Change
The next session felt wrong in the best possible way.
No stopwatch.
No barked commands.
No silent tension humming through the air like a live wire.
Alex unlocked the gym doors just after sunrise, the sky outside still painted in soft purples and bruised blues. Dylan followed him in, hoodie zipped up, headphones hanging loosely around his neck. He looked… lighter. Not healed. Not fixed. But no longer carrying the entire world on his shoulders like it was a test he could fail. Alex dropped his bag by the bench and rolled his shoulders. “Today’s not about killing ourselves.”
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Are you feeling okay?”
Alex smirked. “Careful. That smart mouth’ll get you extra squats.”
“Worth it.” They started with stretching, long, lazy movements instead of rushed warm-ups. Dylan lay flat on his back on the mat, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. “This is weird,” he muttered.
Alex glanced over. “Stretching?”
“No,” Dylan said. “Not feeling like I’m being timed.”
Alex didn’t respond right away. He lowered himself into a seated stretch, hamstrings screaming in protest. “You don’t always need to feel pressure to make progress.”
Dylan snorted. “That’s easy to say.”
“Is it?”
Dylan rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one elbow. “You came up in a different time. You guys were animals. You didn’t slow down.”
Alex chuckled. “Kid… we slowed down all the time. We just didn’t admit it.”
They moved into light chain wrestling, nothing competitive, nothing sharp. Flow drills. Catch-and-release holds. Dylan tried a cheeky roll-through that ended with him slipping and landing flat on his ass. Alex burst out laughing. Not a snort. Not a breathy chuckle. A full, unguarded laugh. Dylan stared at him like he’d just witnessed a rare animal in the wild. “Did you just laugh at me?”
“Oh absolutely,” Alex said, wiping at his eyes. “That was terrible.”
“Rude.”
“Historically accurate.”
Dylan scrambled up and shot for a clumsy single-leg that Alex easily sidestepped, hooking him around the waist and guiding him, not slamming him, down to the mat. “Hey!” Dylan protested.
Alex leaned over him. “You telegraphed it.”
“I was improvising!”
“You were panicking.”
Dylan frowned, then laughed despite himself. “Okay, maybe a little.” They kept moving. Not harder. Just freer. Dylan tried ridiculous things, over-the-top arm drags, exaggerated bumps, mock-selling like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Alex matched him beat for beat, overselling chops, flailing dramatically after a weak clothesline. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” Dylan said between laughs.
“Good,” Alex replied. “Keeps me humble.”
At one point Dylan climbed the turnbuckle, balanced precariously, and announced, “Behold. The most devastating move in wrestling.”
Alex folded his arms. “Oh no.”
Dylan leapt. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was barely controlled chaos, but Alex caught him, spun, and gently dumped him onto the mat. They lay there afterward, staring at the lights, breathing heavy from laughter more than effort. “This,” Dylan said quietly, “feels different.”
Alex nodded. “That’s the point.” They spent the next hour doing things Alex never would’ve allowed a week ago, games of reversal tag, speed drills without consequence, even running the ropes backward just to mess with muscle memory. Dylan’s grin never fully left his face. And Alex noticed something else. Dylan wasn’t pushing. Not to impress. Not to escape. Not to prove anything. When they finally wound down, sitting on the apron with water bottles in hand, Dylan’s laughter faded into thoughtfulness.
“Dad?” he asked.
Alex took a long drink. “Yeah?”
Dylan stared out at the empty gym floor. “Can I ask you something… real?”
Alex tensed, but didn’t hide it. “You always do.”
Dylan nodded slowly. “When you were coming up… after everything that happened with Uncle Dylan… did people go easier on you?” The question landed heavy. Alex didn’t answer right away. “Did they feel sorry for you?” Dylan continued. “Or did they go harder because of it?”
Alex twisted the cap on his bottle, eyes distant. “Both.”
Dylan frowned. “That doesn’t really help.”
Alex sighed. “It’s the truth, kid. Some promoters looked at me and saw tragedy. Thought booking me was a charity case. Others saw baggage and wanted nothing to do with it.”
“So which was worse?”
Alex’s jaw tightened. “The ones who thought I was fragile.”
Dylan swallowed. “Did anyone ever refuse to book you because of it?”
“Yes.” That answer came fast. Honest. Sharp. Unfiltered.
Dylan’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Did you know?”
“Sometimes….Sometimes they told me straight up. Sometimes it was radio silence. Sometimes it was ‘maybe later’ that never came.”
“Because of what happened?”
“Because they didn’t want to deal with it,” Alex corrected. “Grief makes people uncomfortable. Especially in an industry that pretends pain is currency but doesn’t know what to do with the real kind.”
