Norfolk, Virginia -
Waterside District
The sun had slowly started to sink down into the horizon and with it, the lights, music, restaurants, bars and people were moving in every direction, all of it pressed up against the Elizabeth River. The evening was warm, the sort of sticky Virginia heat that made the breeze off the river feel like a blessing as the weekend closed in and there were far more bodies than what was normal.
SCW Superstar, Ciarán Doyle stood at the edge of it for a moment, hands resting low in the pockets of his dark jeans, sunglasses pushed up into his red, curly hair. He had not planned on coming out. Or at least, that was what he had told himself repeatedly while standing in his hotel room, staring at nothing in particular and pretending he was only deciding whether or not he was hungry.
Of course he was hungry. That part was true enough. He had survived for so long in that hotel room in Vegas, eating crap from vending machines, that he was practically malnourished while trying to maintain his composure as a physical athlete.
But he was also restless. There were only so many times a man could sit on the end of a bed, scroll through his phone, check the time and tell himself he was relaxing before he had to admit he was doing no such thing. So he had thrown on a fitted black tank top, jeans and boots, and had come down to the waterfront because at least there, if he felt strange, he could blame the crowd and beat a hasty retreat back to his room.
The tank top had been a choice. It showed his shoulders and arms well enough that more than one person had looked as he passed, and there was some comfort in that. Not a deep comfort. Not anything that would fix a bad mood or settle a man’s head. But he had always understood the usefulness of looking like he meant to be seen, even when he was not sure he wanted anyone looking too closely.
The outdoor bar had a small line, but it moved quickly enough. Ciarán joined it and looked up at the menu, eyes narrowing at the number of options. Every place in America seemed determined to make food sound more complicated than it had to be. He only wanted something decent, something cold to drink, and no server with too much energy asking him whether he was having an amazing evening.
The woman behind the counter looked up as he reached her, and he knew the second she heard his voice.
“What’s actually good here?” He asked. “And don’t be tellin’ me everything is good, because that answer has never helped anyone in the history of food.”
The woman laughed, glancing at him properly now. “You want the honest answer?”
“I’d be grateful for it, yeah.”
“Get the crab cakes.” She said without hesitation. “And fries. Local beer if you want something cold.”
Ciarán gave the menu one more look, then nodded as if she had made a reasonable argument. “I’ll trust you, but if you’ve led me wrong, I’ll be devastated.”
She smiled as she put the order in, and Ciarán stepped to the side to wait, accepting the plastic number she handed over. The breeze moved through the crowd, carrying the smell of fried food, beer, river air and too much perfume and musk. Seriously, how could people afford a night out like this but seemingly unable to afford a five dollar stick of deodorant?
Somewhere nearby, a man was laughing too loudly and a family by the railing were trying to get a child to smile for a photo. A group of young women were huddled for a pose together while doing that ridiculous ‘duck lips’ for the camera.
Ciarán watched it all without really meaning to, and that was when he noticed the young man.
He was standing a few feet away, holding a drink in one hand and his phone in the other, though he had clearly forgotten about both. He was in his mid-twenties at most, maybe a little younger, with a neat fade, a short-sleeved button-up covered in tiny white anchors and a handsome face. At that moment, the thoughts were obvious enough.
It was not recognition. Ciarán knew what recognition looked like. Recognition came with squinting, whispering, a quick glance at a phone, or that sudden nervous shift when someone was trying to decide whether to approach him.
This was something else. Simpler. Funnier? Maybe. More flattering? Definitely.
The young man had heard the accent first. Then his eyes had done the rest of the work, taking in the tank top, the arms, the shoulders, and the way Ciarán stood there like he had been deeply inconvenienced by being attractive in public.
Ciarán let him suffer with it for a second before he opted to break the ice.
“All right there, lad?” He asked, turning toward him with a slight tilt of his head.
The young man blinked, then laughed in a rush. “Yeah. Sorry! I just wasn’t ready for the accent.”
Ciarán glanced down at himself, then looked back up with a wounded expression. “Just the accent, was it? Jaysus, I’ll have to try harder.”
The lad’s cheeks went red so quickly that Ciarán almost felt bad. Key word being almost.
“I mean…” The young man said, looking like he regretted beginning the sentence but was too far into it to stop. “The arms aren’t exactly hurting your case.”
Ciarán looked at his own arm as if he had forgotten it was there. “Good. I’d hate to think I brought them all the way to Virginia for nothin’.”
