Inches

Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
February 8, 2021

"Alright, stop everything," I say as I knock on Penny's door, then push it open. I pull a bag from my pocket. "Smoke break!"

"As long as you don't care that I'm on a deadline."

I nod before taking a seat, then observe, "Figured we could both use one."

"Let me finish this up, and I'll be right there."

"Take your time," I say before I sit down. "Man, I'm really glad to get that first one out of the way."

"Yeah, I guess so," Penny says, taking a sip from her Hawaiian Punch while working diligently at her desk. "Then it's right back to work at the office."

"Anything I can help with?"

"No," She states in an almost annoyed tone. "It's just these spreadsheets."

"Well, let me take a look..."

"I'm fine," Penny asserts. "Wayne asked me to review the conditioning program for the school."

"Isn't that a job for Brenda to handle?" I ask while breaking up some premium kush. "You can still review it, but she should be updating the spreadsheets."

"She's on vacation."

"I haven't seen her in three weeks," I say, tilting my head. "And she's only been here maybe four months?"

"I told her not to rush back."

I pause from my task then ask, "Did you fire her?"

"What... no!"

"Because I'd be ok with it as long as it's justified," I say as I feel my blood begin to run cold. "I've been thinking we need to clean house a bit. Sh*t like what happened on Halloween CAN NOT happen again."

"Look, I don't think Mary knew it was a trap," Penny sighs as she finally looks away from the screen.

I know she still loves Mary, but this is where business needs to be seperate.

"Maybe you should've educated her about the kind of people we deal with."

"She asked me not to get her involved."

"Whoa, hold on," I shot out. "How the hell can you expect to do your job properly when your job is managing the marketing for a company who represents a lot of pro wrestlers?"

"It was an oversight on my part."

"No, this one's on me. I should've trusted my instincts," I assert as I retrieve a philly wrap from the end table. "But it makes a lot of sense why her performance as of late doesn't surprise me."

"You want me to talk to her?" Penny asks, standing up from her desk chair. "She's been under a lot of stress."

And I haven't been?

"You can do whatever you want," I say as I begin to roll the philly. "But the damage has already been done."

"I hope you don't think she'd intentionally do anything to get Drake hurt," She says, delaying momentarily before sitting down across from me. "Mary thinks the world of him."

Where I come from, failing to vett someone lands you in a casket. We aren't to that extreme in professional wrestling yet, but I'd be completely oblivious if I didn't recognize the trend becoming dangerously close to actions you'd see an organized crime syndicate carry out. It's not a stretch considering his affinity for mob dramas like the Wire and the Sopranos. I guess being exposed to it for so long by proxy has that effect. But if this were a hit designed to send a message to me... message received.

And now I find myself picking up the pieces. Nikki's been a mess throughout the past three years because I refused to let wrestling go, with that trauma only magnifying in recent months now that Drake's been involved. I don't know if Penny can understand that my parental instinct is kicking in to its highest degree. My children have always been sacred ground until now, a fact I made abdunantly clear before I put Isaac through the table. But sh*t travels downhill when it pertains to the professional fallout of such snafus.

"It's nothing personal, Penny."

"Don't insult my intelligence by lying to me," Penny asserts before leaning in. "This is very personal, and it should be."

"Then you should understand why this needs to be done."

"I understand that you believe he set a precedent by coming here," Penny says while I light the blunt. "You're worried that others will follow it if they want to get an edge on you."

"It's crossed my mind."

"So, you really don't have to tell me how dangerous that is."

"Are you agreeing or disagreeing with me?"

Penny gives me the most dumbfounded look before inquiring, "Did you forget what he did to me over that belt?"

"To be fair, you weren't completely in your right mind either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know good and well what that means," I reply as I hand her the blunt. "So stop painting him like he's some invincible monster. He can be beaten, because we've both done it." I pause, knowing what I'm about to say is going to hurt. "I swear, she's f*cked with your head."

Penny stops dead in her tracks, holding the blunt and letting it smolder. "Excuse you?"

"Oh...I'm sorry," I say as I reach for the blunt. "I didn't realize I was stuttering."

"You weren't."

"Then I know exactly what I said," I say before taking a toke from the blunt. I sit it the ashtray. Exhaling a plum of smoke I confirm, "And I stand by it."