Dylan picked at the tape around his wrist. “So what did you do?”
Alex laughed softly. “I kept going.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all there ever is.”
Silence settled between them, not awkward, but loaded. “Did they ever go harder on you?” Dylan asked.
Alex nodded. “Absolutely. Some guys saw me as the weak link. Thought if they broke me, they’d prove something.”
“And did they?”
Alex turned, meeting his son’s eyes. “No.”
Dylan hesitated. “Did they ever… use it against you?”
Alex exhaled slowly. “More times than I can count.”
Dylan’s voice dropped. “That’s what I’m scared of.” Alex waited. “That people are gonna look at me and not see me, They’re gonna see your name. Your history. His name.” He swallowed. “And either they’ll take it easy on me because they think I’m special… or they’ll try to tear me apart because they think I didn’t earn my place.”
Alex leaned back, elbows resting on the apron. “That’s not fear, kid. That’s awareness.”
Dylan shook his head. “I don’t want sympathy bookings.”
“You won’t get them.”
“I don’t want favors.”
“You won’t get those either.”
“How do you know?”
Alex looked at him seriously. “Because this business doesn’t work that way. Not for long.”
Dylan’s brow furrowed. “Then what about me being your son?”
Alex smiled faintly. “That’ll get you in the door. Sometimes.” Dylan stiffened. “But it won’t keep you there,” Alex finished. “And it sure as hell won’t protect you.” Dylan looked relieved… and terrified.
“So will I be punished for it?” he asked. “Or rewarded?”
Alex thought carefully. “You’ll be tested.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
Dylan nodded slowly. “I just want to succeed on my own merit.”
Alex placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then you already are.”
Dylan scoffed. “That feels like dad-talk.”
Alex chuckled. “Fair.” Then his tone softened. “Kid… my past is part of your story. But it doesn’t define your ending.”
Dylan stared at the ring. “What if people never let me forget?”
“They won’t,” Alex said. “And that’s okay.”
“How?”
“Because eventually,” Alex said quietly, “they’ll stop talking about who you came from… and start talking about who you are.” Dylan let that sink in. “Until then,” Alex added, “you keep showing up. You keep learning. You keep having days like today. where you remember why you love this.”
Dylan smiled faintly. “Today was fun.”
Alex smiled back. “Yeah. It was.” They sat there a while longer, the gym bathed in late-morning light, the weight of momentum no longer crushing, but carrying them forward. Not as a warning. As a promise.
Grand Slam
Las Vegas, Nevada. A place where SCW finds itself going into Inception. Its spiritual home. The glitz, the glamour, the MGM Grand and all the other casinos lining the Strip. That is where everyone is going to be over the next few weeks. But that isn’t where we find ourselves. That isn’t where Alex Jones is. No. As of right now, we find him sitting at a Denny’s.
”I know this is weird, right? You expect me to be at some kind of high-priced hotel. Maybe staying at the MGM Grand, or maybe staying at Caesar’s Palace. Staying somewhere that is known for being on the side of decadence and debauchery.”
Alex chuckles to himself, sitting back as he reaches forward, grabbing the plastic pitcher filled with what looks to be water, taking a sip and placing it back on the wooden table. A plate sits in front of him. Something that many people will recognise who have frequented the popular yet cheap, and in some ways disgusting, diner. The Denny’s Grand Slam.
”As a former world champion, as a legend of this sport, and someone who owns one of the best gyms in the industry, you’d expect me to be staying somewhere and eating somewhere a little bit more special. But eating somewhere like this, it takes me back to a time when professional wrestling was something that I loved. I mean really loved. I had no money, I had nothing. I was scratching and clawing for everything. Do you know what that’s like? Most of you watching from home will have no idea. I’d expect at least some of the current SCW roster to know what that’s like. But unfortunately, I can’t say that any of you do. Least of all my opponent going into Inception.”
Alex picks up his knife and fork, cutting a piece of bacon and placing it on top of part of a pancake as he pops it into his mouth.
”Now, I’m not going to sit here and act like my recent career has gone exactly as planned. I have faulted, I have failed in certain goals that I wanted to achieve. But I am getting this train back on the right track. Getting in the ring with Ryan Key and beating the hell out of that self-righteous wannabe loser who believes himself to be some kind of legend was definitely a high point for me. And I told Ryan going into that match that I was going to end him, that I was going to beat him, and I was going to take every single little bit of credibility he had left, and oh boy did I.”
“What is Ryan doing now? Is he in any kind of match that matters? No, he’s in a filler match going against Liam Davis. A match that really doesn’t need to happen. And this is a problem that I have with our company. Supercards, something that is supposed to be the culmination of weeks upon weeks of television, a place where you are supposed to get rewarded for your hard work, for perseverance, and for winning matches and getting opportunities. That’s what a supercard is supposed to be.”
