ryan is now sitting in a patio chair with the Roulette Championship across his lap. The wreckage is still behind him, right where it fell, making the whole yard look like somebody started a lawsuit and then got distracted.
A crew member walks through the shot with a bent cable in both hands. He gives the camera one exhausted look and keeps going.
Ryan watches him pass.
“People keep saying Ultimate X Over The Pool is risky. Ryan, you’re hanging over water. Ryan, one slip and you’re done. Ryan, maybe don’t build this crap in your backyard with vibes and two YouTube videos.”
Ryan thinks about that.
“Which feels unfair.”
He shifts the title on his lap.
“I take things seriously. Hair products. Entrance timing. How many buttons is too many buttons on a shirt.”
He lifts the championship a little.
“And this.”
A jump cut.
Ryan stands at the folding table with the power drill in his hand. He is holding it like a man who either has never used one before or has used one exactly wrong and learned nothing.
“Who says I’m not a working champion?”
He lowers his sunglasses, squints at the drill, then points it toward one of the poles like they are about to settle something personal.
Aron steps into frame and takes the drill away.
Ryan’s mouth drops open.
“Wow.”
Aron does not look sorry.
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me find out what that button does.”
“That was the point.”
Ryan looks at the camera.
“Some people fear progress.”
A little later, the yard looks less embarrassing. Not normal, but less embarrassing.
The crooked poles are gone. Actual riggers have shown up, which helps immediately because somebody now owns a tape measure and knows why. New anchors get marked. Cables get laid out properly. Mats move into places that make sense instead of wherever Ryan’s optimism originally landed them.
Aron stands nearby with a tablet, checking notes and pretending he cannot hear Ryan giving fake motivational speeches to construction equipment.
Ryan is hauling mats across the grass. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. White tank top damp at the collar. The Roulette Championship has been moved to the patio table, well away from anything that spins, tightens, drills, or exists within Ryan’s reach for longer than three seconds.
Ryan drops a mat beside the others.
“This good?”
One of the riggers nods.
“Yeah. Keep this area clear.”
Ryan looks down at the mat.
“Landing zone.”
He points to it.
“Way better name than ‘where Ryan becomes a decorative object.’”
The rigger laughs.
Ryan snaps his fingers and points.
“See? That’s morale. Leadership, even.”
From near the tablet, Aron says, “Leadership would have been calling professionals before the first thing collapsed.”
Ryan looks over his shoulder.
“We’re not living in the past, Aron.”
“You tried to tighten a cable with pliers.”
“And?”
“And confidence.”
Ryan nods like this proves his point.
“The cable learned respect.”
Aron stares at him for a second, then looks into the camera.
“It did not.”
Another cut.
Aron stands near the patio for his own talking head. Behind him, Ryan has stopped messing with the tools and is actually listening to one of the riggers. It is almost suspicious.
The rigger points up at the cable, then down at the mats, explaining how Ryan is supposed to move across the grips without letting his body swing out too far. Ryan points up once, asks something, then nods at the answer.
Aron watches him instead of the camera for a second.
“This is what people miss with him.”
Behind him, Ryan says something that gets one of the workers laughing.
Aron keeps his voice even.
“He jokes so nobody notices how long he has been working. He keeps the room light so no one feels the weight of it all at once.”
Ryan calls out from behind him.
“I heard praise.”
Aron does not turn around.
“You heard a maintenance update.”
Ryan gives him a thumbs-up anyway and goes back to the rigger.
Aron waits a beat.
“He does not stop. That is the problem and the point.”
Cut to Ryan on the small practice platform.
This setup is lower than anything waiting for him at Summer XXXTreme. No pool underneath. No cruise ship. No crowd waiting for the splash. Just grips, cables, crash mats, and Ryan rolling his shoulders like his body already knows this is going to be stupid.
Aron stands below with a stopwatch and a bottle of water.
Ryan claps chalk onto his hands.
“First real run.”
“Do not make it theatrical.”
Ryan looks down at him.
“I’m dressed like this in my backyard.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is very much an answer.”
Ryan jumps. He catches the first grip, swings too fast, reaches badly for the second, and drops straight onto the mat with a heavy thud.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the sky.
“Still champion.”
Aron steps closer.
“That was the mat.”
“The mat knows who signs the checks.”
“You do not sign the checks.”
Ryan points upward without sitting up.
“Emotionally, I do.”
He gets up.
The next run is better. Not good, but better. He catches the first grip, swings, gets the second one, then his hand slips on the third and for half a second his whole body twists under him.
That grin disappears quick.
His jaw tightens. The muscles in his shoulder pull hard. Aron takes one step forward, but Ryan kicks his legs once, swings his free arm up, and catches the grip again.
A couple of the riggers clap.
Ryan hangs there, breathing hard.
“Working champion.”
Aron folds his arms.
“Oddly committed champion.”
