The freshly mowed grass depresses beneath her Puma brand sneakers, still damp on this typically overcast Manchester morning. Cat Riley strides across the Manchester United football club field accompanied by a tall, wiry framed man in his mid-thirties sporting a combed back chestnut coif of male pattern baldness. Reaching into the side pocket of a blue and white Chelsea football club varsity style jacket he retrieves a crumpled list of questions hastily scribbled down the night before and peruses them while Cat’s blue lenses gaze longingly into the distance. Beyond the grassy field a crew of hard hat workers busily toil away preparing the stadium for the weekend SCW wrestling event. Behind the pair her cousin Fox lags as she bounces a soccer ball off alternating knees, her long, sunny blonde mane blowing in the crisp morning breeze. She turns her attention from her cousin, then to her newly reinstated managerial duo of Junior and his fraternal twin sister Cassie occupying themselves with another argument, to the workers and finally back to her guest. Absently the young Briton reaches up to adjust her own silken strands, tying it into a ponytail with a rubber band as the man clears his throat, seemingly ready to begin.
Oliver Davis, a wrestling journalist based in London and representing the Wrestletalk news channel and website had requested an interview with Cat almost immediately upon learning of her impending return. For years he had made it a custom to interview all British stars from foreign promotions, hoping to capitalize on their national popularity but Cat Riley had transcended mere stardom in the greater Manchester area being a hyper successful home-grown talent and he recognized that he would have to take care during the impending interview so as not to upset local fans. He lifts his microphone to begin but is forced to pause as the roar of a jet engine soaring overhead threatens to drown out their conversation.
Looking up Cat eyes the gleaming white Boeing 747 on a trajectory for the airport just outside of the city, her mind romps in the puffy clouds bouncing along the memory of her trip with Fox to where they had both grown up. This would be the first international flight she would take with her younger cousin and she had greatly anticipated the 10-hour trip, which would offer ample opportunity for the pair to catch up on old times. A smile wafts along her face with her thoughts gently sliding along the sleepy Jetstream of memory.
”Fox, wake your arse up”!
Her voice is tweaked into a high-pitched whine as she reaches over to shake her cousin in the next seat. Slumped over in the first-class cabin of Virgin Atlantic flight 209 from Las Vegas to Manchester the 19-year-old stirs briefly with a groggy moan before slumping back over, her head thumping against Cat’s shoulder.
“Bloody hell Fox”, she cries while gripping the youngster by the shoulders, preparing to shake her again. “This is urgent”, she goes on, proceeding to vigorously rattle the reposed blonde. “Wake the hell up, this is important”!
Grousing out of her slumber Fox blinks rapidly her hazel lenses struggling to adjust to the cabin lighting as she looks on bemusedly. “What is so important”? she asks through a yawn.
“Why do you have a butt and I don’t”?
“Huh”?
“I said why do you have an arse but I don’t”?
Slumping back into her seat and bringing her legs into a semi-fetal position Fox replies wearily, “Because I’m trying to sleep”.
“Because you’re… that’s no answer”! she cries.
With a sigh she slaps her cousin with an arm pillow gently atop the head as her eyes begin to roam about the surprisingly spacious room for something to occupy her thoughts and time. With Fox back in hibernation she turns her attention across the aisle of the first-class cabin to Gene Banton junior, her manager’s son. Like Fox, he too is curled into a semi-fetal position, his sneakers having been kicked off onto the blue carpeting with his feet propped atop a wooden footrest. With the small courtesy pillow clutched tightly like a teddy bear across his chest he is slumped over with his head resting against the shoulder of Cassie seated next to him. A student of UNLV the redhead is preoccupied with a biology textbook, underlining passages with a pen. Lifting her head briefly she notices Cat looking over towards her and offers a fleeting smile before diving back into her studies.
Following her unexpected loss to Crystal Hilton – Zdunich the pair had been relieved of their responsibilities by their father after it he learned of her subsequent breakdown. She had tried to explain to the hard-nosed man that it was not their fault, but as always, he had a ready reply, stating that they had failed to keep tabs on the health of their client. Mental or physical it was treated all the same. Upon beginning her treatment for anxiety and depression she was surprised by the pair returning home from a session. They had met her at Christian Underwood’s home, where she also lived to apologize and beg forgiveness. Cassie, with tears in her eyes explained to her the habit of arguing with her brother, a life-long antagonist. Junior, the free spirited ‘elder’ sibling in a surprising display of contriteness also offered a heartfelt apology, his own aqua lenses glassing over as he accepted full responsibility before taking her into a tight embrace. Although they had not asked for, nor expected to be reinstated the humble overture was enough to prompt her to approach their father asking to give them a second chance. In truth, she missed their company; the constant antics and whimsical chaos of the kinetic kids never failed to amuse her. Their love of fun and capricious nature reminded Cat a lot of herself.
