Boulder, Colorado -
Friday evening
The sign was green, of course. Because why wouldn’t it be? Nothing spells Irish stereotypes like beer and anything green.
The forefront of the pub sported a painted shamrock and some vaguely Celtic knotwork Ciarán would wager was copied off of clip art. Below the shamrock, in an elaborate gold lettering was the name “O’Brennan’s Irish Pub.” The flag of Ireland hung in the window, and when the door opened, Ciarán heard the collective sounds of loud music, TVs blaring and laughter and chatting one might expect from any pub.
Ciarán stood on the pavement outside and stared at the door. It wasn’t home, but it was bright and noisy, and full of people. And that felt better than four hotel walls and his own thoughts. He breathed in the cold Colorado air and reached for the pub door.
Inside, there was a TV over the bar showing American football. Proof positive this wasn't a genuine Irish pub. Green string lights were draped around the mirrors. Jerseys and Guinness signs lined the walls, along with a framed, sun-faded photo of some cliffs that weren’t from anywhere close to Ireland, but the locals obviously weren’t aware. Ciarán snorted at the thought.
Heads had turned when he stepped in, partly because the door had let in a blast of cold air, partly because it was just natural curiosity. He gave the room a once-over, then made his way to the bar and took a seat near a couple of local lads, but far enough away to afford himself the comfort of privacy.
The bartender, a woman in her early thirties with a ponytail and a T-shirt that read “Kiss Me, I’m O’Brennan’s,” slid over with an automatic smile.
Bartender: Hey there. What can I get ya?
He leaned his forearms on the bar, already slipping into the rhythm.
Ciarán: Tell me you’ve somethin’ that at least pretends to be Guinness there, will ye love?
She laughed and reached for a tap.
Bartender: We’ve got Guinness. Might not stack up to the homeland, but it does the job.
He clucked his tongue, shaking his head with mock dismay.
Ciarán: Sure, that’s what ye all say. I’ll be judgin’ ye harshly now, mind. My mam’d never forgive me if I let a fake pass me lips.
He was half-joking, half-remembering the way his mother used to talk about pubs and how they didn’t know how to pull a proper pint. When she set it down in front of him, he thanked her properly.
Bartender: So where in Ireland are you from?
He smiled, taking that first sip. It wasn’t home, but it was close enough to fake it for an evening.
Ciarán: Killarney, County Kerry. Ye can tell by the way I talk shite, can’t ye?
She grinned, leaning against the bar.
Bartender: I could tell by the “mam.” People don’t say that here. What brings you to Boulder?
Ciarán: On tour with SCW. We’ve a show here Sunday night.
Her eyebrows shot up. The couple of guys in flannel on either side turned their heads, interest sharpening.
Bartender: Wait, like professional wrestling on TV?
He gave a small grin, tilting his head.
Ciarán: Aye, that’s the one. Tight gear, bright lights, lads throwin’ each other about for the craic. I’m on the card Sunday.
One of the guys nearby leaned in.
Local #1: No shit? My buddy was talkin’ about that. You’re actually on the show?
Ciarán lifted his pint in a small salute.
Ciarán: Me third match.
The bartender’s eyes raked over him more critically now, taking in the broad shoulders and the way he carried himself.
Bartender: Damn. That’s kinda badass. What’s your name again? In the ring, I mean.
He hesitated a beat. He’d been selling himself as someone else for so long in other lines of work that saying his real name and having it matter still felt new.
Ciarán: Ciarán Doyle. Same in the ring as out of it. Easier to remember when they’re shoutin’ abuse at ye.
One of the locals jumps in, having overheard.
Local #1: Dude, he’s on the roster page. Look, Ciarán Doyle. Says it’s your third match?
He turned the screen to show a promo photo: Ciarán lit dramatically, jaw set, eyes intense. The version of him built for posters. Ciarán rolled his eyes.
Ciarán: That lad looks far too serious. Needs a proper drink.
