His contract was terminated, his sponsorships tanked, and sales of his merch screeched to a halt.
Within twelve years, Goldie became a ghost.
It wasn’t all bad, he supposed. At least he could get service at restaurants without being harassed and no one threw anything at him anymore. He even kinda missed that too, if he was being honest with himself. No one had any idea who he was now, and that was both a blessing and a curse.
He managed a physical fitness program at a local gym, offered basic wrestling classes, and he was learning to be a yoga instructor. He had a few good friends that he didn’t talk to nearly enough, an impressive to-be-read list on his Kindle, and a very spoiled rotten cat named Purrcy Pringle in honor of the late Paul Bearer, a pro wrestling manager who was also known as Percival “Percy” Pringle III.
Goldie was content enough, though there were times he wished he had someone to come home to.
Dating was… difficult.
Goldie knew part of that was becausehewas difficult.
He was in a lot of pain most days as the lingering aches from his surgery had become compounded by advancing arthritis. It made his patience thin and his temper short. He struggled with managing the pain and balancing out the agony of stomach ulcers caused by the medication he took to ease his physical discomfort.
When he wasn’t hurting, his mood teetered between resigned contentment and bitter regret. He still dreamed about that squash match and heard the crack of the bat echoing when he woke up. His apartment was packed full of memorabilia from his career, and sometimes it felt more like a memorial to a dead man than a tribute to the great athlete he once was. The bulging god posing across neon posters and flexing on cereal boxes was no more.
Goldilocks was gone.
Not that Goldie wasn’t in good shape.
At six feet seven inches and three hundred pounds, he was still quite godly. There were days he thought he was a tad more Buddha than Zeus, however, as he’d lost much of the sculpted definition from his youth. His abs had gone soft, his belly rounded out, and his cheekbones had dulled, but still, he wasn’t too shabby for a man of forty-two years.
At least he didn’t have to wax now.
His chest hair was thick and dark, sprinkled with silver across his stomach and even around his pubes. He used to bleach and perm his brunet hair religiously to give himself his trademark golden curls, but he’d stopped doing that ages ago. It was gray now, though still thankfully thick and wavy. He usually wore it back in a ponytail or a braid, and it would hang down the middle of his back, just touching the bottom of his shoulder blades.
But never a bun.
No.
Goldie knew he was stubborn, and he was very aware that was another reason he wasn’t an easy person to date. He was malleable as a brick wall when it came to making changes, and he really didn’t like being told what to do. As much as he had loved being a pro wrestler and all the glory that came with it, there were strict rules he’d had to adhere to or risk being in violation of his contract—including ones about his appearance.
There had been an entire clause just on his hair. He’d had to maintain a specific length, style, and color at all times. Goldie could recall when once on a long cross-country tour that he’d been unable to visit a salon to touch up his roots, and his manager had taken a bottle of spray-on yellow hair dye to try and hide them.
When he inevitably started to sweat during the match that night, all the yellow ran and stained his outfit.
Fans referred to that night as Goldilocks’ Golden Shower.
Rumors were already circulating back then about his sexuality, and that was another part of wrestling that was stifling. For the entirety of his career, Goldie had to stay firmly in the closet. His manager and the company, Global Wrestling, had been worried that fans wouldn’t want to cheer for a big gay guy.
Goldie could be wildly flamboyant, wear colorful feathers and glittering sequins in skintight spandex, oil up until he could shoot down a Slip-N-Slide without a drop of water, but God forbid if anyone found out he liked to date other men.
That would be just too much.
Though it was far too late for Goldie, he was happy to see how times had changed since his retirement.
Openly queer wrestlers like Effy and Sonny Kiss were huge fan favorites these days, and Goldie would have loved the chance to take them on in a match. He adored Effy’s fearless charm and extreme deathmatch prowess, and Sonny was charismatic, tenacious, and had some of the most incredible acrobatics Goldie had ever seen inside a ring.
He could still remember how thrilled he was the very first time he’d seen the neon pinkDaddyemblazoned right across the ass of Effy’s black spandex briefs with his torn fishnets and spiked hot pink leather jacket. Sonny had been an equally stunning vision with their flawless makeup, unapologetically feminine fashion, and boldly identifying as genderfluid.
Times had definitely changed for the better, but damn, Goldie wished he could have been a part of it.
To have been there to celebrate Fred Rosser coming out as the first openly gay wrestler in World Wrestling Entertainment? To have cheered on Nyla Rose, the first openly transgender wrestler to ever be signed with a major American promotion?
It would have been incredible.
Among Goldie’s big regrets was not fighting harder to come out of the closet while he was still a pro. He knew he’d been afraid of losing bookings and sponsorships at the time, and that was why he’d agreed to turn heel—that is, to become a villain. Upper management accused him of letting his career go stale and were pressuring him for a fresh angle on his storyline.
