“Run it again,” Callum said with a huff.
I did.
And again.
And again.
Each time he adjusted, not to dominate, not to overpower, but to match. To meet me exactly where I was and see if I could hold.
Most guys will break you.
But Callum tries to understand you.
By the time we finally stopped, sweat soaked through our gear, breath heavy in the quiet surrounding, the space between us felt different tonight. Charged. Loaded.
“You can call me Cal, by the way,” he said as he grabbed his hoodie and tugged it on.
We walked out together, no rush, our shoulders nearly brushing, neither of us acknowledging it.
“Tomorrow?” Cal said. Not a question.
“Yeah,” I replied with a nod..
2
SUMMER - AFTERSHOCK SOUTHEAST TOUR
Now playing: Follow You - Bring Me The Horizon
BythetimeCaland I finished our first match onThursday Night Aftershock, the Performance Center didn’t feel like a developmental building anymore. It felt like a door cracking open, the wood splintering under the weight of something inevitable. The crowd had been louder than usual, larger too, but not in the chaotic, messy way that smaller shows usually were. It was a focused, rhythmic noise, a living, breathing thing that synchronized with the violence in the ring. It was the kind of noise that didn’t fade when the bell rang; it followed us into the curtain, down the concrete hallway, and echoed in my ears long after my heartbeat had slowed back into a resting rhythm. I was now being called “Timeless” Silas Reed in that ring, a man of clockwork precision, but as I walked past the trainers, my skin hummed with a static I couldn’t shake.
My muscles screamed. The lactic acid buildup was a sharp, biting reminder of the fifteen minutes Cal and I had just spent trying to out-maneuver each other, tearing at each other’s limits. My chest heaved, sucking in the stale, recycled air of the hallway, but the adrenaline acted like a veil, keeping the true depth of the pain at a distance. It was a high I knew I was going to crash from later, but right now, I felt untouchable.
Cal didn’t celebrate. He didn’t raise his arms or soak in the rare standing ovation from the jaded Orlando crowd. He just met my eyes for half a second, a look that felt like a silent pact, dark and heavy, nodded once, and kept walking. He moved like a man who already knew this wasn’t the last time we’d do something like that. Like he was just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up to the reality he’d already created in his head.
Backstage, the atmosphere had shifted. The air felt thinner, charged with the kind of electricity that precedes a storm. Conversations stopped when we walked by. Eyes followed us. TheAftershockGM, Tate Martin, caught me near the water coolers, his voice low and urgent, vibrating with a nervous energy I hadn’t seen in him before.
“Let your boy Deadlock know that Rob Harlow, theShowdownGM, was watching the live feed. He asked if I could set up a meeting tomorrow. I think he’s considering a potential call up for you two, and soon.”
Monday Night Showdown.The Flagship. The show that changed contracts, tax brackets, and futures. It was the show that had once been the playground for my father and uncle, the stage where they became legends before they became tragedies. Now, it was within my reach. The weight of that realized ambition settled into my stomach, heavier than any bump I’d taken that night.
I found Cal sitting on a reinforced crate near the locker rooms, pulling his wrist tape loose in slow, methodical motions. He looked calm, almost bored, but the tension was visible in the set of his shoulders.
“They were watching,” I said, leaning against the cold cinder block wall, my breathing still not fully leveled.
“I know,” he replied, not even looking up, stripping the tape away to reveal the red marks on his skin underneath.
Three days later, the landscape of the UWF shifted. The office announced thatAftershockwould no longer function strictly as a training ground for the future talents and legends of the UWF. This summer, it was becoming a touring brand, kicking off with a tour through the Southeast to rival the gritty indie circuits. We weren’t just students anymore; we were the product.
But before the tour could start, the first ripple of the “call ups” hit closer to home.
“You’re shitting me,” I said, leaning against Evan’s SUV in the PC parking lot. The Florida sun beat down, turning the asphalt into a frying pan, but a cold knot formed in my gut.
Evan, my best fucking friend, the man the fans had coined “The Showstopper,” was tossing his training bag into his trunk. With his blond hair, blue eyes, and pink and white gear, he was the definition of a golden retriever in human form. He was the “pretty boy,” the guy who smiled at everyone and actually meant it, but he was also my only real friend in this shark tank.
“Friday Night Demolition,” Evan said, his face a mask of panicked disbelief. “I start in two days.”
“Evan, that’s huge,” I said, though the sharp sting of abandonment hit me hard. “But are you ready? Those guys will eat a rookie like you for lunch,” I teased, though the worry was real. TheDemolitionlocker room was notoriously brutal for newcomers.
