“Maybe,” Cal shrugged, his eyes locking onto mine. “Or maybe I just haven’t found the right person to be quiet with yet.”
He let that hang in the air between us. He was planting a seed. He was telling me, without saying the words, that he could picture himself there. With me.
I opened my mouth to say something, something stupid and reckless about how I could be quiet for him forever, when his phone buzzed on the table.
Cal glanced down.
The smile vanished instantly. It didn’t fade; it was wiped clean, replaced by a pale, frozen mask of horror.
“Cal?” I asked, leaning forward.
He didn’t answer. He stared at the screen like it was a bomb.
I looked down. A number. No name. (215) Area Code. Philadelphia.
The phone stopped buzzing. Then the voicemail icon popped up.
Cal stood up so fast his knee hit the table, rattling the cups.
“We have to go,” he said, his voice tight and unrecognizable.
“What? We just got here. Who was that?”
“Nobody,” Cal snapped. He grabbed his jacket, not even waiting for me. “I said we have to go, Silas.”
He turned and walked out into the rain without looking back.
The mood shift was catastrophic.
Cal didn’t speak on the cab ride back. He sat staring out the window, his jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping. When we got to the arena, the change was even worse. He wasn’t just quiet; he was vibrating with a toxic, frantic energy.
We were in a six-man tag. Cal wasn’t selling. He was shooting. He hit a clothesline on a jobber that looked like it practically took the guy’s head off. He was moving too fast, working too stiff, reckless with his own body and everyone else’s.
But the real explosion happened after the bell rang.
We were walking through the Gorilla position, adrenaline still high. Marcus Dane, a fifteen-year veteran and the locker room enforcer, was standing by the monitor. He was a massive man, six-foot five and built like a brick wall.
“Hey, kid,” Marcus barked, stepping in Cal’s path. “Slow it down out there. You almost broke that kid’s nose with that clothesline. Respect the work.”
Onany other day, Cal would have nodded and apologized.
Today, Cal stopped. He looked Marcus up and down with a sneer of pure disdain.
“Maybe if he learned how to take a bump, I wouldn’t have to carry him,” Cal spat. “Move.”
The entire backstage area went silent.
Marcus’s face turned purple. In a second, he had Cal pinned against the concrete wall, his massive forearm crushing Cal’s throat.
“You listen to me, you little punk,” Marcus growled, his fist cocked back. “I will beat the respect into you right here. You think because you sell T shirts you’re untouchable?”
Cal didn’t flinch. He didn’t fight back. He just stared at Marcus with dead, empty eyes, almost daring him to do it.
Do it,his eyes said.Hurt me. I’m used to it.
“Marcus! Don’t!” I shouted, rushing forward, grabbing Marcus’s arm. “Let him go! He’s off. He’s sick. Let him go!”
Other wrestlers jumped in, pulling the big man back. Marcus released Cal with a shove.