With a smile of her own Cat reaches to the flat screen television embedded into the hard-plastic partition separation her seat from the ones in front to turn in on. The screen flickers to life, blinking twice as the plasma heats up before slowly revealing a blue sky with a smattering of marshmallow clouds. Settling back into her high-backed seat she grabs the travel pillow, clutching it to her chest and snatches the remote from the center console separating her seat from the window seat occupied by Fox.
“Hopefully something good is on”, she mutters to herself. “Or at least something boring enough to knock me out”.
“Hello, Cat Riley, are you awake?”
The voice, shrill and determined snaps Cat from her reverie, bringing her instantly back into the world of the living. With a vacillating glare she returns her attention to Mr. Davis as they continue to walk across the softly sod field and smiles weakly.
“Sorry”, she stammers. “I was sort of day dreaming”.
“Was I in it”? Oliver asks with a wry grin. Before she can respond however he thrusts his hand up, an indicator that he is ready to begin and assumes a more practiced, professional tone. “You have been out of action for two months now”, he states. “Yet, for your first match back you are scheduled against the very opponent responsible for your hiatus to begin with. Given everything that you have been through do you feel that you are ready for such a challenging opponent coming off such a layoff”?
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure”, she responds in a deadpan, casting her gaze downward onto the moist grass depressing beneath her loudly colored red, green, yellow and white high tops sporting obnoxious Pikachu-like tongues with folded wings. Taking a deep breath, she sighs in appreciation of the smell of fresh grass having been living in the arid Las Vegas Valley for more than a year and re-boards her train of thought. “The last time we met, I underestimated her. I had beaten her daughter, wife and a couple of friends so I figured I had a handle on her as well, but I was wrong. Obviously, I have more to learn about her”.
“So, what do you plan on doing differently this time around, and are you ready for this rematch emotionally, considering what happened the last time”? Her emotional breakdown following the first loss of her career proved to be too large a bush to beat around and so he elected to ask the burning question straightforward with the hope that she has recovered enough to be able to tackle the burden. The answer comes in quick order with Cat lifting her head to display a subtle smile.
“Emotionally I feel fine”, she offers. “In fact, with each passing week I feel better and better. Now it’s like..., I don’t know, like nothing bothers me anymore. My doctor says the serotonin in my system is starting to level off, whatever that means. She says it’s a good thing. I think she’s right; I’m starting to feel like a kid again. Just a week ago I turned Christian’s house into a discotech with stuff I found in the garage”. The memory of herself getting tied up in Christmas lights promotes a brief chuckle. “Christian didn’t care for it, but I had fun. As for what I plan to do differently this time around…” Her voice trails off with her mind veering off in another direction., trying to follow an old trail of breadcrumbs.
The lightly toasted bread offers a soft crunch as she bites into the BLT sandwich. Chewing it slowly as her tongue delights in the creamy mayonnaise she looks across the kitchen table to her father and uncle seated across from her. From behind a pair of thick, black horn-rimmed glasses her uncle’s eyes glares at her questioningly, undoubtedly with the intent of helping her to prepare for the rematch with the only woman to have ever bested her, Crystal Hilton. Taking another bite and chasing it with a gulp of diet Pepsi and then dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the beige linen napkin Cat matches his gaze.
“Do you know what you did wrong the last time you met that Hilton bird”? he asks from behind his typical leathery scowl.
Cat nods and replies, “I underestimated her”, she says softly, her eyes darting back and forth between her father and uncle. “Having beaten her family, I didn’t count on her showing me anything new, and she did”.
“That’s only part of it”, he growls hastily, his jowls quivering as he speaks. “Prior to that match you were unbeaten and had mowed through the competition like a lawnmower possessed. You were a candidate for rookie of the year and regarded the world over as the second coming. So, what went wrong? I’ll tell you exactly what happened; you climbed on board your own hype train and bought into it hook, line, and sinker”.
“What”? she blinks rapidly, her soft features marred by confusion. “I don’t understand”. Polishing off the sandwich she props her elbows onto the wooden table and leans forward. “Am I missing something? I took a car to the match. I’ve never ridden a train in my life”.