That got a real laugh out of him. Not the startled one from before, but something easier. Ciarán liked that better. A nervous flirt was sweet, but a brave one was more fun.
“You always talk like that?” The young man asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Ciarán’s mouth curved. “That’s a dangerous thing to accuse a man of.”
“Is it?”
“Well, if I admit it, I sound arrogant. If I deny it, I sound like a liar.”
“So which are you?”
“Irish.” Ciarán smirked. “We’re often both, but people tend to forgive us when we say it nicely.”
The young man laughed again and looked down at his drink, as if it might rescue him from the conversation he had willingly entered. When he looked back up, he had recovered a little, though his eyes still flicked once toward Ciarán’s arms before settling back on his face.
“I’m Mason.” He said.
“Ciarán.”
Mason repeated it carefully. “Ciarán. That’s a nice name.” Mason said.
“It was a gift from my parents.” Ciarán replied. “I’ll let them know if they’re ever lookin’ too pleased with themselves.”
Mason smiled. “You visiting?”
“For the weekend. Work, mostly.” Ciarán glanced around the waterfront. “Thought I’d come down here and see what Norfolk does when it’s not busy tryin’ to look too serious.”
Mason followed his gaze. The crowd was a mix of tourists, locals, families, couples, groups of friends, service members and people who looked as though they had come out simply because going home had felt too final.
“This is pretty much it.” Mason said. “Food, drinks, water and people pretending they came for the view.”
Ciarán looked back at him. “And did you?”
“Come for the view?”
“Aye.”
Mason gave him a quick, sideways smile. “I thought I did.”
Ciarán huffed a quiet laugh at that, amused despite himself. He could have made something sharper out of it, but he let it sit there instead. Mason had earned that much. There was a difference between flirting and begging for attention, and Mason was managing to stay on the right side of it.
The bartender set Ciarán’s beer on the counter. He thanked her, lifted the glass and took a drink. It was cold, bitter enough to be welcome, and better than he had expected from a place that clearly catered to tourists.
“Not terrible.” He said.
“That’s high praise from an Irishman.” Mason said.
“You’ve known me for three minutes.”
“I’ve learned a lot.”
“Have you now?”
“You’re hard to impress, you like being complimented more than you want people to know, and you’re pretending you came here for food when really you didn’t want to sit alone wherever you’re staying.”
Ciarán looked at him then. The shift was small, but it was there. Mason had said it lightly enough, maybe not even realizing he had touched something real. Ciarán could have laughed it off. He almost did. The answer was there on his tongue, some easy bit of smartness that would turn the moment back toward safer ground.
Instead, he took another drink.
“That’s not a bad guess.” He said after a moment.
Mason’s expression softened, but not in a way that made Ciarán feel pitied. That mattered. Pity had a taste to it, and Ciarán had never had the stomach for it.
Their food numbers were called close enough together that Mason declared it fate. Ciarán told him it was more likely a kitchen doing its job, but he did not object when Mason followed him toward a high table near the railing. Their baskets landed between them, the river dark behind Mason’s shoulder, the waterfront noise rolling on around them.
Ciarán studied the crab cakes with the appropriate amount of suspicion.
Mason watched him. “Don’t look at them like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like they offended your family.”
Ciarán pointed a fry at him. “You’re gettin’ very bold for a man who was speechless ten minutes ago.”
Mason’s smile widened. “I recovered.”
“You’re doin’ all right.”
Ciarán took a bite of the crab cake and chewed slowly, because he could feel Mason waiting for a reaction and saw no reason to give him one too quickly. It was good. Annoyingly good, actually. Warm, crisp where it needed to be, and seasoned well enough that he did not have to lie.
“Well?” Mason asked.
Ciarán looked down at the basket, then back toward the river. “Fine. Norfolk gets ten minutes of peace from me.”
They ate for a few minutes with the sort of silence that did not feel awkward. That surprised Ciarán. He was good with words when he needed to be, but silence was harder. Silence gave too much room for the mind to wander, and his mind had a habit of going places it had not been invited.
Here, though, it was different.
The crowd filled the empty spaces. The river moved beside them. Mason leaned against the table, comfortable now, neither feeling the obligation to fill the silence between them with idle chit chat. There was something easy about him that Ciarán found himself appreciating.
“You said work brought you here.” Mason said eventually. “What do you do?”