"All I ask is that you hold off firing Mary until after SuperBrawl when all the emotion dies down," Penny demands before picking up the blunt from the ashtray. "That's not unreasonable."

"No, it's not."

"So I don't understand why you have to go on such an attack."

"Because the Penny Shannon I hired for this job wouldn't have to think twice about rectifying the situation!" I finally snap in a desperate plea. "You think I like watching you walk around here with the weight of the world on your shoulders when it doesn't have to be?"

"I didn't expect us to grow the way we have..."

"I really wish you'd take the blinders off," I interrupt, knowing that it'll draw her ire. "I know a lot more than you think I do."

"Like what?" Penny asks, huffing defensively.

"I know she pretty much shamed you for winning the title."

Her eyes get wide. Just remember, you asked.

"I've also known about you being a transwoman since well before you made it public," I continue, drawing closer as I hold the blunt between my fingers. "But when were you planning on telling me?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah kinda," I say before taking a draw from the blunt. "And the next words out of your mouth need to be something other than 'Mary thought', because I may just lose my sh*t."

"I just didn't want you to get the wrong idea about my lifestyle," She says sheepishly.

"Bullsh*t, you know I've never held your sexual orientation against you," I reply. "If that were the case, you wouldn't be around my kids. Come on, Penny, try again."

"Well, why didn't you bring it up?"

"It's not my place."

"You're right, it's not..."

"But it's helpful to know," I retort. "Especially when I had specific marketing put in place to set you up for after this ends."

"And that's why Mary modified the plan," Penny huffs. "She thought it wasn't right that I was your token lesbian."

"I have yet to hear a reason of your own," I say, watching her fidget in her seat. "Mary thought... and you lost millions."

I scoff, disappointed.

"Thirty one years old and you still can't think for your damn self."

"No, I co-signed on it," Penny reveals before slamming her fist into the table. "It was never about the f*cking money, Josh. It was about my happiness!"

I know that Penny is probably close to slugging me. But it's time we were honest with each other, and sometimes that truth is brutal. I guess I don't want to believe our friendship had changed, but in all reality it has. I've always pushed for Penny to take her life seriously because I know she's capable of so much more than what she's shown. But that's the pattern, I'm the one pushing. I can't want her success more than she does, and that's what it's felt like for a while. While there is a competitive nature to our relationship, there was always a trust to protect the other's best interest. It seems that confidence has been breeched. It's heartbreaking to see how disconnected she's become from me. Penny has been a pillar of my support system over the years, which is something I cherish. But now I feel even more isolated than what I've self imposed.

I stand up from the chair disgusted. She can have the rest of the blunt, because I can't even stand to look at her. As I turn on my heel, I slowly exhale.

Have I really just cut one of my closest friends out of my life?

*****

Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
Present Day

"And here I thought you didn't need me anymore," Dr. Timothy Remke says as he strolls behind his desk. "Go on, have a seat."

"I know you have a couple evals this afternoon, so I'll make it brief."

"Really, it's no trouble," He says as he opens a window. "I know when your boss contacts you personally, it's priority."

"You know I hate it when you put it in those terms."

"It's true though. You are my employer," He says while sitting down at his desk and opening his desk drawer. "While you've given me immunity to smoke in the building, I still feel it's proper to at least open a window."

Dr. Remke retrieves his cigarette pack then asks, "Want one?"

"I probably shouldn't, but yeah."

He hands me a cigarette across the desk before asking, "So what I'm gathering is that you need some counsel?"

"What gave you that impression?"

"Well for starters, your eyes are bloodshot. Not to mention the smell," He says before sniffing in an exaggerated manner. "Normally, you don't smoke weed unless you've got something truly bothering you."

"So I wouldn't call it counsel," I reply before finally sitting down. "But I do need to sort out what my brain's thinking."

"Luckily, I've learned how your mind works," He retorts with a confident conjecture. "The urgent tone of your voice is contrary to your words."

"I just need to talk to someone who isn't trying to steer me in a particular direction."

"Let's not play coy, Josh," He replies. "Wanna try that again?"

I sigh, exasperated, before saying, "I can't help but think I backed myself into a corner with all this."

"The match?"

"Yeah."

"I agree, you have."

