“Are you kidding me?!” he screamed, his face flushed with excitement. “Did you hear them? They were chanting for you guys over Dante! You made the final four! That was insane!”
“Get off me, you leech,” Cal groaned, pushing Evan off, but he was smiling. He was battered, bruised, and bleeding from the lip, but he looked alive in a way I rarely saw.
“We did it,” I breathed out, leaning against a crate, my adrenaline finally crashing into exhaustion. “Thirty-five minutes. We actually did it.”
“You guys looked like you’d been tagging for years,” Evan beamed. “Serious main event shit.”
We were celebrating, the energy high, when the vibe shifted.
I felt it before I saw them. It wasn’t a bad feeling, exactly, but the air in the hallway seemed to change texture. It became heavier with history.
“Hell of a performance, boys.”
The voice was warm, gravelly, and undeniably familiar.
I turned slowly. Standing near the catering table, having just come down from the private boxes, were Maverick and Scott Reed.
My father and my uncle. The Reed Brothers.
They looked older, sure. The years of hard road and harder living were etched into the lines of their faces, but sobriety had cleared the fog from their eyes years ago. They didn’t look like the monsters of my childhood memories. They looked like legends. Humble, respected, and undeniably proud.
Evan’s jaw dropped into a massive grin. “Mav! Scott!”
Evan moved before I did, walking right up to them. To my surprise, Scott pulled Evan into a bear hug, and Maverick clapped him on the back like he was an old drinking buddy.
“Good to see you, kid,” Scott laughed, releasing Evan. “Saw you take that bump on the stairs earlier. You alright?”
“Nothing an ice pack won’t fix,” Evan beamed. He turned to me, bouncing on his heels. “Silas, look who’s here!”
As if I didn’t know.
Cal went still beside me. He didn’t speak. He just watched, his eyes darting between the legendary tag team and me.
“Dad. Uncle Scott,” I said. My voice lacked the warmth I had just shown Evan, or the ease I had with Cal.
Scott stepped forward first. He was always the softer one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve, probably because he had a wife and two daughters waiting at home who taught him how to feel.
He reached out, squeezing my shoulder with a genuine, fatherly warmth.
“Proud of you, Si,” Scott said, his voice thick with emotion. “You moved like water out there. That counter on Rockwell? Beautiful.”
“Thanks, Scott,” I said, managing a small, genuine smile for him.
Then, Maverick stepped up.
My dad. The man who looked so much like me it was sometimes painful to look in the mirror. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a hesitant smile on his face. He wanted to bridge the gap; I could see it. He wanted to reach out like Scott did.
“You held your own, son,” Maverick said softly. “You didn’t just survive; you commanded that ring. You’re getting a push. A big one.”
“I know,” I said, my posture stiffening instinctively. “I’m staying focused.”
“We’re in town until tomorrow afternoon,” Maverick continued, stepping a little closer, hope flickering in his eyes. “We were hoping you’d come by the hotel tomorrow. Grab some lunch? Maybe spend the day with us before you fly out? We’d love to catch up properly.”
The offer hung in the air. It was genuine. It was kind. It was everything a son should want from his father.
But the resentment in my chest was a cold, hard knot that wouldn’t loosen.
“I can’t,” I lied, the excuse slipping out effortlessly. “I have press all morning. And then… Cal and I have to hit the gym. We’re on a tight schedule with the new contract.”
