La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada
Okay, so he didn’t do as promised the last time around when he told his mam that he would start looking for an actual apartment to stay in rather than this single budget hotel room. At least, not yet. He had his reasons. For one, his room had that particular kind of quiet you only got in places built for noise. Even with the curtains drawn and windows shut, Las Vegas still found ways to creep inside. Whether it be the noise of the streets outside or the faint pulse of light that made the walls feel like they were breathing. Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his thighs, shoulders hunched forward like he could make himself smaller by force of will. Every time he shifted his weight, the ache in his ribs answered like a reminder he hadn’t asked for.
His phone vibrated again in his palm, bright and insistent. He stared at the screen and saw the icon of his beloved Mam. He swallowed and took the call.
The screen filled with home. Not Ireland itself, not the smell of rain on stone or the familiar dark of the windows after tea, but the warm kitchen light, his mam’s ancient cat that kept its reign tight atop its throne, otherwise known as mam’s foot stool, and the kettle his folks got for their wedding from his grandparents, sitting back on the hob. His mother leaned close to the camera as if she could climb right through it, her face lined with worry. Beside her, his sister’s face appeared in the frame, bright-eyed in a way that made the contrast hurt. She had Ciarán’s cheekbones but softer, Ciarán’s dark hair but worn loose around her shoulders. Six years younger, yet right then she looked about sixty from sheer stress.
“Róisín.” Ciarán said, voice rough with lack of sleep and something much worse. “Hiya.”
“Ciarán.” His mother replied, the word sharpened with the kind of fear mothers had a knack for. “Are you sittin’ down? You look awful, love.”
“It’s just the camera.” He replied. “Makes everyone look like a corpse.”
Róisín’s mouth twitched. “You’re some dose.” She murmured. “Jaysus, Ciarán! We both saw what he done to you!”
His mother made a sound low in her throat, and the way her hand came up to cover her mouth, an emotional force of habit. “That animal.” She whispered dangerously. “They let him do it. They stood there and let him!”
Ciarán kept his face still, the mask slipping into place as naturally as breathing. “Mam, it’s wrestling. It’s…”
“It’s nothin’!” She cut in fiercely. “Don’t you stand there and try to sweeten it for me! I’m not a child! I watched him keep goin’ after the bell like it meant nothin’! Do you know what I felt? Do you know what your sister felt? We’re here on this side of the world, helpless, and you’re there lettin’ yourself be murdered for strangers!”
Róisín leaned in closer, her voice softer. “You won, Ciarán. You won the match and still you looked like you were bein’ punished for it.”
He shifted on the bed, and pain flickered across his ribs like a warning light. He kept his jaw set, eyes steady on the screen. “I won by disqualification.” He said, the words tasting bitter. “That’s not a win anyone wants.”
“But you did win.” Róisín insisted. “And he still brutalised you. That’s not sport, that’s a fella enjoyin’ the hurt!”
Ciarán exhaled through his nose, slowly. He could feel the bruise on his shoulder pulling tight when he moved. He could feel last week’s torment like it had happened just yesterday. It wasn’t the pain that haunted him. It was the helplessness of it, the way his body had betrayed him by being breakable.
Mam’s voice gentled, which somehow made it worse. “Listen to me now. You don’t have to do this. Do you hear me? You’ve proven what you are. You’ve nothing left to prove. Come home.”
“I can’t.” He said automatically.
“You can!” She snapped, then softened again, grief leaking in around the anger. “You can. You come back, and you dance. You were happy when you danced!”
Róisín nodded quickly. “You were, Ciarán! You were yourself. You weren’t-You weren’t carryin’ that look around. You know, Ruairí rang me?”
Ciarán’s brow tightened. “Ruairí?”
“Aye.” Róisín said. “Your best mate, Ruairí. He bought the rights, Ciarán. To Celtic Thunder. He’s puttin’ it back together proper, not that cheap tourist shite. He said he’d bring you in tomorrow if you’d let him!”
Mam leaned into the frame again, eyes shining. “He said you’d be a lead, love. He said you’d have the stage and none of this savagery.”
For a moment, just one, Ciarán felt the pull. The vivid, aching memory of rehearsals in a drafty hall, the stomp of shoes in unison, the thud of hearts beating in time. The way a crowd sounded when they loved you without wanting to see you bleed. It came to him like a door cracked open to a room he’d once lived in. Then the trauma resurfaced just as quickly and he slammed the door shut.
“I’m not quittin’.” He said, quietly but immovable.
Róisín’s face fell. “Ciarán…”
“I’m not quittin’!” He repeated, and there was steel now behind his words. “I know what it looked like. But I’m still standin’, aren’t I?”