Not the response I expected. Dr. Remke takes a cigarette out of the pack and places it between his lips. He exhales before leaning back in his chair and he lighting it, taking a quick breath to start the flame. He's getting right to the point, which is unusual even for him.

"But isn't that what you wanted?"

"Well yeah it's what I wanted, Tim," I say as he hands me his lighter. "Everyone knows that."

"Then there's no sense talking in circles," He says, slowing his next cigarette draw down before continuing, "It's been what, three years since you've been in the ring with this guy?"

"I was on the shelf for three," I say as I pass the lighter through my fingers carefully. "But it's been five years since I've had a match of this magnitude."

"I had a hunch this would come up," He begins, exhaling a plum of smoke. "So I pulled your file."

"And?"

"The eval I did on you after the match in Las Vegas indicated significant mental disruption, which I largely attributed to the concussion you suffered," He says, watching as I light my cigarette. Dr. Remke then asks, "How much do you remember from it?"

"Not a lot," I say before exhaling the smoke. "Details are still a little hit and miss."

"And what about the physical symptoms?" He asks as a follow-up. "You did have more concussions following that night, correct?"

"Yeah, and I still get ringing in my ears every once in a while," I finally admit. "Fluorescent lights don't do very well for me, either."

"That's not..."

"There's more," I say as I rest the cigarette in between my fingers. "Sometimes I still feel disoriented."

"I figured."

"How?"

"Josh, my training is for situations like this," He begins, reaching in his mini fridge for a bottle of water. "I also know you have a lot of pride and don't want to disclose the severity of your injury."

I flick an ash into Dr. Remke's ashtray before asking, "Do I seem like I'm back to normal?"

"Define 'normal'," He replies with air quotes. "Your occupation should never be confused for normal, no matter if your life outside the ring is."

"You know what I mean," I say while putting the cigarette back up to my lips. Before taking a draw, I ask, "Do I seem... punch drunk?"

"Well, let me just state for the record that I'm not a neurologist," Dr. Remke says. "But didn't they clear you?"

"Yeah."

"So from a physical and structural standpoint, everything is fine by their standards."

"Yeah."

"Now, I want to make sure you know that means you aren't exempt from trauma related damage," He says in a cautionary tone before taking a drag from his cigarette. "You had one of the worst cases of Post Concussion Syndrome I've personally witnessed in my twenty five years involved with professional sports. And it goes beyond your scores on an impact test."

"So you think I do?"

"I didn't say that," He replies. "I believe your behavior hasn't changed, and that would be the obvious sign. However, it is hard to ignore twenty years of blows to the head."

"Not helping."

"Look, even despite it, there are no restrictions to keep you from the ring,"
He exhales the smoke out. "With an athlete of your caliber, it boils down to being confident enough to perform at level you expect."

"Seems to be a good place to start."

"There's a lot of independent research out there," He says while observing me moving uncomfortably in my seat. "Very little of it, however, is on the psychological effects associated with the aftermath. That would be when the athlete is cleared to resume their normal regimen."

"So if I understand this correctly, they only look at physical changes."

"Yes," He affirms while flicking his cigarette in the ashtray. "But there's still the matter of changes in an athlete's thought process they haven't been able to link to the physical changes they find. It's only what the media reports, or when it's too late. And what's worse, is they usually don't collaborate with a psychologist in these studies as the connection."

"To make it seem like you're arm chair quarterbacking."

"Right," Dr. Remke says, grabbing a pen. "You ever hear of the term gun shy?"

"Yeah."

"You had a match against that boy... Mason a couple months ago, right?" He asks, knowing the answer. "He hit you plenty of times... hard. And you held up fine."

"Yeah, I reckon I did."

"Now did you at any point find yourself hesitating?"

The train is coming, and I'm the hapless fool who got his car stuck on the tracks. What's worse, I knew it was coming. Since I merged the company with Wayne's wrestling school, we always talked to our prospects about being free in the ring. That freedom comes when you don't have to think about your next move and what consequence it brings. You just... do. I was nervous for the match with Mason, more than I probably should've been. It wasn't because of his level of skill, but due to my own reservation. I was worried about ring rust and how well I could take a big shot. The last thing I want is another extended layoff. I had to find out if coming back was a pipe dream.