Bartender: Well, damn! We’ve got a celebrity in the house tonight! You better not get too beat up Sunday. I’m gonna tell people I poured Guinness for you.
That sparked a ripple of attention further down the bar; a couple more patrons glanced over, taking a longer look at him now that he’d been labeled.
Another man approached with a cautious grin.
Local #2: You’re really SCW? Dude, my roommate loves that show! You shoot pool?
The invitation was there. It would have been easy to shrug it off, finish his pint alone at the bar, keep his world small and quiet. But quiet was dangerous. Quiet was when and how homesickness came in through the cracks. Ciarán set his glass down and slid off the stool.
Ciarán: Ah, I might’ve tapped a cue once or twice. But I’m warnin’ ye now, I’m a terrible loser. I’ll be throwin’ the balls at yer head if ye beat me.
Local #2: Guess I’ll have to go easy on you then, Kerry. Name’s Nate.
They wove through the bodies and tables to the pool table at the back. A couple of people drifted over to watch. After all, an Irish accent and a TV wrestler were exotic currency on a Friday night in Boulder.
The night settled into a rhythm of shots, bad jokes and friendly back chat. Ciarán looked to be in his element. He leaned casually on the cue. He used his hands when he talked. When he sank a tricky shot, he threw his head back with a laugh that made heads turn.
Nate lined up his next shot while his curiosity grew.
Nate: So, SCW, huh? Who you wrestling?
Ciarán chalked the tip of his cue, staring at the white dust gathering on the blue.
Ciarán: Fella named Logan Hunter. Big name, bigger mouth, too.
One of the onlookers, a woman in a Broncos hoodie, pulled out her phone.
Local #3: What time is the show? My brother’s into wrestling. I might drag him.
Ciarán: Sunday evenin’, doors open six. Come along, give us a shout. I’ll pretend I don’t know ye when I’m gettin’ choked out in the corner.
That drew another burst of laughter. The interest felt good, warming him from the outside in, but it was still attention, still performance. He knew how to ride that wave, how to keep it from cresting into anything real.
As the game wore on, he let little pieces of himself slip into the banter, carefully edited and polished.
Nate: So what do you miss most? About Ireland?
Ciarán lined up a shot, eyes narrowing.
Ciarán: The rain, maybe. Back home it hits ye from every angle. And everyone knowin’ everyone. Your mam hearin’ about what trouble you’re in before you’ve even finished bein’ in it.
He took the shot, the cue ball striking the red stripe into the pocket. He straightened with a flash of triumph.
Ciarán: And the chips. Jaysus, ye don’t know chips here at all, do ye?
That got another round of laughter. It was easier to talk about chips and rain than to talk about waking up in a foreign hotel and reaching for his phone, fingers already typing his mother’s number before he remembered the time difference and the way her voice went quiet when she asked when he was coming home and he didn’t have an answer.
He sank another shot, putting on a victorious swagger.
Ciarán: Look at that, will ye? There’s hope for me yet.
Later, after another pint and another game, the night began to come to a premature end. On his way back to the bar to close his tab, the bartender leaned in, resting her elbows on the wood.
Bartender: Hey, if I’m off Sunday, I might swing by that show. Gotta see if you’re as entertaining in the ring as you are over a pint.
He smirked, despite himself.
Ciarán: Oh, I’m worse in the ring, love. At least there I’ve the chance to hit someone who deserves it.
Bartender: Now that I gotta see!
She waved him closer with a conspiratorial grin.
Bartender: You good, Killarney? Need me to call you a ride?
He hopped back onto the barstool with a little bounce. His cheeks were warm, his limbs loose.
Ciarán: I’m grand, I walked from the hotel. You’ve survived my company for a whole evenin’, that’s a medal for ye. What’re ye doin’ with yourself after your shift?
She shook her head with a flattered smile that showed teeth.
Bartender: Going home to my dog and my couch. Very glamorous American nightlife.
He clutched at his chest theatrically.
Ciarán: And here's me thinkin’ I’d be swept away on a Colorado adventure!
