Las Vegas, Nevada -
EōS Fitness
The gym was quieter than Ciarán preferred, though that was partly his own fault for waiting until most normal people had finished their workouts and gone home. Only a handful remained, scattered around the room with headphones on, lifting weights or walking nowhere on treadmills beneath a row of televisions. Still, it gave him the relative peace he usually craved that came with being left to his own personal demons.
Ciarán sat on the end of a flat bench, elbows resting against his thighs while he waited for the burning in his shoulders to settle. Sweat had soaked through the front of his grey training shirt, his red curls were damp around the edges, and the towel hanging around his neck had stopped being useful several sets ago.
He had gone too heavy again. That was becoming a habit, but he had a list of excuses at the ready, just in case anyone felt inclined to question it. He had a match coming up. Travel had thrown off his training schedule. His conditioning needed work, and he had spent too many days making do with whatever equipment passed for a gym in his extended-stay hotel or on the road.
While his eyes flickered toward the TV screen across the Gym, his phone buzzed beside him. Ciarán glanced at it, saw the screen light up and reached for his water instead. Most messages could wait, and the people who knew him had either learned that by now or had stopped expecting much in the way of prompt communication.
The phone buzzed again before he had finished drinking.
“Persistent bastard…” He muttered, wiping the back of one hand across his mouth.
He expected something from SCW. A schedule update, travel information or someone reminding him about some obligation he had already forgotten. There was always the chance it had come from Ireland, though, and that thought got to him before he could stop it. He reached for the phone for that reason alone but the name on the screen was not one he had expected.
Mason Avery.
Ciarán stared at it for a second before looking at the message beneath it.
“Still pretending Norfolk wasn’t interesting?”
A laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He looked around the gym almost immediately, though nobody nearby had noticed and there was no good reason why it should have mattered if they had.
He leaned back slightly on the bench and read it again.
Mason had sent other messages since Norfolk. Nothing constant or demanding, which was probably why Ciarán had continued answering them. Mason had an annoying talent for appearing at exactly the right moment with something cheeky enough to earn a reply.
Ciarán’s thumb rested above the screen without opening the message. The name alone had already pulled his thoughts somewhere else.Norfolk, Virginia -
Waterside District -
One week ago
The beer had gone warm by the time he reached the end of it.
Ciarán was still seated on the bench where Mason had left him to rejoin his friends, one arm stretched along the back while he watched the Elizabeth River. The crowd around Waterside had changed over the last hour. Most of the families had gone home, smoothly replaced by groups of adults, young and old, drifting between bars and restaurants with drinks in hand and voices that grew louder with every passing minute.
A band had started playing somewhere along the waterfront, just a weekend group working through songs most people seemed to know. A few strings of lights hung above the patio, and several couples had started dancing wherever they found enough room. The music carried enough to reach the benches without making conversation impossible. Ciarán had been listening for the better part of half an hour, though he would have struggled to name a single song if somebody asked.
He had bought a second beer after finishing his food and that had been twenty minutes ago, maybe thirty. He had stopped checking the time because the only place he had to be was back at the hotel, and there was nothing there worth rushing toward.
The bench was comfortable enough. Ironically more comfortable than the bed in his room. The beer had been cold when he bought it, and the band was better than he expected from a place where people paid too much money for drinks with fruit floating in them.
Ciarán lifted the bottle and finished the last mouthful. It was warm enough now that he almost regretted it. As he lowered it, another beer appeared in front of his face.
Ciarán jerked backward and knocked his shoulder against the bench. “Jaysus Christ!”
“Sorry!” Mason said. “Next time I come up behind you, I’ll try to talk dirty.”
Ciarán followed the arm holding the bottle upward until he found Mason standing there with a smile that was far too pleased with itself.
“Jaysus, lad!” Ciarán said. “You leave for an hour and come back feral?”
Mason’s smile widened. “You didn’t seem to mind.”
Mason held the new bottle out farther, giving it a little shake of invitation. Ciarán looked at it, then back at him before finally taking it.
“What the hell are you doin’ back here?” He asked. “Thought you had friends you had to hang with.”
“I do.”
“And they’ve already had enough of you?”
Mason laughed and sat down beside him without waiting for permission. He seemed more comfortable than he had earlier, though a little of the nervousness remained beneath it.
“They wanted to go somewhere else.” Mason said.
Ciarán glanced toward him. “And you didn’t?”
Mason looked out toward the water, dragging the moment out as though there were several possible answers and he needed to choose the right one.
“I decided I had better options.”
Ciarán turned slowly toward him. “Did you now?”
“Maybe.”
“No, no. Don’t be retreatin’ now.” Ciarán settled back against the bench, the fresh beer resting against his thigh. “You came all the way back here with a drink and a line prepared. Stand by it. Means you’ve been thinkin’ about me without proper supervision.”
Mason looked down, though not fast enough to hide the smile. “You make it difficult not to.”
There it was again. Mason could spend several minutes tripping over his own words, then come out with something like that as though he had not nearly forgotten how to speak when they first met.
Ciarán twisted the cap from the beer. “Careful, lad. You’re startin’ to sound confident.”
“I had time to recover.” Mason answered casually.
“From the accent?”
“The accent. The arms. The general attitude.”
Ciarán nodded as though Mason had listed three serious medical complaints. “It’s a lot for one man.”
Mason laughed. “Do you ever get tired of yourself?”
“Not once.” Ciarán answered somberly. “Can’t speak for no others.”
“That must be nice.”
“It’s a gift.” Ciarán said. “Comes from being Irish.”
The band changed songs, and the heavier beat earned a cheer from the people gathered near the patio. More of them had started dancing now, couples and loose groups taking up whatever open space remained between the tables.