"Josh, did you hear me?" he asks again. "Did you hesitate?"

I could feel the anticipation building while walking down the ramp as my memory takes me back to that night. I've seen a kid like Mason a hundred times before. Young, raw, but directionless and bland. Kinda like looking in the mirror before I wised up and started speaking my mind. I had to learn no one was going to do it for me. I knew he would come out hard and fast. They always do when trying to prove themselves. While setting the tempo, jockeying for those brief moments of control, I pictured Isaac. I don't know if it was a good thing to look ahead, but it damn sure snapped me back into reality. That first elbow strike reminded me I was in there with a hungry prospect who would tear my head off given the chance. That would undo all the work it took to make it back. The doctors, CT scans, and surgeries would all be in vain if I didn't get it together.

"Are you even listening?" Dr. Remke asks as his voice echoes. "Did you hesitate?"

I can hear the question, so he doesn't need to repeat it. But it's not an easy answer. Weighing my various options and outcomes is not the same as an inability to execute one of them, and should never be mistaken. In the heat of battle, you don't get an option to just hang back. Your mind is racing to process all the information with minimal time to capitalize on an opportunity. It took the ropes not feeling stable on a move I've done to hundreds of competitors of varying skill level to make myself slow down. Maybe that's what Dr. Remke saw in his analysis of my match. I was in control for the vast majority of the bout, and I could've put him away at a few different instances. At what point, however, do you decide to make a statement or show mercy?

Sh*t, there's much more to unpack than I thought.

"You're about to go into the biggest fight of your professional life, and you can't answer a simple question?" he finally asserts, "I think I need to clear my afternoon before you make a huge mishap."

"I may have hesitated," I finally utter, "But I still did it."

*****

I basically said f*ck the wrestling business before Nikki convinced me to come out of retirement seven years ago. While the fire was there, I was at a point in my life where wrestling took more from me than it gave. I think most people would understand that feeling of being taken for granted. Truth is, none of us are in control when we sign the contract. We're at the mercy of the promoter, the booker, and fans that paid good money to see us fight; which is something I take very seriously. Even under ideal conditions, it's kind of a f*cked up occupation we're in, with a philosophy that has remained unchanged.

"You don't work, you don't eat," the faceless suits would say.

It's unfortunate what we've inherited due to what was created before any of us ever put on the boots. And so many of the old guard were staunch defenders of that philosophy, real pro's pros so to speak. I'm cognizant of how our money is made, and I counter with the fact that I'm financially able to pay for my children to attend college while still having more than enough equity in my business venture. All because for the longest stretch of my career, I subscribed to that same philosophy that has literally driven many of my contemporaries in the ground. What happens next is simply showing up and fighting, sometimes for ideology, sometimes for gold-plated leather straps, but always for the pride to stand in front of millions and say 'I am'

Our culture has changed since then, and not necessarily for the better. You're always gonna have those passive aggressive, sniveling motherf*ckers in every locker room. But the sheer volume of them now is astronomical.

They look for a way out, and there are ways around the fight itself. You can throw a temper tantrum, or get arrested and cause a scandal. The list goes on of potential PR nightmares that people will use to skate an obligation. I should know. Once upon a time, I was pretty good at giving promoters gray hairs. But I was a kid then, and I can attribute those behaviors to being afraid. Being scared doesn't make you weak but rather normal, just in case someone forgot to copy the memo. This is a business built on abnormalities, however, and if not used properly that fear can garner a difficult reputation to come back from. Scared of what, you ask? 

The better question is, have you ever actually been punched in the face? If you have, then you know.

I don't blame her for wanting to see me happy, because there's something satisfying about testing your mettle against another human and obtaining victory. An inch is never given between those ropes, and earning it was always the part I enjoyed. I was finally starting to rediscover why I fell in love with the business in the first place. But something happened around the last time anyone saw me in a ring. I stopped focusing on winning those inches. I found myself not caring about the struggle and fighting on autopilot. That's always where it goes south and any competitor worth their salt will tell you that. Getting another serious injury was a blessing in disguse. I was just as bad off mentally and emotionally as my body was wrecked physically, and I've been around the block enough times to know I needed to get away from the business before it did any more damage. Throughout my career, I would only take time off when I was forced to. But this time, I planned on walking away and never looking back.

