Let's Make It Interesting
Ryan drops his phone into his pocket and just stands there for a second, that grin already spreading like he’s holding something good behind his teeth. Late afternoon sun cuts across the parking lot and catches on the thin chain at his collarbone. Black joggers, fitted charcoal tee, hoodie hanging open. Relaxed posture. Easy shoulders. But there’s that low hum under everything — the kind that means he’s not drifting. He’s lining something up. Not forcing it. Not rushing it. Just letting it build. It’s the kind of energy that makes the air around him feel a little thicker, like the moment’s already shifting before he even says a word. He rolls his neck once, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, the faint breeze carrying the smell of hot asphalt and distant traffic. There’s a quiet certainty in how he stands there, feet planted solid, eyes scanning the lot without really looking for anything specific. It’s like his mind’s already mapping out the next few hours, but not in a frantic way — more like a river finding its path downhill, natural and inevitable.
Jessy shuts the truck door with a solid thunk, boots heavy on the asphalt, ball cap low over his brow. He slows when he catches the grin, his own expression shifting from neutral to mildly suspicious. He adjusts his faded jeans with one hand, the gray tee clinging a bit from the drive, and takes a couple more steps before stopping fully. There’s history in the way he approaches — no rush, no hesitation, just the easy rhythm of two guys who’ve shared enough miles and moments that words don’t always need to lead.
“That smile mean trouble?” Jessy asks, eyeing him with that deadpan drawl, the kind that cuts through any pretense without trying too hard.
Ryan laughs under his breath, spreading his hands like he’s been caught mid-crime.
“Man, why does everybody jump straight to felony charges the second I look happy? I’m just existing. I’m hydrated. I slept eight hours. Suddenly I’m planning a hostile takeover.” He chuckles again, the sound light and rolling, like he’s genuinely amused by the accusation. He shifts his weight, one foot tapping lightly on the pavement as if testing the ground, his eyes sparkling with that reflex mischief. It’s not forced; it’s just how he processes the world — turning questions into invitations, turning suspicion into banter. He glances over at Jessy’s truck, noting the faint layer of dust on the hood from whatever backroad detour his friend took to get here, and it makes him smile wider.
“You drove all the way out here just to accuse me of white-collar crime? That’s dedication.”Jessy folds his arms, his stance solid like the truck behind him.
“That look means you’re already three steps ahead.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, buried under the drawl, the kind that only shows up when Ryan’s energy starts pulling him in. He shifts his ball cap slightly, squinting against the sun, watching Ryan with the patience of someone who’s seen this routine play out a dozen times before — the grin, the easy deflection, the way it all circles back to whatever’s really brewing.
Ryan doesn’t deny it. He just grabs a cart from the row nearby, the metal clinking softly as he pulls it free, and gives it a test push, watching the wheels roll straight across the faded parking lines. He adjusts it once, making sure it doesn’t wobble, his fingers drumming lightly on the handle like he’s already imagining the momentum it’ll carry inside.
“Not ahead,” he says lightly, his voice flowing without pause.
“Just… aligned. Like everything’s clicking into place without me having to shove it there.” He pushes the cart a little further, testing the glide again, and laughs mid-thought.
“You know how sometimes you wake up and the coffee tastes better, the drive feels shorter, and suddenly the whole day feels like it’s got your back? That’s this. No scheming required.”Jessy snorts, unfolding his arms and falling into step beside him as they head toward the entrance.
“That don’t mean anything.” But there’s no real bite to it — just the familiar push-pull they’ve always had, Jessy grounding the energy while Ryan lets it build. He glances at the store doors ahead, the glass reflecting the lowering sun, and wonders briefly what exactly that phone call stirred up this time. Ryan’s got that spark again, the one that usually means something’s shifting, and Jessy’s content to ride along until it reveals itself.
