I saw Cal climbing. He was halfway up the ladder in the center. But he wasn’t alone. Another rookie was climbing the other side.
Cal didn’t wrestle him. He just punched him, causing the guy to fall backwards.
Cal reached up. He unhooked the briefcase.
The bell rang.
“Here are your winners… Deadlock and Timeless Silas Reed!”
Cal slid down the ladder, briefcase in hand. He rolled out of the ring and hauled me up from the splintered wood of the tables. He hugged me, tight, sweaty, and full of adrenaline.
“We did it,” he yelled in my ear.
We walked through the curtain battered, bruised, and victorious.
The applause from the back was genuine. Producers were clapping. Other wrestlers were nodding.
Then, the families came. Cal’s family, the Donovans, were leading the charge.
I saw them first. A swarm of women. Cal’s sisters, April, Heather, and Sarah. They bypassed security and tackled him.
I watched as Cal, the scary, tattooed “Deadlock,” melted. He dropped the briefcase. He hugged his sisters, burying his face in their hair. I saw his shoulders shake. He was crying.
His parents were right behind them. A broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and a woman wiping tears from her face.
It was pure love. Uncomplicated. Loud. Overwhelming.
I stood back, watching it, feeling like an intruder.
Then, Cal looked up. He saw me standing there.
He didn’t leave me on the outside. He grabbed Sarah’s hand, then reached for April and Heather, pulling them toward me, dragging the whole Donovan clan toward me.
“This is him,” Cal said, his voice thick with emotion, beaming at me. “This is Silas.”
The woman stepped forward immediately. She didn’t offer a handshake. She pulled me into a hug.
“I’m Cindy,” she said into my ear, squeezing tight. “Oh, honey, you were amazing! That jump! You scared me to death!”
“Thank you, Cindy,” I stammered, shocked by the warmth.
The man stepped up next, extending a hand that engulfed mine.
“I’m David. You kept him safe out there. Thank you.”
It was so warm, so genuine, that it actually hurt.
Then, I felt a hand on my other shoulder.
“Good match, son.”
I turned. Maverick stood there. He was smiling, but his eyes were scanning the room, checking who was watching.
“You got some serious height on that Senton,” he said. “Reminded me of the spot I did in ‘99. The rotation was good, but you need to tuck your chin faster on the landing.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, wincing as I shifted my weight. My back was screaming. He wasn’t asking if I was okay. He was critiquing the match.
Uncle Scott stepped up. His eyes were red. He was openly weeping.