Ryan drops to the mat and lands on his feet this time.
“I’ll take it.”
Aron hands him the water. Ryan drinks without making a face about it, which feels like growth.
“You can rest,” Aron says.
Ryan lowers the bottle.
“I can?”
“Yes.”
“Hate that.”
“You need it.”
Ryan takes one more drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and glances up at the rig again.
“One more.”
Aron’s face barely changes.
“You said that four times ago.”
Ryan starts walking back to the platform.
“And now it has tradition.”
After that, time gets weird.
Ryan falls. Gets up. Falls again. Laughs before anybody can ask if he is okay. Tapes a finger when the skin starts to pull. Helps drag another mat across the grass. Takes advice. Ignores the part where everyone says maybe that is enough for today.
One rigger fixes his hand placement, and Ryan listens. Another adjusts the spacing, and Ryan watches. He makes a joke about looking like an off-brand action figure that comes with lower back pain, then climbs again.
The crew keeps laughing, but after a while, it changes. Less at him. More with him. Then, after another bad landing and another climb right after it, not much laughter at all.
Just watching.
Las Vegas starts turning gold around them. The broken rig has been hauled off somewhere out of frame. The tools are mostly packed up. Somebody has moved the dead lawn chair away like it deserved privacy. The new setup holds steady, quiet above the mats.
Ryan is back on the platform.
No sunglasses now. Those are folded beside the title on the patio table. His hands are taped. There is a red scrape along one forearm from where the cable caught him earlier. Sweat runs down the side of his face.
Aron stands below.
Ryan looks up.
“Again.”
Aron checks the time.
“You sure?”
Ryan does not answer with a joke this time.
“Again.”
He jumps and catches the first grip. The second comes fast, but he gets it. The third is rougher, his swing carrying him a little too far before he pulls himself back under control.
The fourth is not clean. His fingers catch the edge wrong, slide, and for one ugly second his body drops.
One hand holds.
The backyard goes quiet.
Ryan’s legs swing under him. His shoulder strains. Aron moves in like he might have to catch him, but Ryan grits his teeth, drags himself back under control, and gets his other hand up.
Both hands on.
The crew claps.
Ryan hangs there for a second, breathing through his teeth, then swings down and drops safely to the mat. He lands on his feet, takes one step, and stays up.
For once, nothing clever comes out right away.
He just stands there, hands on hips, staring up at the rig.
Aron brings him water. Ryan takes it and drinks.
“That,” Aron says, “is what I mean.”
Ryan looks over.
“What?”
“You make it look easy until somebody watches long enough to see it isn’t.”
Ryan’s expression changes for half a second. Softer. Tired. Maybe proud.
Then he gets himself back.
“Careful. That almost sounded nice.”
“It was an observation.”
“A nice observation.”
“Do not ruin it.”
Ryan picks up the Roulette Championship from the table. The plate catches the sunset when he turns it in his hands.
Behind him, the rig stays standing.
The first one fell.
This one does not.
Ryan taps the title plate twice and slides it onto his shoulder.
“Alright.”
That smile starts coming back, not fresh, not perfect, but still his.
“Let’s talk.”
---
ON CAMERA
Las Vegas, Nevada
Empty obstacle gym after hours
The gym is mostly dark when the camera comes on. Not spooky dark. Closed-for-the-night dark. A few lights still hum over the mats. Ropes hang loose from the ceiling. Bars sit off to one side. The warped wall waits in the back with all the personality of a parking ticket.
Ryan Keys walks into frame with the SCW Roulette Championship over his shoulder.
No sunglasses now. Hands taped. Chalk on his palms. Tank top still damp from training. A red mark sits across one forearm where the cable from earlier got a little too friendly.
He glances up at the hanging grips.
“Backyard was round one.”
A small nod toward the room.
“This place is round two.”
Ryan walks underneath the grips and studies them like they owe him money.
“You ever see one of these places on TV and think, yeah, I could do that?”
He reaches up, grabs one grip, and hangs there for two seconds. Maybe three. Then he drops to the mat and shakes out his hand.
“Your hands find out the truth real fast.”
He pats the title.
“That’s why I’m here.”
Ryan keeps moving, slow enough that the camera follows without rushing.
“Everybody wants to talk about the pool. I get it. Ultimate X Over The Pool sounds like something somebody came up with after three energy drinks and a group chat that should’ve been muted.”
He grins.
“And yeah, the pool is the funny part. Somebody slips, everybody yells, splash, replay, memes by Tuesday.”
The grin thins a little.
“That’s not the part I keep thinking about.”
Ryan lifts one taped hand and flexes his fingers.
“I keep thinking about the grab. That one second where your hand starts sliding and your body hasn’t caught up with the bad news yet.”
He looks back to the camera.
“And before I get anywhere near that cruise ship, I’ve got LJ Kasey.”