“What he means…” he father interjects behind a delicate smile, “Is that the media made you out to be some sort of invincible juggernaut and you believed them. You thought you were more prepared than you were. You thought that beating her was your birthright, so your mind wasn’t properly in the match”. Reaching up he brushes aside an errant strand of blond hair as his brother Ernie nods in agreement. “You were victimized by your own success”.
“And it’s our job”, Ernie chimes in, “to bring you back down to Earth”. Taking a pause, he slowly stirs a glob of honey into his steaming cup of tea, the metal clacking against the ceramic mug. Once satisfied he sets the spoon down and slowly lifts the cup to his face while resuming his oration. “Now, that yank of yours, Geno, is a good man and knows what he’s doing. He did a bloody fine job guiding you through your little episode. But as good as he is, he doesn’t know you like your father and I do and if you listen to us, you will be ready to go for your rematch with that Hilton lass”.
“You have the skills kitty cat”, Paul adds, reaching down to adjust the collar of his white button-down shirt. “So, it’s all mental. You don’t need to learn any new moves or flashy counters; you already have the necessary tools so all you must do is just listen to us as we break everything down. If you do that you will have no problems. If you don’t… well… you’re going to take another smack in the head”.
“Oww”! The soccer ball sails through the air and slams into the back of Cat’s head causing her to vigorously rub the area of impact while turning around to a sheepishly grinning Fox Riley who shrugs apologetically.
“Sorry”, she says, breaking into a trot to retrieve the ball from the ground where it landed halfway between the two young women. “I was trying to do a back-heel kick and the ball got away from me”.
“I’m going to back kick your arse”! Cat sneers with a grimace. “Bloody klutz”.
The sound of rubber impacting resumes as Fox returns to bouncing the ball off her knees leaving Cat and a smirking Oliver Davis to pick up where they left off. Rearing her head with a sigh Cat rewinds through the film of recent events in search of an answer to the second part of his question. Her father and uncle were right she muses. She did fall victim to her own success entering their previous matchup feeling that she was infallible. Such feelings tend to be fleeting however, and this was no exception. With the aid of her friends and family however, she now realizes what she needs to do differently this time around. Scanning the empty seats of the field save for a moderately sized crew of workers and lifting her gaze to the stadium lights which wait patiently atop towering steel beams for sunset she envisages a packed house, filled with screaming fans at the edge of their seats. They chant, cheer and boo at the action taking place in the ring while she looks on from the ‘Gorilla position’ anxiously awaiting her turn. But unlike the last time, she is now keenly aware of what she is in for; a multiple time champion with numerous promotions and more hall of fame inductions than she has limbs. A woman who has beaten her before and who would love nothing more than to add some icing to the cake. Crystal Hilton enters the ring heralded by a chorus of jeers and beckons to the back for Cat. She is a woman on a mission, and woman Cat Riley will have to take more seriously than she has ever taken an opponent before. A flight of seagulls flies overhead, their squawking snapping the British bombshell back to the world of the living.
“I am going to approach this match as if it is the last match of my career”, she says into the microphone held in front of her. “Considering what happened after our last match it could very well be”, she adds. “Crystal is easily the cagiest opponent I have encountered in my career and I need to expect the unexpected from her. She’s not stupid, she knows what happened the last time, what she did and what I tried to do and will change her game plan accordingly. I too, will have to adjust my own game”.
“What about the psychological aspect of this match”? Mr. Davis prods. “When your situation made it to social media, she made fun of your condition. Does that add any additional motivation for you”?
“Well…” her tone ebbs as she once more splashes into the pool of reminiscence. It is a pool deep in misery with waters muddled by sorrow and self-pity, a pool in which she would have drowned had it not been for a friendly life preserver. “Depression is a very dangerous affliction”, she continues. “And when coupled with anxiety it becomes twice as dangerous. It’s like...,” delving into the recesses of her memory she drudges up some of the old feelings she grappled with. Attempting to ensnare them in the grip of her treatment she brings them to the front, parading them like a Roman Triumph procession. “It’s like nothing matters”, she explains. “Everything you may have done, all of the lives you may have touched become meaningless. The only thing important to you is your own failure. You pick up on one of those failures and utterly fixate on it until it becomes the only thing in your life. It becomes and obsession and it doesn’t even have to be a failure, it can be as silly as something you said, something that you think may have been wrong. Once your mind picks its target it latches onto it like a badger and won’t let it go and you are consumed by it. You lie awake at night dwelling on it, you dissect it in the shower or at the dinner table. It eats you from the inside out dragging you into its pitch-black maw. It’s that little red devil on your shoulder constantly reminding you that you are a failure, that you are less than nothing”.
