“K. I’m leaving. I just sent Travis a booty call,” Jazz says, pocketing her phone.
“Yea yea. Go have fun. Spare me the details tomorrow at training,” I yell.
“Never! You’re gonna hear about it all, bitch! Love ya! Night!”
I smother my face into the couch cushion and scream all my frustrations into it. Why can’t I get this nerdy doctor off my mind?
The match directors close my file and nod to their office door. Dahlia follows me out and claps her hands down on my shoulders once we’re in the hall.
“Best possible outcome,” she cheers. My shoulders automatically tense and she pulls her hands away. “Hey. It’s okay. Everyone screws up when they’re young. You’re twenty-four Mar. The match directors don’t expect you to be perfect. And it’s like Joe and Dade said, it aligns with your image as a troublemaker. We can totally use this to elevate you to the Queen of Chaos!”
I try to smile with her. I am happy that I still have my contract with the PEW and that I’m still in the good graces of the match directors. Something about this whole situation still feels wrong.
“Come on. You’ve missed a week of training, and we need to getyou prepped for next week’s match,” she says, leading the way to the training wing.
Maybe a good training session is what I need to get my mind clear. I need to throw someone around, get slammed against the ropes. I roll my neck and shake out my arms and legs, trying to loosen up for practice.
“Ooommphh!” I grunt as I’m slammed into the corner of the ring by Talia Tanners. She’s a first year, but a new crowd favorite. She’s already being nicknamed “America’s Beauty.” She’s strong, likeable, and has that all-American look the fans love. We have a match this Thursday for Throw-Down Thursdays. I’m so out of shape. Not having a match for two weeks has thrown my training off, and Talia is handing me my ass right now.
We pause. When choreographing matches, you want to consider showing off each athlete’s strengths, giving the crowd a good show, and not doing stuff that’s been done before. No two matches should be the same.
“Okay, so, once I’ve got you here, in the corner. How about I run at you, like I’m going to slam my shoulder into you,” Talia says, moving in slow motion. “But,” she pauses, holding up a manicured finger with bright blue nail polish. “You deliver a Spartan kick or something and send me flying back!”
I haven’t trained with Talia too much, but she’s already proving to be a better team player than Eva. Eva’s more experienced, but Talia being new to the team means she doesn’t have as big of an ego yet. I consider her idea; there are no bad ideas when we are playing around with choreography. It’s good to stay open-minded. Dahlia is good about being hands-off until we get to the fine-tuning part of the routine. Some coaches will tell their athletes exactly what to do, and it takes the fun out of the training sessions sometimes.
“I’ve been working on this new move—it’s more of a finisher move—but I’d love to be able to work it into this match,” I say, pushing some sweaty pieces of hair off my forehead.
“Oh, hell yes!” Talia cheers. “I’m trying to figure out a signature move, but I just want to make it through this first year, ya know?”
She’s gonna stick around. She’s gorgeous, so she’ll attract lots of male viewers. She’s bubbly, so lots of women will like her too. And she’s a really good athlete. She’s about half a foot shorter than I am, but she’s got stamina, and energy. I think she’ll go far in this sport.
“So, let’s try it! Hit me with your best shot, Chaos Queen!” she playfully taunts me as she gets in a ready position.
Hearing that nickname from her doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe, instead of fighting this image, I should just lean into it. There’s nothing wrong with a little chaos.Organized chaoscan be fun sometimes.
Talia and I spend the next two hours mapping out our match. We’ll polish it up tomorrow and the next day, then it’s show time Thursday night. I’m actually really excited for this match. The match directors chatted with us, and we have an amazing twist in store for the fans. It’s going to be great. Knowing what’s in store for Thursday, has me feeling confident that I’m going to be here to stay in the PEW after this season. I can feel myself walking taller–if that’s even possible.
After training, a bunch of us are grabbing much-needed calories in the dining facility of the training center. I load my plate up with four steaks tacos, a couple scoops of rice and then top everything with queso and guac. My mouth is watering.
I join Jazz, who is practically sitting in Travis’ lap. Good for her. At least one of us is getting laid. Travis is a cool guy. No pun intended. His stage name is Travis “Ice Man” Hurley. He’s in his fourth year of his contract with the PEW and he is probably going to be on the big stage after this season. He’s become such a crowd favorite, he’s awesome at improvising, and his fan-base has tripled since he won the championship belt last season. It doesn’t hurt that he has icy blonde hair, like Billy Idol, and is massive. He’s taller than I am, standing at six feet five inches, and he’s all thick muscle. His family are huge wrestling fans, and Travis has been dead set on being a professional wrestler since he was a kid. Must be nice to have a family that supports you in this sport.
Talia joins the three of us, and the Glam Squad girls are at a table behind us.
“I love taco Tuesdays,” Travis says as he inhales an entire chicken taco in one bite.
“You know you can eat my tacoanyday,” Jazz says not subtlety at all.
Travis huffs a laugh and throws his arm around her. “Oh, I plan on having plenty later,” he says. He proceeds to lean into her and lick her neck, which is still salty with her sweat from earlier.
“Ugh. Can y’all two let a girl eat, please?” Talia says, letting her southern accent slip out.
“Oh hush. Don’t hate because you’re not getting any, rookie,” Jazz teases, but she shoves Travis’ face away from her neck so she can focus on her food.
I finish my first taco and feel the need to get something off my chest. I need to talk tosomebodyabout this. “Do you guys ever get creepy fan mail?” I ask.
“Fuck yes! Ugh. So many unwanted dick pics,” Jazz says, slapping her palms atop the table, making our trays and cups rattle.
“What?” Travis asks her, not looking happy at all. “From who?”
