What We Don’t Say
The little Italian place on the corner of the Jordaan district in Amsterdam was charming in the kind of way only family-run restaurants could be. The lighting was soft, the scent of garlic and tomatoes hung in the air, and laughter from the other diners hummed like distant music.
At a table tucked near the window, the Madison-O’Connell clan filled their space with warm smiles and clinking silverware. Laura sat beside her daughter Bella, who was just finishing a glass of red wine. Malachi, ever the calming presence, had an arm stretched behind Bella’s chair while their daughter Máire picked at a small bowl of pasta, red sauce staining her chin. Across from them, Nick Madison laughed at something Aaron had just said, the six-year-old glowing with the pride only kindergarteners could possess when they nailed a joke.
“—and then the frog actually jumped out of the tank!” Aaron announced with wide eyes.
“No way,” Bella laughed, leaning in. “Did it land on anyone?”
“Right on Mrs. Callahan’s head!” Aaron grinned as the whole table erupted.
Laura smiled warmly at her grandson, brushing some of his shaggy blonde hair from his forehead. “You little troublemaker. Bet you didn’t even blink.”
“I was brave,” he said, puffing out his chest.
Nick reached over and gave the boy a high five. “That’s my boy.”
As the plates were cleared and dessert menus offered, Bella leaned back with a sigh, looking out at the twilight-lit canal just beyond the restaurant window. “You know, twenty-seven doesn’t feel that different.”
“That’s because it’s not,” Malachi teased.
Laura smirked. “Wait until thirty. That’s when you start reading ingredient labels for fun.”
“Rude,” Bella laughed, swatting her mother's arm gently.
The conversation drifted into plans for Máire’s preschool plans that would start in the fall, if it all works right, Aaron’s kindergarten ceremony later that week, and the upcoming SCW card.
Laura was in the semifinals after all and was close to making it to Paris.
But then Nick — perhaps from the wine or the moment or simply fatigue — spoke up.
“I still don’t like it,” he muttered, almost under his breath. “This whole tournament thing.”
The table went quiet.
Laura’s fork paused midair. “Excuse me?”
Nick blinked, as if surprised at himself, then sighed. “I didn’t want to say anything. Not tonight. But hell, it’s been sitting on my chest like a damn anvil.”
Bella glanced between them cautiously. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“No, it’s fine,” Laura said, putting her fork down. “Go on, Nick. Say it.”
Nick’s voice was quiet but strained. “We were supposed to be done. You and me. We were supposed to leave that part of our lives behind for the most part, besides the school. To raise Aaron. To live. And now you’re flying from country to country again, chasing wins while I sit at home hoping you don’t get hurt. And if it wasn’t for a few favors, you’d have missed Aaron’s graduation this week entirely.”
“I still made it home,” Laura said, her tone sharpening.
“Barely.”
The tension crackled. Laura pushed her chair back and stood. “Let’s take this outside.”
Without waiting, she walked through the side door and out onto the quiet back patio. The sun had fully dipped behind the rooftops, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange. Nick followed her out, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
Laura turned around, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Why the hell did it take you this long to say something?”
“I didn’t want to be the one who put out your fire.” Nick said, frustrated. “I didn’t want to stop you from doing what you love.”
“Then why say it now?”
“Because I can’t ignore it anymore, Laura! I watch you lace up your boots, tape your wrists, and walk into matches like you’ve got something to prove when you don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore! Not to me. Not to Bella. Not to SCW. And not to this damn business that we both gave our all too.”
“I’m not doing it to prove something to them!” Laura snapped, voice trembling. “I’m doing it because I have to. Because it’s still in my blood. Because every time I tried to ignore it, it clawed its way back up. And because you can’t anymore.”
Nick’s mouth fell open slightly, wounded.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, softer now. “But it’s the truth. You can’t fight anymore, babe. I can. And damn it, I still want to.”
Nick looked away, jaw tightening.
