La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada
“Ciarán Doyle!”
Ruairi calling his name hit Ciarán like a punch to the chest. For a second, he just sat there on the floor with the food in his lap, treating the situation like a bad neighbor. Like the situation would go away if he just ignored it. His heart was going too fast. His mouth was dry which made the hard swallow that followed damn near impossible. He could hear Ruairí shifting outside, close enough that he could hear his best friend moving on the other side of the wooden door.
“Ciarán!” Ruairí called again, the Irish accent behind the commanding tone was thick and familiar. “I know you’re in there! Open the door before I start gettin’ the staff involved!”
That threat made Ciarán move. The last thing he could handle was hotel security, a manager, a welfare check, strangers asking questions while he stood there looking like absolute dog shite. He pushed himself up, legs shaky, and crossed the room in a straight line because if he hesitated he might lose his nerve. His fingers fumbled with the lock. The chain rattled. He hated the sound of it. It made everything feel even more pathetic.
He cracked the door open and he found Ruairi’s hazel green eyes meeting his own emerald green ones. He was right there, almost like he’d been ready to catch the door the second it moved. He looked exhausted in the way people look after a long flight, jacket still on, hair slightly mussed, but his eyes were wide and sharp. They took one quick scan of Ciarán’s face and then softened into something Ciarán didn’t want to see.
“Jesus…” Ruairí said quietly, shaking his head in a dismal way that made Ciarán feel about so tall.
Ciarán’s throat tightened. He tried to straighten, tried to look normal, but it was pointless. He could see it in Ruairí’s expression. Ruairí wasn’t seeing “SCW wrestler Ciarán Doyle or that former dancer that used to bring the houses down.” He was seeing his best mate looking wrecked in a hotel doorway.
“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Ciarán snapped, forcing the words out before the emotion could smooth them over. “All the way from Ireland? In Las Vegas? Are ye out of your fecking mind!?”
Ruairí didn’t flinch. He just shook his head like Ciarán was the one being ridiculous.
“Aye.” He said. “Maybe I am, but you weren’t answerin’. You weren’t answerin’ anyone. You can’t just disappear like that and expect me to sit at home pretendin’ it’s grand. Jest be grateful it’s me an’ not yer mam!”
“I’m fine.” Ciarán said automatically, the lie coming out as easy as breathing. “I’m just takin’ some time to meself. You didn’t need to come.”
Ruairí’s eyebrows lifted, slow and disbelieving, and then his gaze flicked past Ciarán into the room. The kebab bag on the floor. The half-empty water bottles. The general stillness of the isolation that surrounded the place. His jaw tightened.
“Fine?” Ruairí repeated, like the word offended him. “You smell like you haven’t seen a shower in a week, and you look like you’ve been starin’ at the ceiling makin’ friends with cracks in the paint. So no, you’re not fine.”
Ciarán felt heat crawl up his neck. “Go back home.” He said, harsher than he meant. “Get on a plane and go back to Ireland. You can’t fix me by showin’ up like this.”
“I didn’t fly all this way to turn around!” Ruairí said flatly, heat behind his concern. “I’m here now.”
Ciarán stared at him, stuck between anger and something that felt too close to relief. Ruairí leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“Are you lettin’ me in or not?” He asked. “Because I’m not standin’ in this hallway all day.”
“Fecks sake!” Ciarán hesitated, then stepped back with a defeated exhale. “Fine! Come in, then.”
Ruairí walked past him and into the room like he belonged there, like this wasn’t awkward at all. That was what made it worse and better at the same time. He looked around, taking in the bed, the bland furniture, the way the room felt like it was being used as a hiding place instead of somewhere someone lived. His face tightened.
“This is where you’ve been living?” He asked, his words quieter now but no less concerned. “For how many months?”
“It’s a room.” Ciarán said defensively. He shut the door and locked it automatically. The click sounded loud. He hated that Ruairí probably noticed. And he did notice. He glanced at the lock, then back at Ciarán.
“Right.” Ruairi said, like he filed it away without comment. “Just a room.”
Ciarán’s mind jumped to the one thing he couldn’t stand the idea of. He turned on Ruairí, voice sharp. “Did you tell my mam?” He demanded. “Did you tell her what happened? Did you go runnin’ your mouth about it!?”
Ruairí’s eyes widened for a moment, then hardened with offence at the idea his best friend thought him capable of such a betrayal.
“No!” He said. “No, I didn’t. I told them I was comin’ to see you, that you were busy. That’s it. That’s all! I’m not takin’ that from you. If you ever tell them, it’s because you choose to.”
Ciarán’s shoulders dropped slightly. He nodded once, relieved and sick with guilt at the same time.
Ruairí shifted his weight, trying to find a way into the conversation without pushing too hard. He glanced at Ciarán, then at the floor.
“Listen…” He started carefully. “...About what you told me, about that night? About the bridal shower…”
“No.” Ciarán cut in fast. The word came out sharp with a finality behind it. “Not right now. I can’t. I-I’m not doin’ that right now.”
Ruairí held his stare for a second, then nodded once. “All right.” He said quietly. “Not right now.”
The silence that followed was thick, awkward, heavy with everything they weren’t saying between them. After all, what could be said between friends when one confided he was sexually assaulted? Ruairí broke the silence first, forcing a lighter tone.
“Y’know, I’ve never been to America.” He said. “Las Vegas is … somethin’. Like a fever dream with neon on top.” He tried a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But I’d like to get somethin’ to eat that isn’t airport food. And you’re comin’ with me.”