She laughed, ringing up his tab.
Bartender: Dare to dream! That’ll be fifty-two even. And good luck Sunday. I’ll say I knew you when!
He pulled out his card, glancing once more at the mirror behind the bar. He looked like he was having the time of his life. He looked like a stranger wearing his skin.
He added a generous tip, remembering his mam’s lessons for a job well done.
Ciarán: Listen, thanks for the hospitality, yeah? Ye did the pint justice. Tell your boss there’s at least one Irish lad who’ll not report ye to the embassy.
Bartender: I’ll let him know we passed inspection.
He left them with one last wave, one last smile and then pushed the door open and stepped back out into the Boulder night. The cold hit him immediately. And his smile faded all too easily.
He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and started walking. His legs knew the way back to the hotel. By the time he reached the hotel, his warm buzz had chilled into something heavier. Part of him wanted to keep walking right past the hotel but he didn't.
Once inside, his room greeted him with a finality that practically made his blood chill. He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second with his back against it, as if bracing himself against the weight of nothing.
The personality he had been wearing all night. The funny, flirty Irish lad. The life of the party. It all fell off him like a coat that was suddenly too heavy.
He let his jacket slide off his shoulders and dropped it on the nearest chair instead of hanging it up proper. He kicked his boots off and didn’t bother setting them right. Empty takeaway containers sat on the desk from the previous night, a crumpled paper bag and a plastic fork. His suitcase lay open at the foot of the bed.
He crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge, elbows on his knees. He stared at the patterned carpet, his eyes unfocused. He knew he should shower. Wash off the bar smell. He knew he should perhaps check his timetable for Sunday and his match with Logan Hunter. All the little tasks of a professional on tour.
Instead, he reached for his phone.
The lock screen glowed to life in the darkened room, the only source of light save for the city lights through the open curtain. He swiped it and went straight to his messages. A family group chat sat near the top, unread messages from earlier in the day when he had been on the move. He scrolled back up, skimming through.
Mam: How’s the travel, love? You eat anythin’ proper yet?
A photo from his younger sister, making a face for the camera.
Sis: Ma’s after burnin’ the stew again. Come home and cook for us!
He smiled, a small thing that didn’t reach his eyes. His thumb hovered over the text box. He started to type.
Ciarán: I had a great night. Place here tries to be Irish. It’s gas. Miss ye. Wish…
He stopped. His chest tightened. He stared at the words “miss ye”. It felt too much like an admission he wasn’t ready to send across an ocean. He held down the backspace key with his thumb. The sentences vanished, leaving the text box empty again.
He paused, then tried again.
Ciarán: All good here. Had a pint for ye, Mam. Show’s on Sunday. I’ll send a pic.
He hit send and immediately hated how cheerful it looked.
There was no immediate reply. It was the middle of the night in Ireland and they were asleep. He was awake in a hotel room in Colorado, lit by the screen light of his phone and left wondering why he didn't grab a bite to eat while he was out.
He scrolled aimlessly through social media next. Notifications from fans and casual followers. A thirsty comment sat under a shot of him bending over in the ring to grab his opponent. He thumbed past it all with a hollow kind of detachment. These people thought they knew him. They knew the character. They didn’t know the man sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, alone.
He tossed the phone on the bed beside him and scrubbed both hands over his face. His skin felt too tight, his chest too heavy. He stood up quickly, walking to the window and had a look outside.
Outside, all he really saw were sources of light. Streetlamps, neon signs, car headlights gliding along the roads. Somewhere far off were the mountains, outlines dark and solid. He searched for a shape that even vaguely resembled anything from home but found nothing. His throat tightened and he drew the curtain shut.
He crossed to his suitcase and knelt, rummaging past folded shirts and rolled gear until his fingers brushed something small at the bottom. He fished it out, a slightly battered St. Christopher medal on a thin chain. His mam had pressed it into his hand the day he left, her lips moving in silent prayer as she did.
Her voice echoed in his head now, thick with worry and pride.