Ciarán wiped his fingers on a napkin and took his time answering.
He could have told the full truth. He could have watched for the moment Mason placed him, if he placed him at all. He knew how that went. Sometimes it was flattering. Sometimes it was tiring. Sometimes it made people change the way they looked at him before they had finished saying his name.
Tonight, he did not feel like handing over that much of himself.
“I travel.” Ciarán finally said. “I perform. I get hit more than any sensible man should, and now and then I hit back.”
Mason narrowed his eyes. “That’s either sports, theater or the worst customer service job in America. Either way, it sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.” Ciarán looked out toward the water again. “But it’s good when it’s good. There’s noise and pressure. Everyone watchin’ the same thing at the same time, waitin’ to see what happens next. Hard to explain if you’ve never stood in the middle of it.”
Mason was quiet for a moment. “You miss it when it’s quiet?”
Ciarán gave a small, humorless smile. “Sometimes I miss it when I’m still in it.”
That came out too honest. He knew it as soon as he said it. The words sat there between them, heavier than the rest, and for a second the noise around them seemed to push farther away. Ciarán looked down at his beer and wished he had made a joke instead.
Mason leaned his forearms against the table and said, “I get that. Different reasons, probably, but I get it.”
There was no reason for Ciarán to believe him, and yet he did.
Ciarán lifted his glass slightly. “To strange places bein’ better than hotel rooms, then.”
Mason tapped his cup lightly against it. “I’ll drink to that.”
They drank. The moment might have turned too serious if Mason had let it, but he leaned back after a second and gave Ciarán a look that was pure mischief.
“So…” Mason said. “Do people always react like that when you talk?”
“Like what?”
“Like they’ve just forgotten all control of their inhibitions.”
Ciarán raised an eyebrow. “Are we discussin’ other people now, or are you confessin’?”
“I already confessed.”
“You blamed the accent.”
“And the arms.”
“That’s true. You did objectify me very thoroughly.”
Mason covered his face with one hand. “I did not objectify you.”
“You did.”
“I complimented you.”
“With your eyes first.”
“That’s not fair. Your arms were there before I was ready.”
Ciarán leaned a little closer, lowering his voice just enough for the Irish in it to thicken. “Careful, Mason. Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll start thinkin’ you’re tryin’ to charm me.”
Mason dropped his hand slowly. The blush came back, but so did the smile.
“Is it working?”
Ciarán held his gaze for a moment. He could have dodged it. He could have turned it into something teasing and harmless. Instead, he let Mason have the answer, not too much of it, but enough.
“You’re doin’ grand.”
Mason’s smile softened at the edges. He was about to answer in kind when his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced down at it, ignored it, and then it buzzed again almost immediately. His mouth twisted.
“I’m supposed to meet friends.” He said. “I already ignored two texts. If I ignore a third, they’ll come looking.”
“Then you’d better go before they send a search party.” Ciarán said. “I’d hate to be blamed for ruinin’ your evening.”
Mason picked up his drink, but he did not leave right away. His eyes flicked toward the river, then back to Ciarán, and something in his expression shifted.
“You staying here awhile?”
Ciarán glanced toward the water, then he looked back at Mason.
“Depends on whether Norfolk keeps bein’ interesting.”
Mason smiled, slower this time. “It might.”
“Is that a promise, or are you defendin’ the city’s honor?”
“Maybe both.” Mason laughed, but he was watching Ciarán closely now, like he was trying to decide whether the door was open or whether it only looked that way from the outside. Ciarán did not close it, nor did he open it wider. He only stood there, one hand around his drink, expression calm enough to give nothing away.
Mason took one step backward, still smiling. “Enjoy your view.”
Ciarán’s mouth curved. “I was, actually.”
Mason’s face went red all over again, and this time Ciarán did not bother pretending he had not done it on purpose. The grin was bright and wide.
Then Mason was gone, slipping back into the crowd and the lights and the music near the water. Ciarán watched him for a moment, not long enough to be obvious. At least, that was what he told himself. He turned back toward the river before he could be caught smiling like an eejit over a conversation with a stranger.
For perhaps the first time tonight, he was glad he left the hotel. Here, there was color and noise and some pretty damn good live music. There were people making ordinary memories under city lights. There was a bartender who had given him honest advice, a crab cake that had earned its reputation, and a handsome lad in an anchor shirt who had nearly lost his mind over an Irish accent and a pair of arms.