Mason looked toward them.
Ciarán noticed immediately. “What?”
Mason asked, “You want to move closer?”
“I can hear it from here.”
“You can barely see them.”
“I’m not plannin’ to marry the drummer.”
Mason laughed, but Ciarán kept his eyes on the water.
The crowd near the band had thickened while they were talking. People squeezed around one another, bumping shoulders and lifting their drinks over their heads as they passed. Even from the bench, Ciarán could hear them shouting to be understood.
His fingers shifted around the bottle. It wasn’t the sort of crowd he wanted to be squeezed into the center of.
Mason looked at him for another moment, then leaned back again. “Fair enough. The drummer probably couldn’t handle the competition anyway.”
Ciarán glanced over. “Competition from who?”
“You, obviously.”
“I don’t play the drums.”
“I meant for attention.”
“That’s better.”
Mason left it alone after that. He did not ask again or try to drag Ciarán toward the crowd under the excuse of showing him a good time. He stayed where he was, one arm resting along the back of the bench while the music reached them in uneven waves.
“So…” Mason said after taking a drink. “Is this what you do when you’re travelling? Find a bench, judge everybody nearby and pretend you’re not having a good time?”
“What makes you think I’m pretending anything?”
“Because you’ve been sittin’ here for an hour, and you’re still smilin’ at me like Norfolk finally managed to get one thing right.”
Ciarán quipped, “Me Nan once said a stopped clock is always right twice a day.”
Mason laughed into his beer. When he lowered the bottle, his shoulder brushed against Ciarán’s. It could have been accidental. There was enough room on the bench that it probably wasn’t. The point was, neither of them moved.
Ciarán took another drink and watched the lights from the waterfront break across the river. Mason’s knee rested lightly against his now, close enough that moving away would have required almost no effort.
He left it there.
“You really staying here for work?” Mason asked.
“Aye.” Ciarán answered. “Just for the weekend.”
“And you still won’t tell me what you do?”
“I told you. I travel, I perform, and people hit me.”
“That somehow raises more questions.”
“Good. Means the conversation won’t die.”
Mason looked at him. “I don’t think that’s in danger.”
Ciarán rubbed his thumb along the edge of the beer label. He could have made a joke out of it. Usually he had one ready before anything had the chance to become too honest, but Mason had caught him half a second too early.
“You always this bold after two drinks?” Ciarán asked.
“I can leave if it’s bothering you.”
The words came lightly enough, but Mason had stopped smiling when he said them. He did not move his shoulder or his knee, though he had given Ciarán every opportunity to tell him to.
Ciarán looked at him properly. He said, “If it was botherin’ me, lad, you’d know.”
Mason held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
They stayed there with the river in front of them and the busier part of Waterside safely off to one side. Mason’s shoulder remained against his, and the pressure of his knee had stopped pretending to be an accident several minutes ago.
Ciarán kept drinking his beer and let it happen.</color>
Las Vegas, Nevada -
EōS Fitness
The song playing through the gym speakers changed, bringing him back to the bench beneath him and the phone still resting in his hand.
Mason’s message remained on the screen.
“Still pretending Norfolk wasn’t interesting?”
Ciarán read it once more before opening the conversation. His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, then he started typing.
“I’m fairly certain Norfolk only became interesting after you came back feral.”
“I’m still feelin’ sore after gettin’ run over by that truck by the name of Cyrus Riddle. The man hit like he was tryin’ to leave tyre marks across my chest, and I’ll give him credit for that much.”
“Now I’ve got the wrestlin’ equivalent of an Amazon delivery van comin’ my way in Brandon Hendrix. And no, I’m not dignifyin’ that desperate little ‘F’n’ he wedges into his name, because that’s not intimidating, Brandon. That’s attention-seekin’ from a man terrified people might forget he’s in the room.”
“Though after Summer XXXTreme XIV, maybe bein’ forgotten should be the least of your worries. You got dumped over the side of the ship, and I’m honestly surprised the officials even bothered fishin’ you back out of the drink. I can picture them standin’ there, lookin’ over the rail and wonderin’ whether the paperwork was worth it. Then somebody must’ve remembered SCW had already paid for your return flight, so back aboard you came.”
“And now here you are, sniffin’ around Alexander Raven, hopin’ the World Heavyweight Champion might toss a crumb your way. Funny how that works, isn’t it? You take a nosedive off the side of a ship, then crawl back onto dry land and immediately start settin’ yourself up for a showdown with the top dog.”
“You’re arrangin’ the wrestlin’ equivalent of a pity party, Brandon. That’s how you operate, after all. Even when you fail spectacularly, you target the biggest name you can find because standin’ near somebody important is the easiest way to drag the spotlight back onto yourself. This time, that spotlight happens to belong to the World Heavyweight Champion. You’re hopin’ that if you bark loudly enough at Alexander Raven, people will stop rememberin’ the splash you made when you went overboard.”
“There’s one problem with that plan, though. Before you get your grand moment with the champion, you’ve got to stand across the ring from me. And we’ve done this before, haven’t we? You couldn’t beat me, so you took the easy way out and got yourself disqualified rather than face what was comin’.”
“That left a mistake in the record books. It left unfinished business where there should’ve been a clear result, and this time we’re goin’ to correct that little mistake. Because how bad is it goin’ to look when you march toward your showdown with the champion carryin’ another loss? Not just any loss, either, but a loss to the same man you couldn’t beat the first time without gettin’ yourself thrown out.”
“You can call yourself Brandon F’n Hendrix as loudly as you like. When that bell rings, all anyone’s goin’ to remember is that Ciarán Doyle finished what you were too afraid to let him finish before.”