“Mind yourself, love. Don’t go forgettin’ where you come from.”
He sat back on the carpet, legs stretched out, the medal resting in his palm. The metal was old, the edges worn smooth by time. He closed his fingers around it and pressed it to his forehead for a moment, eyes shut.
Ciarán: Right. You’re grand. You’re fine. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
It was a trick he knew too well. Talk to himself like he’d talk to a friend who was spiraling. But the words did him no good and he didn't try further for himself like he might a friend or family member.
He pushed himself up to his feet and moved to the nightstand where his phone was where he had dropped it. He picked it up again and flicked through his music until he found a playlist titled “Home.”
The first song was an old ballad his father used to sing, something slow and sad. He hesitated, thumb hovering over it, then tapped play. The opening chords were low and familiar. He stood there in the middle of the room, one hand holding the phone, the other curled tight around the medal, as the first line in Irish slipped into the air.
He lasted thirty seconds before his thumb stabbed the stop button. The music cut off and the silence that rushed in afterward was somehow worse.
He dropped the phone back on the nightstand with more force than necessary, the clatter loud in the quiet room.
Ciarán: Can’t even listen to a fuckin’ song without goin’ to bits.
He said it with a bitterness that surprised him. He sat on the bed again, letting himself fall back, sprawling across the duvet, arms spread, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His jeans dug into his hips, his shirt bunched up under the small of his back. He did not move to fix either.
The subdued sounds from the city outside and his own steady breathing were the only sounds in the room. His mind, freed from the distractions of being someone else, began its slow, familiar spiral.
He thought of his mother at the kitchen table with her tea, the way she always sat stiff and silent with worry over one of her children. He thought of friends who could walk into their local and know half the room, of cousins who would be there for birthdays and holidays he might miss because he was in some other country pretending to be larger than life.
A pulse of something heavy rolled through him, like a wave over sand. It wasn’t sharp like panic or hot like anger. It was dull, thick, slow. His entire person felt swallowed by it.
He lay there in his clothes, staring at nothing, long enough that his back started to ache and one leg developed that pins-and-needles sensation. And yet, he still didn’t sit up.
He blew out a slow breath and finally rolled onto his side, dragging himself up just enough to grab the remote. He clicked the TV on, not caring what channel it landed on. Some old, American sitcom filled the room, something about four old women living together in Miami. Grand. He left the volume low, just enough to make the silence less sharp.
The St. Christopher medal was still in his hand. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a quick, almost embarrassed kiss to it the way his mam did at Mass, then closed his fingers around it again. He curled on top of the bedspread, shoes still on, the TV flickering shadows across his face. Inside room 417, Ciarán Doyle lay alone in the half-light, the life of the party gone quiet, as sleep finally dragged him down into a restless silence.
“A’right, let’s get this outta the way first, yeah?”
“Aiden Reynolds, fair play t’ye. I’m not too proud to say ye got one over on me. I walked into that match thinkin’ I was ready for every trick and you still found a way t’plant me on me arse and walk out with the win. That’s not luck. That’s just a good night’s work from a tough bastard who came prepared. So good on you.”
“Now, my path’s crossed with a different sort. I’m walkin’ into a match wi’ a man who is literally afraid of his own girlfriend. Logan Hunter, explain this t’me, will ye? How in the name of sweet suffering Jaysus am I supposed t’be intimidated by a fella who jumps when his lady raises her voice? Ye don’t stand up straighter when she walks into the room, Logan, ye shrink. Yet we’re all meant t’pretend you’re man I should be losin’ sleep over.”
“Let’s talk about Brooke for a second. She runs right over ye, doesn’t she? She makes the calls, she throws the tantrums, and ye just trail along behind her like a lost pup hopin’ she’ll throw you a scrap of affection. She doesn’t care what ye’re put through. She doesn’t care if you’re humiliated, as long as she gets what she wants. And ye’re too scared of losin’ her to say a single word against it.”
