The room they gave us was large, normally a dressing room for concerts. It came complete with a long, plush leather couch, and a small coffee table.
Lena had been in and out of the space all afternoon, bringing us water and chatting. Even Evan had dropped in at one point, if only to steal some of our high-end catering.
But now, the door was locked, and we were alone, getting dressed together. The atmosphere in the quiet room carried a weird, profound kind of intimacy.
Silas and I had gotten ready for matches together a million times during the span of our careers. We’ve shared crowded, dirty locker rooms where thirty other sweaty men were running around and shouting over the noise of the trainers. And we’ve maneuvered around each other in a literal supply closet in Minneapolis under a single dangling lightbulb.
But right now, the act felt sacred. There was no noise. No distractions. Just a soft hum from the air conditioner and the steady, quiet breathing of my husband.
I stood in front of the mirror, carefully wrapping athletic tape around my wrists as my eyes tracked Silas through the reflection. He was sitting on the edge of the leather couch in nothing but his tights, his head bowed low while he focused on lacing up his boots. Even without looking at me, I knew the worry that would be behind his eyes by the tense set of his shoulders.
Dropping the tape, I walked over to the couch and knelt down on the carpet between his knees. He looked up, and I was right. His brown eyes were apprehensive, tired, but also deeply focused. Without a word, he extended his foot, letting me take the heavy leather boot into my lap. I began tightening the laces for him, pulling the strings with a slow precision that didn’t usually belong in a wrestling arena.
“You okay?” I whispered while I worked.
“Yeah,” he murmured as he brought his large hand to rest against the side of my neck. His thumb moved back and forth, gently caressing the white bandage that covered his name. “The muscles in my back are a little tight, but my head is mostly clear.”
“I’ve got you out there,” I promised, tying a tight double knot around his ankle. “The second that bell rings, it’s you and me. Just like it’s always been.”
Silas leaned forward, his forehead dropping to rest against mine, his breath hot against my lips. “I love you.”
“Love you more, Si,” I breathed, my fingers fiddling with the stitched padlock logo on his hip.
It was a beautiful and terrifying contrast. A quiet, sweet moment of domesticity between two men who were about to step into a wrestling ring. Who would fight against six other powerhouses in a match designed for absolute carnage. I watched him, feeling the shift in my own mind as I prepared to put the armor back on. In minutes, I had to stop being his husband, bury this soft, quiet version of myself, and become the fast, lethal veteran who would orchestrate the mayhem around him.
It was now ten minutes before the War Zone match was scheduled to start, and Silas and I were heading toward the Gorilla position.
The air grew louder with every step. The distant, muffled roar of sixty thousand fans in the arena bowl vibrated the cinderblock walls. When we pushed through the heavy curtains into the backstage command center, our team was already waiting for us. Evan was leaning against a production desk, looking ridiculous in his neon pink gear, while the three rookies were nervously jumping up and down, pacing the small space to clear their adrenaline. The six-man team we were facing from the Demolition brand, stood on the opposite side of the room. They looked like a wall of dark leather, chains, and bad intentions.
When Silas and I stepped into the light, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at us. A collective, amused smirk broke out across every single one of their faces.
Rosa had completely outdone herself; the white, black, and gold unified us. Its brightness stood out like a spotlight against the dark gear of everyone else. Si and I were also the only ones who matched, a detail which she’d done entirely on purpose. A silent defiance from the wardrobe department.
As I looked at our attires, a sudden, reckless, and completely evil idea popped into my head. If Presley wanted to punish us for being a couple, the least I could do was to make sure he had a front-row seat to the fallout.
At the timekeeper’s desk, Jim sat in front of the primary monitors with a thick black Sharpie tucked behind his ear.
“Hey, Jim!” I yelled over the roar of the crowd. “Can I borrow that marker?”
Jim looked up, touched his ear as if to check it was still there, and gave me a single, slow nod. With a quick toss, I caught it and turned back to Si, a wicked grin spreading across my face.
“Take off the robe.”
He blinked, his brow furrowing in total bewilderment. We were running out of time before his music was scheduled to hit, the countdown clock ticking down rapidly. “What? Why? My entrance is in three minutes.”
“Just take it off, husband,” I commanded.
Silas let out a confused huff, but he didn’t argue. He shrugged off the sleeveless white robe and draped it over the back of a production chair. The movement exposed the thick strips of white KT tape the trainers had plastered across his left shoulder to reinforce the joint.
I popped the cap off the marker with my teeth, spitting it into my palm and stepped directly into his space. With my left hand bracing firmly against his collarbone, I went straight for the widest and most prominent strip of tape that ran across the front of his shoulder. In thick block letters, I wrote one word:
CALLUM
Silas’s eyes went impossibly wide as he watched. A mixture of shock and bright-red embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
I capped the marker with a sharp click and tossed it back to Jim. Leaning in close, my lips brushed against his ear as I whispered. “Now you match me entirely, champion. Let the boss try to script that off his screen.”
A loud groan ripped through the Gorilla position before Evan was practically suffocating from laughter. “He’s labeling you like a piece of luggage!”