She takes a pause to release some of the pent-up emotion by way of a heavy sigh and carefully reigns her composure back in as the pair continues their trek across the field. Oliver Davis respectfully walks along in silence, his gaze darting from his subject to her cousin Fox who is still lagging while playing with the ball and to her co-managers seated on a flat bench along the sidelines, their faces buried in the brightly lit screen of Junior’s iPhone. Looking up he notices another small flock of birds flying overhead in a v formation, seeming to be chasing after a fleeting contrail. Cat offers a gentle nudge by way of clearing her throat to indicate the she is prepared to resume.
“When Crystal made light of my predicament, she made fun of not just me, but of millions of people the world over who suffer from the same disease, many of whom are unable to receive treatment and many who, at this very moment may be contemplating suicide. That makes her a pretty sick individual to me”.
“But hundreds of followers called her out on it on Twitter, her own wife even publicly scolded her for it”, Davis offers in counter point. “To be fair she did appear to be contrite following the episode and hasn’t broached the subject since. Perhaps she truly is sorry for what she did”?
“They made her act like she was sorry”, Cat snaps back, “but they didn’t make her pay”. A crane rumbles to life at the other end of the field, its diesel-powered engine belching black fumes as it revs furiously in preparation for the heavy load of concrete and steel barriers in front if it which will be used to cordon off points of access. Cat Riley meanwhile accesses a disturbing set of images ingrained in her mind; obituaries and news reports of suicide victims gleaned from her voracious appetite for insight into depression. Most of the victims are young and female, trapped in a cold cocoon of callous indifference. With nobody to turn to for help they were nothing more than afterthoughts in a smoky, self-absorbed world. With the engine now at operating temperature the crane gets to work in earnest, relieving the sod of its burden and Cat resolving to do the same for the faceless castaways, unable to speak for themselves. “That’s my job”, she seethes in the smoldering flames of acrimony. “Crystal Hilton didn’t just poke fun at me…,” her voice starts to rise seeming to match the taxed rumbling of the diesel-hydraulic MTU engine. “That… bitch… and I use the term lightly so as not to offend the female dogs of the world – had the audacity to sit back in her ivory tower, counting money while making fun of the plight of the helpless”.
“Sort of like driving a car in the rain and using it to splash pedestrians”? Oliver suggests.
“Yes,” she nods in agreement with her front teeth slowly biting down on her lower lip. “It’s easy for her to splash those people, making their situation even worse, but don’t you dare ask her for an umbrella. Crystal Hilton is the type of scum who would step on a homeless person to get to an ATM”.
“So, it’s safe to assume that you are motivated for this return match”? Davis asks throwing a quick glance to his wrist watch.
“Oh, there’s no assumption”, she responds shaking her head. “I’m not that motivated in all honesty, I’m driven”.
”Hey, get your hands off my wheel, I’m doing the driving here”! From the cockpit of the black 7 series BMW Gene Banton Jr swats the hand of his sister Cassie away from the black, leather wrapped steering wheel. Ignoring the blaring horns of oncoming cars which swerve madly to avoid the luxury cruiser he shifts in the well-appointed tan leather seat to offer her a perturbed glare. “Never touch the steering wheel while I’m driving”, he scolds.
“Then at least drive on the proper side of the road”! Cat cries of from the back seat, clutching onto the headrest of Cassie’s seat.
“I am on the right side of the road you idiot”.
“Yes, but we’re in England you bloody buffoon! We drive on the left side of the road”!
“What the hell”? anxiously jerking the wheel he guides the mis-directed barge over a series of rumble strips separating the lanes onto the left side, much to the relief of the horn blaring motorists headed towards them and drawing a grateful exhale from Cassie and Cat, who plops back into their seats. “Cat, you dumbass, you could have gotten us killed”! He barks. “Why didn’t you tell me this”?
“You’re the one with the international driving permit”, she claps back.
“International driving permit…, what the hell is that”?
“That piece of paper...,” Cassie’s blue eyes bulge as discs as the realization collides with her thoughts. “You showed them dad’s permit, didn’t you”? she demands.