Mam’s eyes flashed. “That’s your measure, is it? Still standin’? Christ, Ciarán. You’re not a martyr!”
He swallowed. The words he wanted to say sat too big in his throat. Instead, he said the safer thing. The simpler thing. “I’m fine.” Ciarán lied, and hated himself for it.
Róisín’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a pin. “You’re not.”
Mam’s voice went low, a warning. “Don’t you dare say you’re fine to me when your eyes are tellin’ me the truth. You look hollowed out, love.”
Ciarán stared at the screen and tried to keep his breathing even. “It’s been a rough week. That’s all.”
“A rough week.” Mam repeated. “And what about the next week? And the next? And what happens the day it’s not just bruises, Ciarán? What happens the day it’s…”
“Aye.” He said quickly, trying to cut off the image before it could form in any of their minds. “I get it. I’m not deaf.”
Róisín leaned forward, voice shaking. “We’re not tryin’ to rob you of somethin’ you love. We’re tryin’ to keep you alive.”
“I love you both.” He said, and his voice cracked just enough to make Mam’s face crumble. “I do. But you don’t understand what this is to me.”
“Then explain it!” Róisín pleaded. “Explain why you’d choose this over bein’ safe!”
Truth was, what he wanted to tell her was the truth. That when he was dancing, he wasn’t safe. His last time proved that, it just wasn’t something he ever wanted to talk about. Instead, he looked down at his lap. “Because I’m good at it. Because I fought to be seen for more than the lad who can shake his arse an’ show his goods. Because it’s nice to be cheered like I matter.”
Mam’s eyes filled completely. “You mattered before any crowd ever cheered, Ciarán Doyle.”
That should’ve been comforting. Instead it was a knife, because part of him didn’t believe it. He had learned how to feel real through performance. Quiet love was harder to hold. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m headin’ to Fresno tomorrow. Just wanted to talk before I left. I’m grand. Promise.”
Róisín’s jaw tightened at the word ‘promise’, as if she knew it was flimsy. “Ciarán…”
“I’ll ring you after.” He said too quickly. “After the show. I love you.”
Mam wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, angry at the tears. “I love you too.” She said, voice trembling. “And I’m tellin’ you now, if you ever feel like you’re sinkin’, you ring. You don’t sit there bein’ proud.”
Ciarán nodded, swallowing hard. “Aye. I will.”
He ended the call before he could say something that would betray him. The screen went black. His own reflection stared back at him for a half-second. Then it was just his home screen, the Cliffs of Moher back home.
Ciarán sat there with the phone in his hand like it weighed a ton. His throat burned. His chest felt tight, but he told himself it was the ribs. He stood, wincing, and crossed to the bathroom mirror. Under the harsh light, the bruising looked uglier, purple shadowing along his shoulder, a faint yellow line on his cheekbone. He stared at his own eyes, vacant and haunted.
He changed his shirt, pulled on a hoodie, shoved his phone and wallet into his pockets. It wasn’t a plan so much as an impulse to escape the room. He left the room and rode the elevator down with two strangers laughing loudly about nothing. He nodded at them when they glanced his way, put on a polite face, and stepped out into the lobby like a man walking on a stage.
Outside, the night air hit him warm and dry, smelling faintly of cigarettes and perfume. He told himself he’d just walk. Get his head right. Ten minutes. Fresh air. Motion. People. Anything but sitting still, alone with his demons.
Fremont Street was a living thing with the heartbeat of the city surrounding it. Music bled from every direction, live musical artists along the pavement, performing for appreciated tips. The lights of the casinos and hotels, hypnotic in their splendor. People by the hundreds in every direction. Just … living.
At first, it almost worked. The noise drowned his thoughts out. The lights made everything too bright for shadows. He blended into the crowd, just another tall bloke in a hoodie, head down, moving with the flow.
He watched a group of Japanese tourists take selfies like they’d discovered the meaning of life. He passed a man dressed like a cowboy playing a saxophone. He caught sight of a street performer painted silver and standing perfectly still on a platform, and for a moment the stillness fascinated him.
He breathed in. Breathed out.
“I’m fine.”
A chant, soft in his head.
“I’m fine.”
He made it another few steps. The sounds of Fremont sharpened, each one suddenly too distinctive. The shriek of laughter, the clatter of coins, the shouted lyrics from a nearby singer. The lights overhead seemed to tilt, the world closing in around him. His breath snagged.
“I’m fine.”
He kept walking. His heart hammered. His palms went damp. The crowd thickened. A woman’s perfume hit his nose, sweet and choking. Someone screamed happily at a performer and it went straight through him like a siren.