“It means,” Ryan continues, steering toward the entrance with the cart rolling smooth,
“I don’t feel rushed. I don’t feel like I’m chasing. I don’t feel like I’m trying to prove something. I feel like I’m stepping into something.” His words flow easy, circling the idea without landing too sharp, like he’s thinking out loud and inviting Jessy to fill in the blanks. He gestures loosely with one hand while keeping the other on the cart, painting the air as if mapping out an invisible path.
“You ever get that vibe where the pieces are falling together on their own? Not because you forced them, but because you stopped fighting the flow? That’s where my head’s at. And yeah, maybe it’s got a little to do with that call, but it’s more than that. It’s the whole setup — the match, the moment, the way everything’s lining up without me having to micromanage it.”He pauses just before the doors open, the sensors humming faintly as they sense their approach. Ryan lets the cart stop naturally, turning slightly to face Jessy, his grin softening into something more thoughtful.
“Logan’s structured. He’s deliberate. He doesn’t waste motion. Every step he takes in that ring looks intentional. That’s why he’s champion. That’s why people talk about him like the throne’s already carved in stone.” There’s respect in his tone, no bitterness or edge — just acknowledgment, like he’s sizing up a worthy puzzle rather than an enemy. He rolls his shoulders once more, feeling the late sun warm on his back, and imagines for a second what it’ll feel like stepping into that arena light, the crowd’s energy mirroring this hum he’s carrying now.
The automatic doors slide open and cool air hits them, spilling out with the faint scent of produce and baked goods from inside. Ryan nudges the cart forward again, wheels whispering over the threshold, and the transition feels seamless, like stepping from one chapter into the next without missing a beat.
“I still don’t know what kind of match it’s gonna be,” Ryan continues, pushing the cart slowly down the first aisle, eyes scanning the shelves without really committing yet.
“And that’s fine. I’m not stressed about it. I like not knowing. Because when you don’t know, you can’t overthink. You just move. You don’t tighten up trying to predict every sequence before it happens.” He laughs lightly, grabbing a random bottle of water from a display and tossing it into the cart with a casual flick.
“Overthinking’s the killer, man. It’s like trying to dance while staring at your feet — you trip every time. Me? I’d rather feel the music and let my body figure it out. That’s where the magic happens, right? In the adjustments, the little shifts that nobody sees coming until they’re already there.”Jessy glances at him, keeping pace without effort.
“That call got you movin’.”“Yeah,” Ryan admits easily, no hesitation, his voice warm as he veers the cart around a display of snacks.
“It did. Shook something loose, reminded me I’ve got more gears than I’ve been using.” He rolls his shoulders once, testing the stretch, feeling the faint pull of old training sessions, the way his body remembers the grind without resenting it.
“It reminded me I’ve been playing it a little safe lately. And safe wins matches. Safe keeps you consistent. But safe doesn’t take titles. Safe doesn’t walk into Blaze of Glory and look the champion in the eye and mean it.” There’s a spark in his eyes now, the grin deepening as he talks, circling the idea of the match like he’s savoring the buildup. He grabs a pack of protein bars, reads the label absently, then drops them in with the water.
“Safe’s fine for the mid-card grind, but against Logan? Nah. You gotta bring something that disrupts without announcing itself.”Jessy’s eyes flick toward him, reading the shift.
Ryan keeps going, his words flowing as they turn into another aisle, the cart picking up a little speed now.
“And if I’m stepping in there with Logan Hunter? Safe isn’t enough.” He bumps Jessy’s shoulder lightly, the contact friendly and familiar, like punctuation to his point.
“He’s not some random draw. He’s not chaos. He’s structure. He’s rhythm. He’s someone who settles into control early. First lock-up, first exchange — he wants to dictate that tempo.” Ryan mimes a quick wrestling hold in the air, his hands moving fluid and precise, demonstrating without overdoing it.
“You feel that in his matches — the way he measures every step, waits for the opening instead of forcing it. It’s smart. It’s why he’s got that belt. But it’s also why there’s room to play.”Ryan smiles — more focused now, his energy building without spiking.
“So if I’m beating him? It’s not luck. It’s not noise. It’s not a fluke.” He taps the cart handle once, the sound light against the hum of the store.
