“We didn’t,” Cal muttered, walking past us, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Just happened.”
Evan released me, jogging to catch up to Cal. “Just happened? Bullshit, Deadlock. That was choreographed perfection.”
Cal stopped, turning slowly to face Evan, letting out a long, heavy sigh. He didn’t even correct him this time. He just looked at Evan with pure, unadulterated exhaustion mixed with amusement.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Wilder.”
Evan grinned, entirely unbothered. “I sleep like a baby, Deadlock. Anyway, Silas, you hungry? I’m starving. I know a diner near here that’s open all night. My treat. Pancakes and victory.”
“Food sounds amazing,” I said, my stomach rumbling at the mention of it. “Cal?”
Cal looked like he would rather eat glass than go to a diner with Evan. “I’m good. I’ll head back to the hotel.”
“Oh, come on,” Evan pressed, poking the bear. “Don’t be antisocial. It’s a celebration. Plus, Silas is going.”
He looked at me, then back at Cal, a knowing glint in his eye.
“Unless you can’t handle being around me for an hour? Or are you just worried Silas is going to have more fun with me than he does with you?”
Cal’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Evan, and a slow, dry smirk spread across his face.
“Trust me, Wilder,” Cal drawled, stepping past him. “If your idea of fun is listening to yourself talk, I think my spot is secure.”
Evan’s mouth dropped open, offended, as I burst out laughing.
“I hate him,” Evan muttered.
“I know,” I said, clapping him on the back. “Pancakes?”
5
JANUARY - MIAMI, FLORIDA
Now playing: The Sick - Bella Kay
ThehumidityinMiamihit differently than it did in Orlando. In Orlando, it felt like a wet blanket; here, mixed with the salt air and the frantic energy of thirty thousand fans packing into the stadium, it felt like a pressure cooker.
Man Overboard.
The name was plastered everywhere. On the side of buses, on billboards down Ocean Drive, and on every monitor in the backstage area. This was the kickoff to the road toWrestle Empire. It was the night careers were made or buried.
For weeks, the internet had been ablaze. The “New Blood vs. Legacy” angle had gone viral in a way even Rob Harlow hadn’t predicted. The clip of us storming the ring in New York had millions of views.
The narrative was simple: Dante Andrews and his cronies wanted to gatekeep the main roster, and Evan, Andre, Julian, Cal, and I were the battering ram trying to break the gate down.
But the real story, the one the forums were obsessing over, was the alliance between Deadlock and “Timeless” Silas Reed.
We were supposed to be oil and water. The chaotic brawler from Philadelphia and the polished technician from the Reed family. The fact that we were watching each other’s backs had created a buzz that felt electric.
We were in the locker room, lacing up. The air smelled of wintergreen, spray tan, and nervous sweat.
“You good?” Cal asked, his voice low. He was taping his wrists, ripping the tape with his teeth. He looked calm, but his leg bounced, a tiny tremor of adrenaline.
“I’m solid,” I lied. I wasn’t solid. I was vibrating. “Thirty minutes, Cal. They want us to last thirty minutes. That’s an eternity in a battle royale.”
“We’ll last,” he said, the certainty in his voice acting like an anchor. “We stay back to back. We watch the corners. We don’t let anyone separate us.”
“And when it’s just us?” I asked.