“I’m…”
His chest tightened, not his ribs this time. Like a fist closing around the inside of him. He tried to inhale and the air didn’t go where it was supposed to. It just stuck. He just stopped moving.
People flowed around him as if he were a lamppost. His vision narrowed. His hands curled at his sides, knuckles whitening. He could feel the panic climbing, climbing, searching for the edge of him. He stumbled sideways, forcing his way toward the edge of the foot traffic, trying not to shove anyone or draw attention. He found a spot near a concrete pillar and pressed his back to it, eyes scanning the crowd, lungs refused to cooperate.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe like he was in training. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Simple. Controlled. But his body didn’t want controlled. It wanted escape. That was when a voice cut through the noise close to him, calm as the hand on the back of his neck.
“Hey. Look at me.”
He opened his eyes. A street performer stood a few feet away, mid-thirties maybe, hair pulled back, a small drum slung at their hip. He wasn’t in a flashy costume. He was just a performer with eyes that were kind and steady.
Ciarán tried to speak and managed nothing. The performer lifted a hand, palm open. “You’re not in trouble.” He said, voice low enough that it didn’t carry. “You’re just overwhelmed. It happens. All right? Follow me.”
Ciarán’s throat worked. He nodded once, sharp, because that was all he could do. The performer tapped the drum gently. Not a song. Just a slow, even beat.
Thum. Thum.
“In through your nose on two beats.” The performer said. “Out slow on four. Ready? One… two...”
Ciarán tried. The air came in shallow, but it came. He followed the drum beats.
Thum. Thum.
“Good.” The performer murmured immediately. “Again. One… two…”
He inhaled. His chest still felt tight, but the breath made a small dent in it.
“Out, two… three… four...”
He exhaled shakily, cheeks hollowing. The performer stayed where he was, not crowding him. Ciarán’s eyes stung, sudden and infuriating.
“There you go.” The performer said softly. “Keep going.”
The world didn’t quiet, not really. Fremont Street kept roaring around them like a storm. But inside that small pocket, the beat gave him something to grasp onto. His lungs began to obey again. The tight fist around his chest loosen. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched and trying to keep his face from crumpling in front of a stranger.
Ciarán blinked, and a tear slipped out anyway, quick and humiliating. He wiped it away with the heel of his hand like it was sweat. The performer didn’t react. Didn’t call attention. Just kept the beat.
Thum. Thum.
After a minute, the performer slowed the tapping and let the silence between beats extend. Ciarán’s breathing had steadied. His fists unclenched.
“You all right?” The performer asked.
Ciarán nodded, swallowing hard. “Aye.” He admitted, and this time it wasn’t a lie so much as hope. “Thank you.”
The performer gave him a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “Anytime. If it comes back, same thing. Find a rhythm. Your feet. Your breath. A song. Doesn’t matter. Just something steady.”
Ciarán nodded again, more firmly, committing the advice to memory like a drill. He pushed off the pillar carefully, testing his ribs, and adjusted his hoodie. He didn’t feel cured. He still felt bruised and tired and a little raw around the edges. But he felt … better.
The performer tapped the drum once more and turned back, melting into the chaos of Las Vegas as if nothing unusual had happened. Ciarán stood there for a moment longer, letting the lights wash over him without swallowing him whole. He pulled out his phone, stared at it, then opened a message to Mam. His thumb hovered.
He typed, deleted, typed again, and finally left it simple.
“Love you. I’m okay. I’ll ring after.”
He hit send before he could overthink it. Then he tucked the phone away, drew in a slow breath through his nose, and started walking like a man who’d taken a hit and stayed on his feet.
“Alexander Raven.”
“I need ye to listen to me because I’m not here to sell you some feel-good fairy tale about courage and heart and all that shite they love to paste over a man’s bruises like it’s tape. I’m here because I’ve been told to be here. I’m here because last week I won a match on paper n while Brandon Hendrix booted the absolute shite out of me, and I didn’t even get the decency of a week off to breathe after it! Not a week to let the ringing in my skull settle! Not a week to let the ache in my ribs stop whisperin’ every time I laugh or I turn wrong! Not a week to be a human bein’ for five minutes! No, no. Instead they’ve looked at the mess Hendrix left behind and said, ‘Grand, Doyle, you’ll do. We’ll throw you in there with the most dangerous man in SCW next!’”
