Bring Him Home
Las Vegas, NV
The air inside the Clark County Family Court building felt different than anywhere else in Las Vegas. The casinos carried noise, neon, and life. The Strip never slept. But here, everything was subdued, muffled, the carpet was thick enough to swallow footsteps, and the wood paneling along the walls seemed designed to keep voices from rising too high.
Miles sat at the long oak table, Carter at his side. Both wore suits, Carter’s sharp navy one made him look polished and calm, while Miles tugged at his tie like it had been knotted too tight. Between them sat Alastair O’Malley, sleeves neat, posture perfect, eyes already locked on the judge’s bench with the same kind of steady patience he’d once used to protect Carter years ago.
Across the aisle sat a representative from Child Protective Services, a woman with a file thick enough to be a brick, full of Kevin’s entire history, schools, hospital records, the string of issues from his family’s issues to what happened recently. Miles tried not to look at it. Tried not to think about how every page was another reminder that Kevin had been shuffled around like cargo by his own family, rather than allow him to just be a kid.
At the far end of the bench, Detective LaSalle stood near the rail, in uniform but off-duty, hands folded behind his back. His presence wasn’t procedural, he was there because he wanted to be. Because he’d seen Miles and Carter step up when no one else had.
The bailiff called the room to order. Everyone rose as Judge Ramirez entered, a woman with sharp eyes that missed nothing. She sat, looked over the docket, and then gestured for everyone else to sit as well.
“Alright,” Judge Ramirez began, her tone brisk but not unkind, "We are here today to discuss the matter of minor Kevin Chapman, soon to be released from University Medical Center. The court must decide appropriate placement and long-term guardianship.”
Miles swallowed hard. His hands pressed flat against the polished wood of the table. He felt Carter’s fingers brush against his under the surface, grounding him.
Alastair stood, buttoning his jacket, his voice carrying smooth and clear, "Your Honor, I represent Miles Kasey-McKinney and Carter McKinney-Kasey. My clients are here today not out of obligation or convenience, but out of genuine concern for the welfare of Kevin Chapman. They are seeking full guardianship of Kevin, with the intent of providing a permanent, stable home for him.”
The CPS representative shifted, readying her notes. But before she could speak, Judge Ramirez lifted a hand, "And you have documentation of financial stability, living arrangements, and background checks?”
“Filed in advance with the court,” Alastair replied, sliding a packet across to the clerk, "Additionally, there is testimony from Detective LaSalle, who has firsthand knowledge of my clients’ history with Kevin and their demonstrated commitment to his well-being.”
Miles’ throat felt dry, but he kept his gaze steady. He wasn’t here to prove he could win a wrestling match. He was here to prove he could keep a promise, to a kid who’d never had anyone keep one before.
Judge Ramirez turned her eyes toward LaSalle, "Detective?”
LaSalle stepped forward, voice carrying the weight of a man who’d spent too many years testifying, "Your Honor, I’ve seen these two gentlemen in difficult circumstances. I’ve watched them advocate for this boy when others might’ve walked away, especially his own father. They didn’t have to get involved, but they did. Mr. Kasey-McKinney especially went to extra lengths to make sure of Kevin’s wellbeing. And from everything I’ve seen, they’re the only ones looking at Kevin as more than a case number. They see him as family.”
For the first time since the hearing began, the corners of Judge Ramirez’s mouth softened. She glanced toward Miles and Carter, then back down at her papers. Miles leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. Carter’s hand stayed on his, and for a brief second, despite the weight of the courtroom, the stiff suits, the looming uncertainty, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they were on the right path.
The CPS representative rose, smoothing the lapel of her blazer as she addressed the bench, "Your Honor, while I do not question the sincerity of Mr. and Mr. Kasey-McKinney, I must raise concerns. Kevin Chapman has endured repeated instability, from his mother landing herself in prison to his own father seemingly kicking him out of his house. Kevin has spent a lot of time back and forth and unsure where to go. And while these gentlemen have a relationship with him, they are not blood relatives, nor have they any prior legal responsibility. The Department recommends placement in a certified foster home while his situation is reassessed in a more formal capacity.”
Alastair stood almost immediately, his tone calm but sharp, "With respect, Your Honor, Kevin has been through more than enough cold transitions. Another foster placement only continues the cycle. What my clients offer is not just a roof or a paycheck, it’s consistency. Kevin knows them. He trusts them. He already has a bond within their household, and removing him from that would do more harm than good.”
Judge Ramirez tapped her pen against her notes, eyes flicking between the parties, "And what of their occupations? From what I see, both Mr. Kasey-McKinney and Mr. McKinney-Kasey have demanding careers that require travel.”
