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Tré had another excellent night in the ring. It looked like his days of crowds sitting on their hands for him were long gone. The pops he got from the audience were almost back to the same level as when he’d partnered with Brandon. He hadn’t mastered promos yet, but he was working his ass off with his in-ring prowess to grab hold of the audience’s favor. His match tonight proved they were behind him. Tré went up the ramp, giving the fans high-fives and celebrating his victory. Backstage, he grabbed a bottle of water from the ice bucket, gulping it all down in one go.
Slade was there, waiting to go out after the commercial break. He eyed Tré with amusement. “It’s thirsty work wrestling solo.”
Tré wiped his mouth and tossed the empty bottle in the recycle bin. “Hell, yeah it is. Didn’t realize how spoiled I was getting rest breaks in the corner while my partner wrestled.”
Slade laughed and shook his head. “Looks like you took my advice,” he said with a nod at Tré’s new trunks.
“I didn’t get a new hairdo, but I did get my career back on track. A few new moves, new gear, and a new attitude out there. It’s coming together.”
“Glad to see it, man. Would have hated to lose you.”
Tré frowned. “You’re the second person to say that.”
“Who else shares my amazing insight?”
“Brandon. He said because I have a degree I might get tired of getting wrecked in the ring and quit wrestling.”
Slade shrugged. “He’s not wrong. How is Brandon doing by the way?”
Tré’s jaw hardened as he thought of their last few phone calls and the increasingly poor treatment at GWS that Brandon described each time. “Not too good. He’s got some heat backstage with their champ.”
“Ah, that’s why he’s falling down the card.”
“Yeah. He’s determined to ride it out until it blows over. But sometimes once you’re in the dog house, you stay there.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean? Why would I do anything about it?” Tré winced as his voice went unnaturally high with his questions.
Slade’s lips twitched as though he were holding back a grin. “C’mon, Tré. Keep it real.”
Tré sighed in defeat. “First Chance, now you. Does everybody know I have a thing for Brandon?”
“Noooo. Well...yes.” Slade clapped Tré on the shoulder. “You need to get your boy and bring him home.”
“He’s not my boy. Not the way you mean.”
“Are you serious?”
“What?”
“Watching you two the past few months has been like watching a damn rom-com with two clueless love interests. Brandon flirts with you. You think he’s kidding so you ignore him. Then you make googly eyes at him when you think he’s not looking.”
Tré didn’t bother to deny that he looked at Brandon with more than friendship in mind, but he had to shoot down Slade’s mistaken assumption about his former partner. “Brandon didn’t flirt with me. He was just joking around.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Did you ask him why he was leaving?”
“Yeah, and he said it was time for him to move on and try something new.”
“What’d you say to that?”
“I told him I’d miss him as a partner, but it’s not my place to stop him from doing what he wants with his career.”
“For fuck’s sake, you both are ridiculous. It’s a good thing I have one of the outside dates on the locker room pool going for when you two will finally get together.”
“What?”
Slade grinned. “I’m kidding, there isn’t really a pool. But I am serious about everything else.” A red light clicked on, indicating the show was back from commercial break. Slade started walking backward toward the curtain. “Like I said, go get your boy and bring him home.”
Slade disappeared into the arena, leaving Tré standing there, stunned. The other wrestler couldn’t be right about Brandon... Could he? Brandon would have said something. Except, Tré hadn’t said anything either.
“Hey.”
Distracted from his thoughts, Tré glanced over to see Chance looking up at him from his seat at the command desk.
“Slade is right about the way Brandon feels about you. I wasn’t sure at first, but the way he up and decided to leave out of the blue sold it for me.”
Still stunned, Tré stared at his friend in silence.
“Also, Slade’s not kidding about the pool.”
***
Brandon lay in bed in his hotel room, his cell pressed to his ear while he talked to Tré. By now their phone calls were a nightly occurrence.
During their first late night call, Brandon had tried to throw in some sneaky flirting. He’d teased Tré with the comment that his bed was better, but stopped short of asking him to come and try it out. But he’d wanted to. The thought of lying tangled up with Tré’s long legs, of having his hands on those smooth calves and his mouth on those powerful thighs had him so hard he’d forgot himself for a moment and brushed a hand over his stiff cock. Unfortunately, Tré didn’t pick up what Brandon had thought was an obvious hint to take their conversation in a decidedly steamier direction, and he’d mistaken Brandon’s aroused moan for tiredness.
Hell. Brandon was the world’s worst flirt. Or if not the worst, then definitely the most cowardly since he couldn’t work up the nerve to say what he felt. He hadn’t tried anymore flirting after that major fail.
“Are things getting any better at work?” Tré asked.
“You know they’re not.”
It was quiet for several moments before Tré surprised Brandon with his response.
“Leave that bullshit promotion and come home.”