“I already ate.” Ciarán said, even though it wasn’t true.
Ruairí pointed at the kebab bag like it was evidence. “You didn’t eat.” He said. “You ordered. There’s a difference.”
Ciarán’s mouth opened, then shut again. He hated how right Ruairí sounded. He hated even more that he cared.
“Come on.” Ruairí said, firmer. “We’ll go somewhere quiet. You can sit with your back to a wall if you want. I don’t care. But you’re not stayin’ in here.”
Ciarán stared at the floor, then finally sighed. “Fine.” He muttered. “We can go.”
Ciarán moved toward the dresser to grab his wallet and keys, but Ruairí stepped in his path and shoved a change of clothes into his hands, like he’d come prepared for this exact moment.
“Shower first.” Ruairí said.
Ciarán recoiled. “I’m not showerin’. We can go now.”
Ruairí pulled a face, exaggerated and blunt in the way only a best friend could get away with. “Ciarán?” He said, “You smell like you’ve been livin’ inside a sock. You’re showerin’. That’s not negotiable.”
“Go to hell.” Ciarán muttered, but there was no real bite to it.
“Aye.” Ruairí said, unfazed. “After you wash. Go on, get goin’.”
Ciarán stood there a moment, torn between embarrassment and the strange comfort of being bossed around by someone who genuinely cared. Then he turned and walked into the bathroom before he could change his mind. The door shut. A second later the shower came on, the sound of running water filling the room with steady noise.
Ruairí sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. He stared at the bathroom door and listened to the shower run, his face set in a tight, worried expression that he couldn’t joke away. He stayed there, still as stone, like he was afraid if he looked away even for a second, Ciarán might disappear again.
"Austin James Mercer."
"I’m gonna say this plain, ‘cause there’s no point dressin’ it up. You haven’t been seen in that six-sided ring since January 2024, when you lost to Señor Vinnie in the World Heavyweight Championship tournament. That’s the last proper time anyone watched you compete in SCW, and I’m sure that loss tasted rank, because you vanished after it. Two years, Austin. If one defeat sent you packin’ for that long, it must’ve hit you harder than you’ll ever admit."
"And aye, I’ve heard what people’ve been sayin’. I’ve heard you’ve been around Wolfslair, helpin’ train, lendin’ a hand, passin’ along what you know. Fair play. That matters. The young lads need guidance, and a veteran can do a lot of good there."
"But don’t go confusin’ that with wrestlin’."
"There’s a world of difference between coachin’ in a gym and steppin’ into the ring when it’s live, when the crowd’s there, when the fella across from you isn’t listenin’ for advice, he’s lookin’ to beat you. Trainin’ is safe compared to competition. In the gym you can control the pace. In the ring you don’t get that luxury, and you can’t hide behind reputation."
"Then you come back and the first proper thing you do is interfere in the World Heavyweight Championship match and cost Carter the title. That’s not making some grand ‘return,’ that’s kickin’ a door in so everyone has to look at you. Because otherwise yer afraid that deep down nobody will give a shite that yer back! And you try to justify it by sayin’ somebody had to stop that ‘abomination’ of a title reign."
"Here’s my problem with that, Austin. Carter did more as World Champion than you’ve ever done when you held the gold! He showed up, he carried it, he defended it, and he made people talk. Love him or hate him, he did the job he was meant to do! When was the last time SCW had a World Champion that came to every show and represented us all the way he did? So when you call it an abomination, it doesn’t sound like you’re protectin’ the belt. It sounds like you couldn’t stand seein’ him hold it!"
"It sounds like you’re one of those lads who peaked years ago and now can’t handle watchin’ the next generation take the spotlight away from ye! You’re fine with young wrestlers when they’re trainees, when they’re ‘the future,’ when deep down you think they’re beneath you. But when one of them becomes the present, when one of them becomes the champion, suddenly you show up with moral speeches and interference and act like you’re savin’ the company!"
"You’re not savin’ anythin’. You’re tryin’ to matter again, and you’re tryin’ to do it the quickest way possible."
"Now, I’m not stupid. You’re a big boy. You’re strong, you’ve got size, and you’ve got the kind of presence that can make a lad hesitate if he lets himself. Under the right circumstances, that power can end a match in a hurry."
"But the right circumstances don’t just happen, do they? They’re created. And if I’m smart, if I keep the pace where it needs to be, if I don’t stand still and let you get your hands on me, then size doesn’t mean as much as you’d like it to. Strength doesn’t help you if you can’t catch what’s in front of you. Power doesn’t save you if you’re blowin’ up and I’m still movin’."
"That’s what this match is for me. It’s not about your reputation, or what you were two years ago, or how big your shoulders look under the lights. It’s about what you’ve got right now, and whether you can actually back up this big comeback you’re tryin’ to sell!"
"You want momentum. You want a statement win. You want to come back and remind everyone you’re still Austin James Mercer, like the world owes you a place at the top like you never left!"
"It doesn’t."
"And you picked the wrong man to build your return on, because I’m not here to play a supporting role in your comeback story. I’m not here to nod along while you talk about standards and abominations and how things used to be!"
"I’m just here to stop you."
"So bring whatever you think you’ve still got. Bring the size. Bring the strength. Bring the veteran edge and the old confidence. Because I’m gonna be the roadblock that kills the momentum of your return, and I’m gonna prove, right in the middle of that six-sided ring, that SCW wasn’t waiting with anxious anticipation for you to make some triumphant return!”
“It just moved on while you were gone."