“I’m in this tournament because I feel like I have unfinished business. Because I want Aaron to know his mother didn’t just fade away into obscurity. That when life tried to tell her she was done, she answered back and told it to ‘go fuck itself’ like we used to,” Her voice cracked then. “I’m doing it for me, Nick. But I’m also doing it for you. For the us that used to be unstoppable.”
Silence stretched between them for a long beat.
“I’m not asking for permission, hun” Laura finally said. “I’m asking for support. From my husband. From my family. Because I’m in this now, neck deep. I refuse to back out and I’m hell-bent on winning the whole damn thing. So if you have more objections, get them out now. But don’t wait until I’m one match away from the finals to tell me you’ve been holding your breath this whole time.”
Nick’s eyes welled slightly, and he reached up, rubbing them with the heel of his hand. “I’m scared, Laur. I’m scared you’ll get hurt. That I’ll wake up one morning and you’ll be in some hospital bed in another country. That I’ll be explaining to Aaron why his mom’s not home again.”
“I’m scared too,” she admitted, stepping closer. “But fear never stopped us before.”
Nick took a breath, then nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“I’m all in,” Laura whispered. “All I’m asking is that you stand with me.”
Nick didn’t say anything at first. But slowly, he reached out and took her hand.
And that was enough.
-----
Heart of the Matter
The Amsterdam sun filtered gently through the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden streaks across the plush carpet. It was a slow morning, the kind that lingered between coffee and breakfast, between small talk and the next big thing. The hum of the city buzzed outside, faintly muted by the glass.
Laura stood by the window with a cup of tea cradled in her hands. She wasn’t dressed for the day yet—just yoga pants and a worn hoodie, her hair up in a messy knot. The tournament loomed, but for now, the world felt still.
Behind her, the soft sound of a tablet playing cartoons signaled Aaron’s presence. He was curled on the couch with a blanket tucked around him, cheeks still warm from sleep, eyes glazed over in that perfect early-morning daze. Laura smiled to herself. She knew those mornings were numbered—the quiet moments before time sped up again.
“Is it time to go to the arena?” Aaron asked without looking away from the screen.
“Not yet,” Laura said, sipping her tea. “Still a couple more days away.”
“Are you gonna win again?”
“I’m gonna try.”
Aaron nodded, his attention drifting back to his cartoon.
The door opened with a soft click and Bella stepped in, dressed in jeans and a plain black tee, a coffee cup in hand. Her hair was tied in a sleek braid, her face free of makeup, but beautiful all the same. Laura turned slightly, surprised.
“I thought you were sleeping in.”
Bella smirked. “You know I don’t sleep when I’m thinking too much.”
“Like mother, like daughter,” Laura murmured.
Bella walked over and set her cup beside her mom’s. For a few minutes, they stood in silence, watching the city stir below.
“You and Dad okay?” Bella asked softly.
Laura hesitated. “We’ll be fine. We just needed to finally say the things we’ve been swallowing down. He went down to the gym to run a bit before we go off sightseeing.”
Bella nodded. “He’s scared.”
“I know.”
“I was too.”
Laura turned to look at her daughter, searching her eyes.
“I’ve been where you are,” Bella continued. “Doing this job because it meant something. Because it burned in me. And I had people asking me why, telling me to stop, to step back. Especially when it felt like I couldn’t get that first real singles title in SCW. It felt like no one got it.” She paused. “And then you looked me in the eye and told me to shut out the noise and chase the damn thing.”
Laura let out a soft laugh, remembering.
“So now it’s my turn,” Bella said. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not even us. You want this? You go get it, Mom.”
Laura’s eyes misted over. “Thank you.”
“Just one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Kick her ass.”
Laura snorted. “Language. Did we forget that your impressionable 6 year old brother is in the room?”
Behind them, Aaron piped up. “She said ass.”
Bella grinned and crossed the room to ruffle his hair. “Sorry, little dude.”
“It's okay. Mommy says a lot worse when she’s mad at the TV. Daddy too, when he’s playing video games.”
Laura mock-glared. “Do not throw me or daddy under the bus, sir.”
Aaron giggled, then sat up. “Can I come this week?”