That was the question Miles had been bracing for. His pulse kicked up, but before Alastair could answer, he cleared his throat and stood. Carter’s hand brushed his sleeve in a silent ‘you sure?’ but Miles nodded.
“Your Honor,” Miles began, voice steady, though he could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, "It’s true, I wrestle. I travel. So does Carter, and together we’ve built our life around handling it. We’re not blind to what that means, and we’re not taking this lightly. But the difference is, Kevin wouldn’t just be another stop on our way. He’d be part of us. An actual part of our family.”
He took a breath, locking eyes with the judge, "Kevin’s had people promise him stability before, and then rip it away. I won’t do that to him. WE won’t do that to him. Not now, not ever. We haven’t gone into the idea of any of this lightly. This isn’t about checking a box or looking good on paper. It’s about giving a kid who’s had every reason not to trust adults a reason to finally believe one of them. If that means rearranging our life? I’ll do it. No hesitation.”
The room went still. Alastair didn’t add anything. He didn’t need to. Even the CPS rep shifted uncomfortably, as if she knew there wasn’t much to argue against the raw conviction in Miles’ voice.
Judge Ramirez studied him for a long moment, the silence heavy but not hostile. Finally, she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands, "I appreciate your candor, Mr. Kasey-McKinney. This court will take everything under advisement before making a ruling. For now, the matter is recessed until this afternoon.”
The gavel struck once, and just like that, the tension loosened enough for Miles to breathe again. Carter squeezed his hand under the table, whispering, “You killed it, babe.”
The wait between sessions was torture. Miles and Carter walked the courthouse halls with Alastair, sipping burnt coffee from paper cups that did nothing to settle the nerves. Even Ms. Thang at home crossed Miles’ mind, how easy it was to worry about a cat, when the fate of a kid was hanging in the balance.
By the time the bailiff’s voice called them back into the courtroom, Miles’ tie felt like a noose again. Carter smoothed it down for him before they reentered, his small smile steady enough to lend courage.
When Judge Ramirez took her seat again, the silence fell heavy. Papers shuffled. A long pause. Then she spoke.
“This court has reviewed all submitted documents, as well as testimony from both counsel and Detective LaSalle, as well as a stellar letter of reference by a Dr. Gail Delacore. The decision before me is not one I take lightly. Kevin Chapman has experienced significant instability. His mother did attempt a contestment of this act but she has lost her parental rights after her criminal history. His father has, after contact, gave a differing opinion and has agreed that Kevin deserves a better life. The Department’s concerns regarding his placement are valid. However...”
Miles’ stomach flipped at the word.
“...It is also clear that Kevin has found stability, consistency, and genuine care with Mr. and Mr. Kasey-McKinney. Foster care may provide shelter, but it cannot replicate established trust and existing bonds. Removing him would likely do more harm than good and considering the disturbing circumstances that led to this very moment, I feel like right now the child in question deserves more than just a roof over their head.”
The CPS representative shifted, lips pressing together, but she didn’t interrupt.
Judge Ramirez continued, her eyes settling on Miles, then Carter, "Therefore, it is the ruling of this court that guardianship of Kevin Chapman be granted to Miles Kasey-McKinney and Carter McKinney-Kasey, effective immediately. Conditions will include regular welfare check-ins for the first six months, and continued demonstration of stability in employment and home life. Furthermore, seeing as your careers take you above and beyond this state, I am also granting you both permission to travel with him, but he must be enrolled in school and live a normal lifestyle. But as of today, Kevin Chapman is officially under your guardianship. Gentlemen, I wish you the best.”
The gavel struck.
For a moment, Miles couldn’t breathe. His lungs forgot how to work, his ears rang with the echo of the gavel. It was Carter’s hand again, warm, squeezing and grounding, that made the weight of the moment crash over him. It was a relief and triumph. The sudden realization that everything they’d been fighting for had just changed their lives.
Alastair allowed himself the smallest smile as he gathered his papers. LaSalle clapped a firm hand on Miles’ shoulder as they stood, his voice low but certain, "You did right by him.”
Miles swallowed hard, nodding. He glanced at Carter, who was already grinning through eyes that shimmered with unshed tears, "We did,” Carter said softly.
----
A Few Days Later
Turnberry Towers
The elevator ride up felt longer than it should have. Kevin’s backpack was slung over one shoulder, the strap digging into his collarbone, though he barely noticed. He stared at the mirrored wall of the cab, watching his own reflection the way someone might eye a stranger.