“That’s how this whole mess started, isn’t it? These punishments. By all rights, Brooke should be the only one gettin’ punished. She lit the fire. But somehow, someway, it’s you payin’ the price every week. And it’d be almost sad if it wasn’t so pathetic to watch.”
“Evelyn Hall stood there and laid it all out on the table. It would end if Brooke apologized. That’s it. One apology. One tiny moment where Brooke admits maybe she’s not the center of the universe and other people’s rules might matter. One word of humility and the punishments stop. But Brooke refuses, deciding her pride is worth more than your well-being. And you do absolutely nothin’.”
“Ye don’t stand up to her. Ye don’t take her aside and say yer finished bleedin’ for her ego here. No. Ye swallow it and nod along. Ye let yourself be punished over and over for somethin’ you didn’t even do. Because the idea of Brooke bein’ cross with you scares you more than the thought of another public humiliation. And that’s the same man I’m meant t’be afraid of steppin’ into a ring with? Ooo!”
“This is the boogeyman that I’m meant t’look across the ring at and think ‘what a dangerous threat’? Ye’re not a threat, Logan. Ye’re the poster boy for what happens when a wrestler lets someone else hold the leash. Every time Brooke snaps her fingers, ye flinch. Every time she scowls, ye lower your head. And every time the punishments roll on, you take it, even though the escape clause is right there in front of you. I’m not intimidated by that. I’m insulted I’m even bein’ asked to treat ye like a threat!”
“Now I hear you’ve convinced yourself ye’re gonna be the next Roulette Champion. Maybe, by some weird twist of fate, you will manage to pull it off. Maybe the stars line up, the wheel spins just right, and the universe decides to give you a shiny belt to cling to while Brooke takes all the credit. But let’s not pretend what that would really be, yeah? Because most of the credit for anything you’ve done lately, and anything you might do, doesn’t rest on your shoulders. It rests on the way Brooke inserts herself into your matches and bails you out every time you start to drown. I mean, we’ve all seen it. The referee’s back is turned and Brooke’s claws are in someone’s eyes or she’s shriekin’ like a banshee on the apron. She doesn’t have faith in you to get the job done on your own, Logan, and you know it. If she did, she wouldn’t have to cheat for you. She cheats because she knows she’s the only reason you’re still in the conversation.”
“I’m not daft. I know I’m not just dealin’ with Logan Hunter. I’m also dealin’ with Brooke, screamin’ on the outside, lookin’ for any little crack she can pry open. I’m expectin’ the two-for-one odds. I’d say it’ll be three-for-one, but truth be told, Marissa seems like the only one of the three of ye with her head screwed on straight.”
“Logan, you’re walkin’ into this match thinkin’ it’s just another punishment. The championship contender against the wet behind the ears rookie. But I’m not part of that story. The way I see it, the second you kept your mouth shut, the second you decided you’d take the punishments rather than stand up to Brooke, you made your choice. You chose this path. You chose to be the man who suffers in silence instead of the man who fights back. So when I step into that ring with you, I’m not walkin’ in feelin’ sorry for ye. I’m walkin’ in seein’ an opponent who had a dozen chances to stand tall and chose to stay on his knees.”
“That’s the difference between us. I make my own luck with my fists, my boots, and the stubbornness of an Irishman who doesn’t know when he’s meant t’stay down. It won’t matter how carefully Brooke meddles and twists matches in your favor. Cuz there are some lads you just can’t cheat your way past. I’m one of them.”
“And here’s the thought that keeps turnin’ over in my head, Logan. When I put your shoulders to the mat for the one, the two, and the three, when the ref’s hand comes down and your grand dreams of Roulette glory flicker like a candle in a storm, what happens then? What happens when the company looks at the situation and realizes that the man they penciled in for a Roulette Title match against Vincent Lyons Junior at Inception VIII can’t even survive Ciarán Doyle without his house of cards collapsing around him? In a business where momentum is everything, where perception shapes reality, how long d’ye really think they’ll keep your name in that slot if I beat you clean in the middle of the ring?”