Laura’s expression softened. She crouched down beside him, brushing a hand over his cheek.
“I think this week....you’ll be there, front row with daddy. I promise. And if I have my way you’ll be there in Paris when your mom shows the whole world that age is nothing but a number.”
“Promise-promise?”
“Promise-promise.”
He gave her a small pinky, and she linked hers with his.
Behind her, Bella watched the scene with quiet reverence. For all the heat and fire Laura Phoenix carried into the ring, this was the side of her that not everyone got to see. The mother. The protector. The heartbeat of a family who lived in the glow and grit of the spotlight.
And in that moment, Bella saw something she hadn’t before.
Her mother wasn’t fighting because she needed the spotlight again.
She was fighting because she still belonged in it. She IS the spotlight.
The one that lit the path for all of them when it got dark.
Bella blinked, the realization settling like warmth in her chest. Her mother wasn’t chasing glory or clinging to the past. She was proving, in every breath and bruise, that resilience didn’t have an expiration date. That there was still power in the fight, not just for titles—but for self-worth, for legacy, for something deeper than applause.
She was fighting because she still could—and because every time someone told her to sit down, she stood up a little taller.
Bella crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Laura from behind, resting her chin on her mother’s shoulder.
“You know,” she murmured, “It’s not just Aaron you’re inspiring.”
Laura’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Good. Then I’m doing something right.”
The city outside began to stir louder now—trams rattling, bikes zipping past, the hum of Friday life picking up speed. The day was beginning. And so was something else.
Something unstoppable.
-----
Sleeper No More
There was something different in the air as the sun set over Amsterdam, as if even the sky had started to lean in a little closer, watching.
The hotel room was dim now, lit only by the last threads of daylight and the soft flicker of a muted TV playing a match from years ago — not Laura’s, not even Samantha’s. Just background noise. Something to keep the quiet from swallowing her.
Laura sat at the small desk, wrists resting against the edge, her tournament bracket laid out beside her notebook like a roadmap soaked in legacy and grit, next to an even thicker binder with the SCW logo on the top and side. She had drawn a line through the name she’d beaten, but her pen had hovered just above this next one — Samantha Marlowe — without marking it.
Not yet.
She’d known this name was coming. If anyone thought Laura Phoenix was past her prime, they damn sure hadn’t been watching Samantha Marlowe continue to thrive well into hers. She was the kind of talent that didn’t need flash or smoke to make a statement. She was the statement — a cornerstone of SCW’s Bombshell division, loved, respected, and tough as hell.
This match, already dubbed the sleeper of the tournament, wasn’t about hype or revenge.
It was about proving the fire still burned in both of them.
Laura leaned back, eyes scanning the ceiling. The last conversation with Nick still echoed somewhere in the walls. She didn’t blame him for being afraid. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel the weight of it too — every match pulling her deeper into the fire, further from the quiet life they’d carved out.
But something had awakened the moment she stepped back through those ropes.
Not nostalgia.
Purpose.
She stood, crossing the room to the window. Amsterdam’s lights shimmered over the canal, people moving like currents below, unaware that two of wrestling’s most enduring women were about to collide just blocks away. No pageantry, no grand vendettas.
Just Laura Phoenix and Samantha Marlowe — two veterans who’d survived years upon years of this business and refused to be counted out.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Bella:
“No matter what happens — you’re still the best to ever do it. But I already know what’s gonna happen. Go raise hell, Mom. ❤️🔥”
Laura smiled.
She turned away from the window and grabbed the bracket off the desk. This time, her pen didn’t hesitate. She didn’t cross Samantha out — not yet — but she underlined her name, once. Twice. Because this one mattered.
This wasn’t just another round, this was going to get her to get closer to the finish line.
This was a battle between two women who refused to fade quietly into the sunset.
And Laura had no intention of being anyone’s stepping stone to the finals.
-----
A Different Kind of Fire
Location: Amsterdam Canal Walk – Night
The canals glistened under the soft glow of amber streetlights, their reflections rippling gently across the water. Laura Phoenix Madison sat alone on a worn iron bench, wrapped in a leather jacket and scarf, her breath visible in the crisp spring air. The city buzzed faintly behind her — late dinners, clinking glasses, and a general hum of weekend life. But here, by the water, it was still. Peaceful. Almost sacred.