Miles stood at his side, keys in hand, Carter just behind them carrying one of the duffel bags stuffed with Kevin’s things from the hospital. They hadn’t said much on the way up. It wasn’t the kind of silence that pressed, it was the kind that waited.
When the doors slid open, Kevin followed them down the hall, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. He didn’t know what he expected when Miles unlocked the condo door and pushed it open. He remembered being here once before, except in his memory the edges blurred, the colors were wrong, and everything smelled like panic and hunger. Miles’ arm had been around him then, holding him upright, half-carrying him out of the motel and into this place that barely registered before he was ushered off to the hospital.
Now, walking into the condo, it was different.
“Welcome home,” Carter said. His voice was easy, but Kevin caught the way he watched him closely, like he was waiting to see if the words landed.
The condo smelled faintly of coffee and something citrus, Carter’s doing, no doubt, given the dish towel slung over the back of a chair, that was the first thing he noticed. The second was the quiet hum of normal life, music faint from a speaker. Kevin stepped inside carefully, like the floor might vanish beneath him if he wasn’t cautious enough.
“This is...wow,” he said, eyes sweeping across the open living room. The wide windows poured early-afternoon light across the space, catching on the framed photos lining the shelves, Miles and Carter with friends, snapshots from shows, even a couple of goofy selfies in front of landmarks Kevin only half-recognized. It felt alive in a way most places he’d stayed never had, including the home that he had shared with his parents, one floor up.
Miles nudged the door shut behind them with his heel and slung the keys onto the counter, "Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together once, “Ten-cent tour. The living room here, TV’s way too big, that’s mostly my fault according to Carter.”
“Yes, but I’ve learned to live with it because it’s amazing for movies,” Carter interjected smoothly, dropping Kevin’s duffel bag by the couch.
“Kitchen’s through there, laundry’s tucked away behind those doors, bedrooms down the hall. The bathroom’s yours but is also a guest bathroom. Try not to let Carter convince you that kale smoothies are food, and you’ll survive just fine.”
Kevin’s mouth quirked at the corner, though he ducked his head quickly to hide it. The ease between them was something he wasn’t used to yet. Especially when he heard Carter shoot back something about Krispy Kreme Donuts being one of Miles’ basic 4 food groups.
They rounded into the kitchen, and before Kevin could take in the stainless appliances or the ridiculous lineup of coffee mugs hanging by hooks, a sharp, imperious ‘mrrrow!’ cut through the air. Perched on the kitchen peninsula, tail curled neatly around her paws, was a black-and-white tuxedo cat. Her whiskers twitched, her bright eyes narrowed as though appraising the newcomer.
“And this,” Carter announced, “Is Ms. Thang. Official ruler of the condo.”
“She lets us stay here out of pity, we just pay the mortgage and give her treats.” Miles added, leaning casually against the counter.
Kevin froze for half a second under the cat’s piercing stare, then watched in surprise as Ms. Thang leapt gracefully down to the stool, then to the floor. She approached him with slow, deliberate steps, sniffed his sneakers, and finally brushed herself against his shin like she’d known him forever. Kevin crouched instinctively, reaching a tentative hand down. Ms. Thang leaned into the touch immediately, purring so loudly it vibrated against his palm.
Kevin blinked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward again, "Guess I pass inspection.”
Miles grinned, "That’s the toughest one in the house, right there. If she’s cool with you, the rest is a done deal. But let’s not tell LJ about this, or I will never hear the end of it.”
Carter leaned an elbow on the counter, watching the two with a softer expression, "Oh I am so telling your brother.”
Kevin didn’t say anything, just kept stroking the cat, his shoulders easing for the first time since they’d left the hospital.
----
Come Crashing Down
Miami, FL
Miles leaned forward on the steel chair, elbows resting on his knees, the faint glint of the ladder looming behind him. The air smelled faintly of dust and canvas, the quiet of the empty arena pressing in around him. For once, he didn’t fidget, he didn’t pace. He just spoke with the same focus he’d wrestled his own doubts into submission with.
“Four men. One championship. One night in Miami.
And me? I’ve been waiting for this. Waiting to stand in the center of chaos...tables, ladders, chairs....and prove I don’t just belong here, I own it.”
His gaze flicked upward to the rafters, where in a few days the Internet Championship would hang.
“Let’s start our little Ted Talk where we will begin discussing the one and only ‘Bulldog’ Bill Barnhart.
The man I already beat to earn my way into this match. The man I left behind when I punched my ticket to Violent Conduct. And yet, here you are, Billy. You’re in this match, not because you earned it, not because you fought your way in, but because I made it happen.”