“Well yeah”, he replies with a detectable hint of sarcasm. “He said it was important to have one of those whatchamacallits like that, so I just borrowed his. I don’t have time to be taking tests”.
“Then please be careful”, Cat asks softly, burying her head against the back of the driver’s seat. “I don’t want to die before getting my hands around Crystal’s throat”.
“Relax”, Junior mutters while steering the car onto a side road marked on the in-dash GPS by a red line. “We’ll have you ready, but are you in shape for this match? You’ve been gone for two months and that’s a long time to be physically inactive”.
He’s right, she nods in agreement. She did indeed feel weaker than before upon resuming her training. But that was over a month ago. Working hard at it daily, she performed her typical routine consisting of functional fitness exercises; kettlebell swings, planks, burpees, battle ropes; fighting through the soreness, willing past the fatigue, all the while keeping in mind her previous levels of performance. One day at a time. One rep at a time. One extra second holding the plank, another second swinging the ropes, another degree of incline on the treadmill. Through tiny increments she increased her workload until finally, with less than a week before her scheduled return match with Crystal Hilton she crossed the goal line, regaining her form. Feeling better and stronger since her unfortunate experience she revels in the blanket of self confidence paid for by her hard work.
“I’m good physically”, she says softly. “And I feel good mentally as well”, she adds in anticipation of the follow up question. “But I do want to watch the tapes of our last match with my dad and uncle to see if we can pick up on anything that I can use”.
“We’ll be there soon enough, now be quiet so I can concentrate”.
“Concentrate on what”? Cassie chirps. “This road is empty, like your head”.
“What do you need navigation for any way”? Cat asks. “I know these roads like the back of my hand”.
“See, that shows how much you know about cars”, Junior scoffs. “It’s not navigation. I’m a man, I don’t need navigation”.
“Alright then wiseass, what is it”? Cassie smirks in a playful challenge.
“Can you get Nickelodeon on that”? Musing out loud Cat curiously leans forward for a closer inspection of the console. “I really want to watch Sponge Bob Square Pants”.
“This is not a toy”, Geno snarls, slapping Cat’s hand away. “This is a video game system. I’m playing connect the dots, see”? Gesturing to the eight-inch LCD panel he points to a straight red line pointing them down the road towards the home of Cat’s uncle. “I’m so good I can get a perfectly straight line even while driving”.
Breaking into a cackle Cassie draws her arms back, clenching a fist and delivers a stiff shit into her brother’s shoulder. Junior doesn’t reply as Cat joins in on the laughter. Before long the laughter turns to jokes with the fraternal twins trading barbs back and forth and Cat doubling up with the redhead against her brother. As the trio engages in playful banter the scenery changes from a black asphalt multi-lane road lined with shops and pedestrians milling about into a single lane cobblestone path lined with cookie cutter homes sandwiched together like so many sardines in a rent cannery. Taking a left onto another single lane road they pass by a sign announcing their arrival in Wigan, a small suburb of Greater Manchester. The cannery gives way to an open sea of rolling green fields with cows and other livestock roaming the expanse sectioned off by scattered barbed wire fencing posts and the occasional sign. A right turn onto a dirt road leads them past another field of green and up to an older Victorian style two-story home. The white wooden structure is flanked by an old barn, slightly off towards the back on the left side. Recognizing the place Cat taps the driver on the shoulder.
“This is it”, she says as the car slows to a stop behind and older Toyota parked in front of a screened balcony. “Just let me out here”.
Flinging the door open Cat grabs her gym bag and a second Puma brand bag bulging with clothes and other items and pauses, glancing up to the overcast sky lined with rumbling dark clouds. Shutting the door behind she leans over the front passenger seat and asks,
“You guys know when to pick me up, right”?
“Yeah, sure”, Junior responds, waving his hand dismissively. “We’ll be here”.
“Alright then, see you”!
“See ya”.
“Crystal Hilton thought it was over between us, that she had seen the last of me”. Having circumnavigated the field Oliver and Cat approach the bench seats where Cassie and Junior are seated, joined by Fox, having grown tired of playing with the soccer ball and slow their pace. Reaching up Cat unexpectedly snatches the microphone from Mr. Davis and holds it up to her twisted, snarling lips. Her steely blue eyes glare unwaveringly at the interviewer in a stern warning as she finishes her sentence in an acidic tone, “I’ve news for that… person, she hasn’t seen the first of what I intend to do to her”.