A handheld camera rested on the tripod across from her, its red light blinking quietly. She’d insisted on filming it herself. No production crew. No training facility. No backdrop of sweat and steel. Just her voice, her truth, and a moment of honesty before stepping into battle once more.
She looked into the lens.
“You ever notice how the term ‘sleeper match’ gets used like it’s a whisper? Like people don’t want to say it too loud in case it makes the noise they’re afraid of?”
A small smile played on her lips, subtle and knowing.
“It’s not an insult. Not to me. Probably not to Samantha either. In fact, it might be the most honest compliment they could give us. Because a ‘sleeper match’ is the one that wasn’t supposed to steal the show… but does. It’s the one that makes fans sit forward in their seats and feel something — without needing explosions, spotlights, or headlines. Just heart. Just grit. Just truth between the ropes.”
She leaned back slightly, eyes glancing to the shimmering canal for a beat before returning.
“Samantha Marlowe… I’ve watched you long enough to know you understand that. You’ve earned everything in this business with resilience and grace. You’ve fought battles that would break most and came back every time with a smile and your head held high. There’s a quiet power in that — the kind of power that doesn’t always get the hype but always delivers.”
Laura paused, drawing in a breath, her voice lowering with gravity.
“But I’m not here to pay tribute. I’m here to fight. To earn. To make damn sure I don’t just come back — I arrive. This tournament isn’t nostalgia for me. It’s purpose. It’s unfinished business. And it’s for everyone who ever wondered if there was still gas left in this tank.”
She leaned forward, voice soft but steel-edged.
“I respect you, Sam. But I didn’t come this far to stop short of the final bell. So if this is the sleeper match, let’s wake them the hell up.”
“You know… I’ve been called a lot of things in my career. Trailblazer. Champion. Veteran. Retired.”
A small chuckle escapes her lips. She shakes her head slightly, as if amused at the absurdity of it all.
“But I was never done. Not really. And maybe I never will be. That’s the thing about fire. It changes shape, it burns differently over time… but it doesn’t go out. Not when it’s real. Not when it’s earned.”
“And Samantha Marlowe? She knows that kind of fire. Hell, she is that kind of fire.”
She leans forward now, elbows on her knees, the canal reflecting off her eyes.
“Sam, I didn’t need to look you up. I didn’t need to scroll through accolades or count title reigns. Because you and I? We don’t need introductions. We’ve seen each other on different timelines, stood on the same foundations and walked through the same storms. And now, finally, we stand across from each other — not in some dream booking, not in someone’s wishful fantasy — but in a real ring, in real time, with everything on the line.”
“This isn’t a match between veterans trying to relive old glory. This is a clash between two women who refused to be forgotten. Two survivors of a business that breaks people on the regular.”
She straightens up now, posture proud.
“And Sam… I know how people see this match. The 'sleeper' of the tournament, they say. Like it's something people didn't ask for — but will never forget once it’s over.”
“We all know that you have carried this division on your back more times than people realize. You’ve smiled through pain, through loss, through pressure that most wouldn’t survive. You’ve endured. You’ve inspired.”
Her jaw tightens just a bit.
“But so have I.”
“And I’m not here on nostalgia fumes. I didn’t lace up my boots again because I missed the spotlight. I came back because I still belong here. Because there’s something left in my bones. Because I owe it to myself, to my daughter, to my son… to remind the world that Laura Phoenix isn’t a relic.”
“She’s a reckoning.”
“So I say this with every ounce of respect in me… I’m not coming to Amsterdam to test myself against Samantha Marlowe.”
“I’m coming to beat her.”
Laura stands slowly, the streetlamp overhead catching the edge of her profile — calm, composed, but ready for war.
“You and me, Sam… we don’t burn out. We burn through.”
“Let’s make ‘sleeper match’ the dumbest nickname they ever gave us.”