Brandon smiled in the darkness. Tré more than likely referred to FPW as home, which was cool. But in Brandon’s mind, thoughts of home meant Tré. Hearing him say come home, had him imagining that Tré was telling him to return to his side. “I can’t. I’ve barely been here two months. I can’t up and quit because things are a little rough.” He turned, resettling on his side. “Maybe I’ll fly out to Colorado to visit my parents on our next few days off. Some time away from the craziness might help me get my head on straight. I can come back with a fresh perspective.”
A rough sigh came through the line. “Brandon, I know you just got there. But if they’re going to do you dirty, what is the point of sticking around? You’re too good to end up as a wrestling afterthought with that company.”
“I’m glad somebody still thinks I have talent.”
“Lots of people do and you know it.”
“I know. Just having a small pity party.”
“Well, when you’re done with that, I hope you know that you don’t have to put up with what they’re dishing out. And let me know if you need any help.” Tré cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m here for you, Brandon. I mean that.”
Brandon thanked Tré for the offer. He appreciated it, although he wouldn’t take Tré up on it. This was his mess alone to deal with. Still, it was nice to know his best friend cared, even after he’d broken up their team and left him behind.
Two weeks later, Brandon pulled into the parking lot of the Seattle arena. It was early in the afternoon, but he was already tired. He had zero energy to deal with the dozens of cold shoulders that were guaranteed to greet him backstage. Brandon thumped his head against the seat back. Fucking hell. His pity party was turning into a pity extravaganza.
Determined to suck it up and deal, he got out of the car and grabbed his bags from the trunk. He gave his name to the bored-looking security guard and went inside. As had quickly become the norm, no one looked at Brandon as he made his way to the locker room. Duke had a lot of power here. No one wanted to get on his bad side by befriending the man the company champion had declared persona non-grata.
Brandon put his bag away, but since there were several hours before the show started, he didn’t change into his gear yet. Instead, he went in search of the card for the night. He couldn’t help but have a slim hope that his heat was finally fading and he could start to reverse his downward momentum.
When he reached the card, Brandon started at the top of the list and moved downward, looking for his name. He went down and down...and down some more. When Brandon finally reached his name, he stared at his placement in shock, his hope that he was out of the dog house crumbling to dust.
He wasn’t even on TV tonight. The creative team had him in the non-televised dark match, against one of the no-name guys they used to do the job and lose to their company talent. Except, there was an L next to his name, indicating he was scheduled to lose. He was losing to a jobber. That pretty much put the cherry on the shit sundae that was his life at Grand Wrestling Syndicate.
A laugh rang out behind him, and the hair on the back of Brandon’s neck stood up. That laugh didn’t sound casual, and somehow, he knew it was directed at him. He looked over his shoulder to see Duke standing toward the other end of the long hallway, his arms crossed over his chest. Duke made eye contact long enough to make sure Brandon knew he was the one being laughed at before striding off.
Brandon pulled in a deep breath, then slowly let it out in an effort to keep his cool. Getting into another argument with the world’s biggest asshole champion wouldn’t help his cause any. As he returned to the locker room, Brandon tried to find the silver lining in tonight’s placement. Maybe this was his bottom. Because he certainly couldn’t fall much lower than losing to a jobber in a match that wasn’t even important enough to televise.
Four hours later, Brandon was back at gorilla. He bounced on his toes and swung his arms back and forth across his chest, keeping his body warm for his upcoming match. As he waited, he went over in his head some of the things he wanted to do for tonight. Just because he was in the dark didn’t mean he wouldn’t wrestle to his usual standard. If nothing else, the people who arrived early enough to see the pre-show deserved their money’s worth. Right when they queued up his music, Rongo took off his headphones and snapped his fingers to get Brandon’s attention.
“You’ve got five minutes curtain to curtain.”
Brandon stopped mid-bounce and looked at the booker in shock. That was barely enough time to get out of a lock up. “Fine,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth.
The last second announcement had him rattled as he went through the curtain, although he didn’t let on to the crowd. Walking down the ramp, Brandon kept up his cool, cocky facade. Until they cut his music off before he’d even made it into the ring. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder for a brief second. Then he shook it off and jogged up the steel steps.
The jobber was already in the ring. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly excited he was about to get a win. The ref stood flat-footed, staring at Brandon with a blank face. He called for the bell as soon as Brandon stepped between the ropes.
The match that followed was pointless. A dozen basic moves later, Brandon was flat on his back on the mat, legs tossed over his head, getting pinned in a roll up. The bell rang again and one of the generic house music songs they played for jobbers blasted through the arena.
A round of quiet, hesitant applause swept the crowd before quickly dying out. Brandon was sure they were confused as to what they’d just seen. Still celebrating his victory, his opponent hopped down to the floor. Brandon hadn’t even made it to his feet when they cut the lights above the ring.