Miles let the words linger, a sharp smirk cutting across his face.
“Yeah, everyone was shocked when I went to SCW General Manager Evelyn Hall. Everyone thought, ‘Why in the world would Miles do that? Why give Bill another chance?’ And the truth is simple, because I’m not afraid of you. Because I wanted you in this match. Because Violent Conduct seems incomplete without you in it, Billy Boy.
You see, Alex Jones and Eddie Lyons were just handed their spots, and rightfully so because they fucking deserved it...well maybe Eddie more than Alex but we’ll cross and burn that particular bridge when we get to it. Me? I had to fight. And you, Bill, you were supposed to be finished. Out of the picture. But I couldn’t stomach the idea of people whispering that Miles only got through because he had it easy. So I made it fair. I made sure you got in, too.”
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the barricade, eyes narrowing.
“But here’s the thing, Bill. You should be thanking me. You should be on your knees, grateful that I even spoke up for you to give you this shot. Because deep down, you know the truth, without me, you’d be at home, holding Bea’s purse while shopping, watching this on TV with your dog.
And come Violent Conduct? That’s exactly where you’ll end up again. Because the same way I put you down once, I’ll do it again, only this time, there won’t be any appeals. There won’t be any second chances. Just tables breaking under your weight and me climbing the ladder while you wonder why you thought you could still hang with the future of this division.”
Miles pushed back from the barricade, that sharp grin returning.
“I gave you this spot, Bill. But I’ll be damned if I’m giving you the championship.”
Miles smirked faintly, his jaw setting.
Miles exhaled slowly, slowly making his way to the six sided ring, resting his forearms on the canvas, his gaze somewhere far off, as though he could already see the chaos of ladders and tables waiting in Miami. When he spoke, his tone was steady, not mocking, not cruel, but deliberate.
“Eddie Lyons. Now here’s the part where I have to tell some hard truths to a man I actually respect.
You’re a fighter, Eddie. You’re the kind of guy who doesn’t break no matter how many times the world tries to bend you. And believe me, I see that. I respect it. You’ve been waiting for that moment — that crack in the glass ceiling where you finally get to smash through and say, ‘I made it. This is my time.’
And trust me, man, I get it. I know what it’s like to be thirsty for that shot, to want it so bad that it keeps you awake at night. That feeling of being on the cusp, always right there, and the universe pulling it back out of reach. Hell, you’re a new dad now, and I know that adds fire to everything you do. You want to hold that championship up high, not just for you, but for your family. You want to be able to tell your kid that you fought, you bled, and you won.”
Miles shook his head slowly, almost regretfully, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“But here’s the thing, Eddie, I’ve been waiting too, I’ve been waiting since I lost the fucking thing. And the truth is, the world doesn’t care how long you’ve waited. The Internet Championship isn’t a charity. It isn’t a prize you get for enduring the most disappointment. It’s a fight, and when the dust settles, only one of us is walking away with that belt.
And as much as I admire your fight, as much as I respect that you don’t crack under pressure, in fact you are probably the most level headed guy in the entire SCW lockerroom and that is amazing in of itself considering that most of us belong locked up in a rubber room with nothing but the jackets that help you hug yourself, hand puppets and pingpong tables. BUT...I’m here to tell you it won’t be you. Not in Miami. Not at Violent Conduct. You’ve been waiting, Eddie. You have been waiting for so long, but so have I. And I’m done waiting.
So when you look up from that mat, with the wreckage of ladders and tables all around you, and you see me standing at the top with the Internet Championship in my hands, don’t take it as disrespect. Take it as the reality. Because I know you’ll keep fighting. You always do. But this time, it’s my ceiling that’s shattering. Not yours.”
Miles tapped the rope with his palm and let a small, sympathetic smirk cross his face.
“Somebody’s gotta be the bearer of bad news. Guess it’s me.”
The name that came next pulled a different weight into his voice.
Miles’ jaw tightened as he straightened, no longer leaning against the canvas, his voice carrying more bite now.
“Alex Jones. Now this one’s different.
See, Bill’s a relic, Eddie’s a fighter I can respect...but you, Alex? You were supposed to be a mentor. One of the guys who was there when I came into Wolfslair. You ARE Wolfslair....you were Wolfslair. One of the ones who told me to dig deeper, push harder, keep going when I felt like I had nothing left. I listened. I did the work. I bled for this business, and I carried those lessons with me everywhere I went.
And now here we are, years later, and I get to look across the ring at you...and realize how far you’ve fallen.