Ciarán took another drink and let himself enjoy that.
He finished the rest of his food slowly, watching the water more than the crowd. Now and then his eyes drifted back toward the place Mason had disappeared, though he would have denied he was looking for him if anyone had asked. A man could notice a thing twice without making a confession of it.
A man could wonder whether Norfolk still had more to offer without giving the thought a name.
“At Summer XXXTreme XIV, I took the plunge. I mean that in every sense of the word, because when the Roulette Championship was on the line and Ryan Keys stood across from me, I went into that match knowin’ there was every chance I’d end up wet, sore, humbled, or all three before the night was done.”
“And that’s exactly what happened, yeah? I lost. I took my shot, I came up short, and I’ve no shame in sayin’ that because there’s no disgrace in losin’ to a grand champion like Ryan Keys. The man proved why he carries that title, and at least unlike when the champ hit the pool, I wasn’t wearin’ peek-a-boo white for the whole world to admire.”
“So if anyone expects me to stand here wounded, bitter, and complainin’ about how close I came, you’re wastin’ your time. I don’t mind startin’ over, because I’m patient, and patience is a dangerous thing when it belongs to a man who remembers every lesson a loss teaches him. You fall, you get up, you wring the water out of your pride, and then you start walkin’ back toward what you want.”
“But I’ll give the bosses credit where it’s due. They didn’t waste much time or effort wonderin’ what to do with me next, did they? They took one look at Ciarán Doyle, fresh off a Roulette title loss, and said, ‘Right, let’s see what he’s made of when we put Cyrus Riddle in front of him.’”
“And Cyrus Riddle? That’s not exactly a soft landing, is it? That’s the sort of man whose reputation walks into the room before he does, and I don’t mean you need a thousand matches and a dozen championships to know your hands are goin’ to be full with him. You can take one look at Cyrus Riddle and know that win or lose, you’re wakin’ up the next mornin’ feelin’ like your body had a private argument with a brick wall.”
“That’s not an insult, Cyrus. That’s respect. There are men in this business who look dangerous because they try very hard to look dangerous, and then there are men who look dangerous because life did half the work before they ever stepped between the ropes. You strike me as the second sort, and those are the ones a man with sense takes seriously.”
“And then there’s the company you keep, isn’t there? Any man who can claim Kat Jones and Mac Bane as family is already carryin’ a certain pedigree in this sport, whether people like it or not. That tells me plenty about where you come from, what kind of standards have been around you, and what sort of fight I should expect when that bell rings.”
“So no, Cyrus, I’m not lookin’ past you. I’m not treatin’ you like a name on a card or a convenient step after a bad night at Summer XXXTreme. I know exactly what kind of match this can become, and I know exactly what it says if I walk into Norfolk and beat a man like you.”
“Because that’s what this is for me now. I’m startin’ over with purpose, not because I’ve been thrown back to the bottom and told to behave, but because I know what I want and I know what I have to do to make people look at me again. The next time the bosses start talkin’ about contenders for the Roulette Championship or the Internet Championship, I want my name sittin’ there in the middle of the conversation where it belongs.”
“Not the World Heavyweight Championship. Not yet. I’m confident, Cyrus, but I’m not so full of myself that I think one good run and one brave swim earns me the biggest prize in the company before I’ve built the foundation properly.”
“I want the gold that matches where I am right now. I want the titles that prove I can be dangerous in chaos, that I can adapt, that I can take punishment, give it back, and keep movin’ with a smile on my face and fire in my chest. If that road begins again with Cyrus Riddle, then I suppose the bosses have given me a fine test and a terrible headache wrapped in the same package.”
“And that’s grand by me. I don’t need easy, and I don’t trust easy, because easy rarely tells the truth about a man. Cyrus, you’re goin’ to tell me the truth about where I stand, and I intend to return the favor with interest.”
“So I’ll say this plain. I respect you, I respect where you come from, and I respect the fight I believe you’re bringin’ to Norfolk. I hope you bring every bit of grit, power, pride, and family pedigree you’ve got, because I’d hate to beat a man who left any of himself behind.”
“And from the bottom of my Irish heart, Cyrus, I wish you the luck of the Irish. Of course, bein’ Irish myself, I should warn you that can mean blessin’s, bruises, bad decisions, or survivin’ somethin’ terrible by the skin of your teeth. Come Norfolk, I suppose we’ll find out which kind I’ve given you.”