A breath leaves him, half laugh and half respect.
“LJ, I’m not doing the mystery opponent speech. I know who you are. Tall, fast, smooth, annoying reach, good timing, and that Kasey thing where you people hit the floor and somehow take it personally.”
Ryan smirks.
“Some families pass down recipes. Yours apparently passes down refusal.”
He passes the ropes and taps one with the back of his hand.
“I booked King’s Ransom, so yeah, I watched it. I watched you climb. Watched you get knocked around. Watched you go back up anyway. You got close, too. Close enough that for a second, it looked like my Summer XXXTreme problem might have your name on it instead of Ciarán’s.”
A small shrug.
“Didn’t happen.”
Ryan glances at the title.
“But you made him earn it.”
He adjusts the championship on his shoulder.
“That matters. I’m not pretending it doesn’t.”
He steps onto the mat under the grips.
“I’ve been on the other side of that lately. People wondering if I’m built for this or if I just had one great night with good lighting.”
Ryan smiles, but not too wide.
“I took the title from Zayvion. Then Bill Barnhart tried to make my ribs part of the Indiana Farmers Coliseum floor.”
He taps the plate.
“Still here.”
Ryan sets the championship on a nearby platform. Carefully. He tries to make it look casual and fails a little.
“Hold that thought.”
He jumps up, catches the first grip, swings to the second, then the third. It is not pretty-perfect. His legs kick a little too much. His shoulder tightens. He reaches for the next grip and misses the clean catch.
For one ugly second, he drops.
One hand catches.
Ryan hangs there, jaw tight. Then he swings himself back under control and drops to the mat. He lands, stumbles back one step, and laughs under his breath.
“Yeah. That.”
Ryan grabs the title again.
“That little ugly second is where everything changes.”
He points up at the grips.
“With you, LJ, that could be a springboard. Could be a roll-up. Could be me thinking I’ve got distance and then realizing your legs are basically tax fraud.”
A grin sneaks back in.
“At Summer XXXTreme, that ugly second is water.”
Ryan looks down at the title, then back up.
“And maybe somebody else holding this.”
He shakes his head once.
“Not interested.”
Ryan walks toward the warped wall and stops in front of it. The wall curves up over him, quiet and smug.
“This thing is disrespectful.”
He glances at the camera.
“You ever stand in front of something and feel like it already judged your shoes?”
Ryan backs up a few steps, then points at the title.
“And no, I’m not running with the belt. Aron already gave me the look.”
He sets the championship down, takes off toward the wall, plants one foot, and drives upward. His hands catch the top edge. His legs swing under him. For a second, it looks like he might peel off and land flat.
Instead, he pulls up just enough to slap the top. Then he drops back down, lands heavy, and takes an extra step so he does not fall over.
Ryan points at the wall.
“Still don’t like you.”
He walks back to the title, breathing harder, and slings it over his shoulder again.
“But I got up there.”
He turns back to the camera.
“I don’t get to treat Coral Gables like it’s just the thing before the thing.”
Ryan shifts the belt.
“You’ve got your own big match coming on the cruise. I’ve got mine. That makes this weird, right? Two guys with one eye on next week, trying not to get caught looking past the guy in front of them.”
He shakes his head.
“I hate when people do that to me.”
A little pause.
“So I’m not doing it to you.”
Ryan steps in closer.
“Bring the Bloomington guy. The reach, the speed, the stubborn part. Bring the one who almost had King’s Ransom and walked out mad because almost still meant empty hands.”
Ryan smiles again.
“I want that one.”
The smile sharpens.
“I need that one.”
He lifts the Roulette Championship.
“Because I don’t want to get on that ship wondering what happens when somebody pushes me right before the big one.”
A beat.
“I want the answer before I pack.”
Ryan walks back under the grips.
“I can deal with you, LJ.”
He raises one taped hand.
“My hands hurt.”
He rolls his shoulder once.
“This shoulder is being dramatic.”
He pats his lower back.
“My back has been sending emails all day.”
Then he taps the championship plate.
“But this is still here.”
Ryan looks up at the grips.
“This place wants you to rush. Wants you to grab wrong. Wants you to get cocky halfway through and pay for it.”
He looks back into the camera.
“So yeah, terrible place for me personally.”
A grin returns, more Ryan now.
“Lot of growth happening. Very uncomfortable. Do not recommend.”
He rests the title against his chest.
“LJ Kasey, I’ll see you at the Watsco Center.”
Ryan lifts the title.
“You bring everything that almost won you the King’s Ransom. I’ll bring everything that made me champion.”
He glances up at the grips one more time.
“This thing will hold.”
Then back to the camera.
“So will I.”
Ryan gives one tired, cocky smile as the camera pulls back. The gym stays quiet around him. The grips sway overhead. The warped wall sits there, still rude.
Ryan keeps the title on his shoulder.
Fade to black.