Because let’s be real, Alex, you’ve been coasting on reputation for a long time. Especially since Carter defeated you and kicked your ass back down the ladder. You still strut around like you’re untouchable, like the name alone carries weight. Picking the pettiest of fucking fights because you know damn well there isn’t a damn soul that fears the figure you have become. But here’s the truth: Wolfslair built monsters, killers, champions, and you? You became the guy clinging to past glories while everyone else kept moving forward. You taught us to never settle and yet here you are, settled. And you blew up your entire family for absolutely no fucking reason.
You want to look at me like I’m still that kid, green and wide-eyed, hoping one day to earn your nod of approval? You want to pretend you’re still that towering figure above me? Nah, not anymore. That dynamic died the moment I realized I didn’t need your approval to stand on my own two feet. That I didn’t need you, period.
So here’s the reality check: in Miami, when that bell rings, I’m not your student. I’m not your underling. I’m the guy who’s about to run straight through you.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real lesson. That no matter how many kids you try to preach to, no matter how much you want to puff your chest out like you’re still the big bad wolf of this place, sooner or later one of those students grows up, sharpens his teeth, and comes back to take a bite out of you.
That’s what’s waiting for you in Miami, Alex. Not respect. Not gratitude. Just reality. And the reality is, you’re not standing at the top of the mountain anymore. You’re standing in my way. And I don’t plan on asking permission to move you.”
Miles smirked, though there was no warmth behind it, it was just steel.
“You taught me well enough, Alex, hell I would say maybe too well. Now you get to see what happens when the student finally surpasses the teacher.
The measuring stick. The name people whisper when they talk about what this company once was, what it still can be. A man who’s seen it all, done it all, and can still back it up. Do NOT misunderstand me...I don’t take that lightly, Alex. I don’t dismiss it. Hell, part of me has been waiting for this fight, because if I want to prove I’m ready to carry this championship, standing across from you is the test.
But here’s the truth: legends fade, their shine dulls and their aura cracks when the new blood refuses to bow. And you should know as well as anyone, I’m not one to knee to anyonel. I’m not here to shake your hand and say, ‘thank you for paving the way.’ I’m here to show you the way forward doesn’t belong to you anymore, it belongs to me.”
Miles stood then, dragging the chair back with a scrape against the floor. His eyes went back up, locking on the invisible belt waiting in the air.
“TLC matches aren’t about luck and they’re sure as fuck not about nostalgia. They’re about who’s willing to put their body through hell, climb that ladder, and grab their destiny.
Barnhart, Eddie, Alex, you’re all obstacles that stand in my way to get back to what I should have never lost. You are the tough ones, the dangerous ones. But at Violent Conduct X, I’m not walking into Miami haunted, or hesitant, or second-guessing myself anymore. I promised I was done living in fear.
And when that championship comes down into my hands, you’ll all know it wasn't a chance, it wasn’t luck.
It was inevitable.”
He stepped back from the canvas and let the silence hang for a heartbeat, letting everything he'd said settle in the stale arena air. The ladder behind him glittered like a promise; the empty seats felt like the lungs of a city waiting to exhale. He fixed his gaze on that imaginary belt dangling over the ring in Miami and then looked up, not at the ceiling, but at the future.
“Listen,” he said, calm and certain now, “This isn’t personal theater. It’s not about settling scores with old ghosts or collecting trophies for the highlight reel. It’s about one simple thing: who’s willing to hurt the most to hold what’s theirs.”
He paced slowly, each step measured, "Barnhart, thanks for the convenience of your stubbornness. Eddie, respect, always, but respect doesn’t hand you a belt. And Alex...you were a teacher once. You helped make me. Funny how the lesson comes full circle.” A short laugh escaped him, "All three of you taught me something. You taught me how to beat you.”
Miles stopped in the center of the ring, palms flat against the cool canvas. The words that followed were quieter, but they landed like iron.
“I promised myself, on my birthday, that I was done letting the past tell me who I could be. No more ghosts and no more excuses. I’m not climbing because I want the belt for the picture or the retweets. I’m climbing because I earned the right to be the one who gets to decide what comes next for me. For my life. For the people I love.”
He drew in a breath, let it out like a bell toll, "Tables break, ladders bend, chairs shatter. Bodies will be bruised and clever plans will fail. But when the scrap metal sings and the dust hangs in the Miami air, one hand will close around that championship. One name will be shouted into a thousand phones and a thousand timelines. One man will walk out of Violent Conduct X different from the way he walked in.”
Miles looked at them all with the flat, certain smile of someone who’d already rehearsed victory a thousand times in his head, "That man is me. It’s inevitable.”
