Cal was fighting like a man possessed, but he was reckless. He wasn’t wrestling to win; he was wrestling to hurt. He ignored the called spots. He ignored Evan’s directions.
Because of the miscommunication, Evan had to dive in to save Cal from a three on one beatdown. He took a superkick to the jaw intended for Cal. He went down hard.
One, two, three.
“Evan Wilder has been eliminated!”
The crowd groaned. The momentum was entirely withDemolition.They hadn’t lost a single man.
It was five against three. Me, Cal, and Martinez against five fresh opponents.
We were drowning. The match dragged on. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. We were selling the beatdown, taking bump after bump, waiting for the cue. My body ached, but it was a dull throb compared to the screaming void in my chest. Every time I looked at Cal, he was looking away.
Then, the referee caught my eye. He tapped his wrist discreetly.
Time.
It was time for the comeback. This was the scripted turnaround. We had practiced this transition a dozen times earlier that day.
Martinez locked eyes with me from across the ring. He wiped blood from his lip and gave me a subtle nod.
Go.
We set the move up. The spot designed to put Silas Reed on the map and finally eliminate Camden Coranto to give the good guys a fighting chance.
Martinez rolled out of the ring, pulling the table into position on the outside, near the barricade, exactly where we marked it.
I grabbed the ladder, sliding it into the center of the ring.
Cal was in the corner, selling a rib injury, surrounded by three guys who were “stomping” him to keep him occupied while I climbed.
I began to scale the ladder.
My boots rung against the metal steps.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
I climbed higher, perfectly positioned against the ropes. My setup was solid. Martinez was spotting on the outside, holding the table steady. Camden Coranto was braced on the table, lying in wait, trusting me with his body.
I reached the top. I stood up. I looked down at the drop. It was higher than it looked in practice. The lights blinded me for a second.
Then, it happened.
I hesitated.
Just for a split second. But in the air, a split second is an eternity.
I looked down. Not at the table. But at Cal. He was across the ring, looking up at me from the mat. And for a brief, terrifying moment, I didn’t see my tag partner waiting for the save. I saw the stranger from the hotel room. I saw the hatred.
It’ll plague your infected brain until you fucking die.
My mind drifted from the mechanics of the jump to the heartbreak in my chest. I lost my focus. I lost my nerve.
I kicked off the ladder, throwing my body into the backflip. But because of the hesitation, I didn’t get the full rotation. I didn’t get the arc. I didn’t push off hard enough.
I was coming down too short. And too fast.
Oh god.