Brandon laid there in the dark, the crowd awkwardly quiet around him. He’d thought he’d hit rock bottom before. But this... This was under the rock, in the soggy, wet dirt, with nothing but slugs and worms to keep him company.
Back in the locker room, Brandon slowly packed his bag. Was it even worth it to stay with GWS? He’d have a monumental task getting this heat turned around. It’d be different if he’d been with the company for several years and this was only a small blip on a well-established reputation. But he’d come in to Grand and landed in the dog house before he had a chance to make a name for himself. The face of the company had it in for him, and the front office was clearly letting him know they were on the champ’s side. Brandon wasn’t a quitter, but he wasn’t an idiot either.
The way he saw it, he had three options. One, wait it out, and hope the situation improved so his career could get back on track. Two, go directly to the owner, eat a little crow by admitting he’d messed up in arguing and nearly coming to blows with Duke, and ask for forgiveness. Or three, ask GWS’s owner to release him after three short months with the company.
After zipping his bag closed, Brandon stood there, blankly staring at the now empty locker as he weighed his choices. Once he made up his mind what he wanted to do, he picked up his bag and headed over to the promoter’s office. He knocked on the door, then had to wait several moments before he was called to come in. The owner, Mr. Carter, sat alone at a long table, gold fountain pen in hand, and a spread of papers in front of him.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Wilkes?”
Brandon kept his spine straight as he approached the table. Beating around the bush wouldn’t do anything but waste time, so Brandon got right to the point. “I’m here to ask for my release.”
Mr. Carter leaned back in his chair and eyed him with a hard expression. “Fine, you got it. Go by personnel and sign the papers.”
The ridiculously fast agreement stunned Brandon for a second. Then he realized that his suspicions that he was never going to be out of the dog house with this company were confirmed. They wanted him gone. He’d done the right thing in asking to be released.
Carter didn’t look like he had anything else to say, so Brandon walked right back out of the office. He was tempted to be petty and leave the door open, but decided it wasn’t worth it. He shut the door behind him, then went to personnel and let them know what was up. The woman there didn’t seem to have any animosity toward him for leaving. She kept it professional while she got the paperwork ready, then showed him where to sign and initial on each sheet.
Brandon didn’t bother to read any of them. He quickly scratched his name on the pages indicated so he could get out of there. Once he was finished, he waited while she made copies for him. She slid them all into a manila envelope and handed it over with a polite smile. Brandon took it, gave her a nod of thanks, and left.
Feeling lighter than he had in weeks, Brandon quickly headed for the parking lot. His steps slowed, however, when he reached his rental car. Duke and two of his pals leaned against it, watching him approach.
“Heard you’re taking your ball and going home.”
An angry heat swept up the back of Brandon’s neck. He didn’t want quitter attached to his rep. Unfortunately, Duke was right. Brandon had quit, and that pissed him off. “Seems like that should make you happy. Don’t pretend you didn’t want me out of here.”
Duke straightened from his lounge against the car. “Oh, believe me. I’m real happy. You’ll have to allow me to show my happiness and appreciation with a parting gift.” He smiled, then slowly balled his right hand up into a fist.
Brandon shrugged off his backpack. If Duke wanted to do this, he was game. He took a second to send up a silent prayer that Duke’s friends stayed out of it, knowing he’d get his ass kicked if it went three on one. If it did, he was determined to land a few punches of his own before he went down. He dropped his bag on the ground. “Come at me, Dukie boy.”
Duke sneered and took a step forward as a car drove past.
Brandon didn’t take his eyes off the three men across from him, but he heard the car stop and reverse. The door opened and Brandon cursed under his breath. Fuck. Four on one? He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw it was Bruiser Mike. Fucking hell. Mike was nearly seven feet tall with muscles on top of muscles and probably not an ounce of body fat. No way was Brandon getting any licks in if that monster joined the fight. But Bruiser Mike surprised him.
“Y’all move and let that man get in his car,” he said in a deep rumble.
Brandon finally took his eyes off his would-be attackers to look at Bruiser. He appeared deadly serious. When none of the three moved, Mike took several steps forward, putting his body between Duke and his cronies and Brandon. It didn’t take long for them to back down after that.
“Let’s go,” Duke snapped.
Brandon stayed on alert until all three of them were a good distance away. Then he looked up at Bruiser Mike. “Damn, man. Thanks. I was ready for it to go down, but I’m glad it didn’t.” He held his hand out. Mike shook it, his massive hand completely engulfing Brandon’s.
“You’re welcome. Just remember I did you a solid.”
“Of course. Anything you ever need, let me know.”
Bruiser Mike nodded and returned to his car.
Brandon watched him drive off as he picked up the bag he’d dropped. But he didn’t wait around any longer than that. Once his unexpected savior was gone, he got in his own rental and sped out of there before Duke decided to come back. It was time for him to go home.