“That’s the joke, isn’t it? That’s the punchline. I’m meant to stand here and pretend that’s just how it goes in this sport. I’m meant to grin through a split lip an’ bruised ribs an’ say, ‘Sure! Let’s give me another!’ because that’s what a wrestler does. But I’m tellin’ you right now, I’m not grateful for it. I’m not thankful they’ve given me ‘another opportunity.’ I’m bitter, and I’ve earned the right to be bitter because there’s a difference between testin’ a man and tryin’ to break him, and some of you in the back have gotten far too comfortable confusing the two!”
“And Alexander Raven… You’re not a test. You’re a warning. You’re the kind of match they book when they want to see what’s left of someone after the world’s had its go at them. You’re the match they whisper about, the one that makes lads in the locker room go quiet for a second because everyone knows what you are. Not just dangerous in the ring. Plenty of men are dangerous when the bell rings. You’re dangerous because you don’t care what you have to turn a person into to get what you want. You don’t care if you have to drag them down to a place they can’t climb out of. You don’t care if you have to make it personal, make it ugly, make it something a man carries home in his bones!”
“But here’s the part you’re not going to like, Raven. I’ve already been dragged. I’ve already been made ugly. I’ve already had a boot pressed into me while people stood around and watched, and I’ve already had that moment where the air leaves your lungs and your pride tries to leave with it. So if your plan is to walk into this thinkin’ you’re catchin’ me soft because Hendrix did what he did, then you’re comin’ in with your head up yer arse! All Hendrix proved is that pain doesn’t end me. It makes me mean in a way I don’t always like, but I’ll use it if I have to!”
“Now, I’ve been watchin’ you. Don’t roll your eyes at that. You’ve been impossible to ignore, haven’t you? You’ve made sure of it. You’ve pushed and prodded and cried loud enough that the whole company had to turn and look your way, and fair play. It worked. You took the World Champion to the brink, and now you’ve got the chance to do it again. Not because you earned it quietly. Not because you walked the straight line and did the right things and waited your turn. No. You got it because you made noise. You got it because you demanded it. You got it because you kept pokin’ at the wound until somebody finally said, ‘Fine, fine, give him what he wants! Maybe he’ll shut up.’”
“And that right there? That tells me everything I need to know about SCW. It tells me you can do all the hard work in the world, you can bleed in silence, and still the man who gets rewarded is the one who throws the loudest tantrum in the locker room. You can get whatever you want if you cry loud enough. That’s the lesson, aye? Don’t be better, be noisier. Don’t be disciplined, be disruptive. Don’t earn, demand!”
“So here’s what I’m doin’, Raven. First, I’m acknowledging exactly what you are. I’m not going to stand here and pretend you’re just another opponent on the card, just another lad I’ve to outwrestle. You’re a threat, and you’ve proven it. You’ve shown you can push the World Champion to the edge, and you’ve shown you can turn a match into a nightmare when it suits you. That’s not hype. That’s reality. I respect reality a hell of a lot more than I respect reputations.”
“Second, I’m acknowledging what I am. Not the version of me you think you know. Not the ‘Irish lad who used to take his clothes off for money,’ the lad that people like to clap for because it makes them feel good. I’m a man who’s been hit, and hit, and hit again, and I’m still standin’ here talkin’ to you! I’m a man who doesn’t get weeks off to heal, and I still show up! I’m a man who can feel the weight of the world on his chest and still lace the boots because some stubborn part of me refuses to be told when to stop! That’s just who I am.”
“Third, I’m making this very clear. You're not using me as a stepping stone to make your point about Carter. You’re not using me as a message. I’m not here to be the collateral damage in your little campaign for attention. If SCW wants to reward the loudest man in the room, grand! Let them! But don’t mistake their choices for my consent. I didn’t agree to be sacrificed so you can keep your story moving!”
“And finally, Raven, I want you to know and understand that I’m not just angry at you. I’m angry at the whole bloody machine that thinks it can chew men like me up and spit them out and call it entertainment! I’m angry that Hendrix can brutalize me and walk away smirking, and then I’m expected to stand tall a few days later like I’m made of stone! I’m angry that you can howl for another shot at the World Champion and the company jumps, but a man who’s been kicked to bits doesn’t even get a moment to breathe! I’m angry and I’m taking that anger into our match like a weapon, because if they insist on booking me like a punishment, then I’ll fight like it’s one!”
“So you go ahead and bring that darkness you like so much. Because I’m going to show you something you can’t cry your way out of. I’m going to show you that there’s a difference between being loud and being unbreakable. You might be the most dangerous man in SCW, but you’re about to meet a man who’s already had the shite kicked out of him, didn’t get a week off to breathe, and still turned up anyway!”
“And that, Raven, should terrify you more than any chant ever could!”