“Right? Or am I wrong?”
“I guess I’m wrong, since this happens every single few months. We approach one of the biggest shows of the year, whether it is Inception, Summer XXxtreme, or High Stakes, and everyone ends up being stuffed onto the card. And because of that, we end up with these huge bloated shows with people who don’t deserve to be on any type of supercard. And because of that, it diminishes the importance of all the other matches… including mine….”
Alex shakes his head before popping a piece of sausage into his mouth.
”And in a way, I feel sorry for Miles too. Kind of. You see, Miles is the Internet Champion, and he needs all the help he can get to stay relevant. His significant other is the World Champion, and Miles has been looked at as the lesser in that relationship for a very long time. Right down to the point where his Internet Championship reign has been nothing but an afterthought. And on a show like this, where it’s bloated with so many other matches, our match is being looked at as simply existing… existing….”
“Miles Kasey against Alex Jones. A pampered child who has had everything handed to him, as well as being the Internet Champion, against a man who could have been his real mentor in this business. A man who owns the gym that Miles so desperately wanted to be a part of, while screwing himself over with stupid decisions because he decided to listen to Carter. Yes, Miles, you listened to Carter, and it flushed all of your friendships that mattered down the toilet. You have your brother, and you have Bella, and you have everyone else floating around you, but none of them have the balls to tell you the truth. They just pat you on the back and tell you everything is going to be fine. Being the Internet Champion and stepping away from the World Championship scene is definitely good for you. Not facing Carter and going for that World Championship is all part of the plan. All part of the plan to make your career worth something, right?”
“Here’s the thing, Miles. I have been begging someone to step up and really beat me. To put a nail in the coffin of my career and use me as a stepping stone to become something special. But I don’t have any faith that it’s going to be you. And because of that, you and I are about to get in the ring, and you are going to defend the Internet Championship against me. And because of that, I have a shot at doing something that very few people have in this company.”
“To become a Grand Slam Champion. World, Roulette, Mixed Tag, all championships I have held, and now there is one left to tick off. Your title…”
“A championship that you won in a match involving me. So this is a little bit more personal than I care to admit. But it’s always going to be personal between you and me, isn’t it, Miles? We haven’t had that many matches, and previously, a singles match that you and I had ended in a time-limit draw. All the other ones have been multi-person matches. You walked out as the champion in one, I walked out as the Roulette Champion in another, and then there was a stupid tag match that we got thrown in….”
Alex nods as the waitress walks over. She pours some of that horrible cheap coffee that they serve into a cup, Alex grabbing a few packets of sugar, emptying them into the coffee and dumping in some half-and-half before grabbing the cup, sitting back, and taking a sip.
”So, here we have it. Inception, the first show of the year. One of the biggest shows of the year. You are defending your Internet Championship against a legend. A legend who has an opportunity to complete the set in SCW. A legend who also wants to push you to your limits. I want you to beat me, Miles. I want you to prove me wrong. I want to see you rise above and continue defending that Internet Championship until you get to the point where they cannot deny you, and you get to go for the World Championship again.”
“I want you to become a champion instead of being the prancing, whimpering giant pussy that you’ve become. The kind of douchebag who goes out there and talks about how I have opened my mouth talking about you and don’t have the balls to say something to your face, all while cutting a promo in a ring in an arena that you knew damn well I was nowhere near at the time. You want to be better than me? You want to be a legend? Do you want to shut up all the haters? Then don’t be a fucking hypocrite.”
“Grow up…”
“Because right now, everyone looks at you and applauds slightly, thinking that you’ve reached your plateau in your professional wrestling career. Not good enough to become the World Champion, constantly banging your head on a glass ceiling that you simply can’t get past. Then you’ve got someone like me. Someone who, two years ago, thought he was done. I legitimately thought I was going to retire. I was going to walk away from this business because I had done it all and seen it all. Then I came back. I came back and I ended Finn Whelan’s reign. I came back and I won the World Championship. People keep telling me I can’t do things, and I keep ramming it straight down their throat.”
“And you, Miles?”
“You take everyone’s criticism, you take all of it and roll it into a ball, and you internalise it. You say the same things every single time about rising above and making sure that you are going to be the best, but you are too scared to take that step. You are too scared to do what is needed to become the star that you seem to believe yourself to be. Instead, you want to play second fiddle to your fucking husband. Not just a husband, but a husband who has been able to become the World Champion while you have just sat back and let it happen. And I get it. You love him. I’m glad that you found love. I’m glad that you found someone who understands you. That is an amazing thing. I’m just sorry that it’s come at the expense of your career, your credibility, and your manhood.”