“It’s disruption. The kind that comes from staying loose when he expects tension, from reacting a half-beat faster because I’m not carrying the weight of prediction.”Jessy studies him, his own grin tugging faintly at the edges.
“You plannin’ on out-movin’ him?”Ryan shrugs lightly, circling the cart around a family loading up on bulk items.
“I’m planning on not freezing.” He slows the cart again, pausing to grab some tape from a shelf, unrolling a bit to test the stickiness before adding it to the pile.
“You know what beats certainty? Comfort. The kind that doesn’t crack when the rhythm shifts. The kind that doesn’t panic when something misses. The kind that doesn’t brace when the pace speeds up.” He laughs mid-thought, shaking his head at the simplicity of it.
“It’s like driving in the rain — if you grip the wheel too tight, you spin out. But if you stay relaxed, feel the slide, you correct without overcorrecting. That’s me in there. Feeling the slide, making the adjustment, keeping the grin because why not? It’s supposed to be fun, right? Even when it’s for the gold.”He nudges the cart forward again, wheels gliding easy over the tile.
“I feel good right now, man. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just good. And when I feel like this? I don’t hesitate. I don’t second-guess. I don’t overreach.” His voice carries that warm swagger, inviting without demanding, like he’s sharing a secret that’s too good to keep bottled up. He glances over at Jessy, eyes sparkling with that reflex grin, the one that says there’s more layers to peel back if you’re patient.
“It’s the difference between chasing the moment and letting it come to you. Logan chases control. I let the flow bring it my way.”He flashes that grin again, brighter now as they weave through the aisles.
“Let’s make it interesting.”—
Steam curls thick against the glass, the mirror surrendered to fog, water hitting tile steady and controlled. The camera sits high on the counter — shoulders up, nothing below the line. Ryan steps into frame under the spray, hair slicked back, water running down his neck and collarbone. He reaches forward, taps record, then leans back into the stream, letting the hot water cascade over him like a reset button. The sound fills the space, rhythmic and soothing, drowning out the distant hum of the arena prep outside. He closes his eyes for a second, breathing in the steam, feeling the tension from the day melt away without effort.
“Alright. Blaze of Glory. Logan Hunter. Let’s talk.”Water runs over his shoulders as he wipes his face.
“You carry yourself like someone who’s already figured out the ending. Like this is another chapter in a reign that keeps rolling forward. Like the throne’s solid. Like the cement’s dry.”He nods slowly.
“And that confidence? It’s earned.”A beat.
“But confidence and certainty aren’t the same thing.”He steps slightly closer to the lens.
“You’ve built your reign on structure. On discipline. On measured movement. You slow the pace early. You control position. You test distance before you commit. You don’t swing wild.”Water keeps falling.
“And that’s smart. Real smart. It’s why you’ve held that belt as long as you have — turning potential threats into footnotes.”A faint grin spreads.
“But structure has patterns.”He taps the side of his head lightly.
“And patterns can be read. Not in a chess-master way, but in the feel of it — the way a match breathes, the way momentum ebbs and flows if you let it.”He smiles slightly.
“I’ve watched you. The way you settle into a match. The way you tighten control once you feel someone hesitate. The way you build pressure instead of chasing it.”A steady look.
“It’s impressive, man. But I don’t hesitate. I don’t chase. I flow with it, adjust on the fly, turn your pressure into my opening.”A small beat.
“And when I don’t hesitate? The rhythm shifts. Not dramatically — just enough to make the structure feel a little less solid.”He leans in slightly.
“And let’s not pretend you’re walking into this alone.”A faint grin.
“You’ve got Brooke. You’ve got Marissa. You’ve got that whole orbit around you that makes everything louder. That buys seconds. That creates distraction.”He nods once.
“Brooke knows when to tilt a moment. She knows when to step onto the apron and pull focus. She knows how to change the temperature.”Water continues to run down his arms.
“Marissa’s still finding her timing. There’s a half-beat sometimes.”