I was fed up.

I still am.

You bastards have taken WAY more than just my health. You've pretty much seen to it that I never have a normal life.

You've taken the joy I got out of honing my craft. What was once a beautiful obsession now just seems like a glorified exercise in futility.

You've taken people I love away from me. I'll probably never let anyone else enter my inner circle.

You've taken what was left of my belief in humanity. Now I trust people even less than I did before, and that admittedly wasn't very much to begin with.

To be honest, I've come to despise everything about this profession. It's left me wealthy, but miserable, when I'm around it too long.

I no longer WANT to be here, and I really don't NEED to be here doing this sh*t anymore. It's probably better for my long term well being to ride off in the sunset as one of the best this industry will ever see. And I don't have to exaggerate, I've achieved everything there is to do.

Yet, here I am.

So I guess this is where the story begins, trying to answer the question of why I'm here again, about to embark on a match that's going to change me forever. I make no delusions about what kind of man I'm facing and how dangerous he can be, especially when what he holds dearest is threatened more than any other previous time. But I asked for this, flat out did everything in my power to ensure this match would take place.

So why?

Because he owes me.

Part One: Doubt

Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
Present Day

"Can you tell me why you hesitated?"

"It's the same thing I've always struggled with," I say methodically. "Drawing the line."

His eyes indicate a great deal of suspicion. I know he thinks I'm lying. Omission isn't lying, and he's going earn the answers he's seeking.

"That's nothing new for combat athletes," He says as he blows out a plum of smokethrough his nose. He's frustrated, as am I. "But what I see is you holding onto something. What is it though?"

"What could I possibly be holding onto?" I ask out of curiosity, which is probably an error on my part. "Now you're not making any sense."

"That's the multi-million dollar question," He replies before leaning forward over his desk. "Uncovering that answer could lead you to a championship."

"And what's with the third degree?"

"You came into my office smelling like weed, asking me if you seem off in the head. And you claim it's for no reason?" He asks before flashing me an expectant head tilt. He scoffs. "And yet I'm the one not making sense?" He pauses, before saying in an exasperated tone. "Wow, that eval was way off."

"Off?"

"Yes, because there isn't a mental block like I originally theorized," He says, a grin coming across his face. "Your confidence is just shot."

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

"No, in fact this is the part of my job I hate."

"Oh don't start..."

"You can cut it with the bravado," Dr. Remke interrupts. "The pay per view's already sold. Or did you forget that everyone plays a role in the production?"

He's using my own words against me. I'm pretty sure there are copyright laws for this situation.

"Touche," I concede. "I must've explained it all pretty well back then."

"It's a business, not unlike any other professional sport," He says while nonchalantly taking a drag from his cigarette. "Think about it like this for a second. What do you pay me to do?"

"I pay you to make sure everyone is fit to do their job."

"Exactly," He says with a flick of his cigarette. "And performance isn't just limited to physical. In fact, it's a very small percentage. But I think sometimes you ignore that WFWF pays you for a job as well, one that you've parlayed into this company and its expansion. But you gave them what they wanted when you had all the leverage."

"I know. And I hate that I gave any to get here," I say while sighing. "Sometimes I wonder how much that paycheck really means in the big scheme of things."

"You sound like a guy who already has the other foot out the door."

I reach for another cigarette. I tilt my head and say, "Maybe I do."

"Then why come back for all this Josh," Dr. Remke asks as I pull the lighter off his desk, "If all you're planning to do is leave anyway?" He reaches out as I light my cigarette. I hand it back to him and he asks, "Are you really as hungry as you want people to think?"

"Have you been watching?" I ask. "It's like I'm two different people."

"Interesting," He says while reaching for a pen. "Go on."

"Well I got a chance to step back and look at things a little clearer being gone that long," I begin after taking a drag from my cigarette. "I don't think I could do that when I was in the grind."

Not without snapping and completely changing the content of my character. That's all it would've taken for my credibility to be destroyed. I've already had a couple cameo spots in that movie as the guy with a neck halo. I'm cognizant of the uphill battle I'm fighting because of a recent reduction in ring time.

What a lot of young guys fail to realize is that the rarified air on top requires manic preparation on all fronts. If the words I'm saying aren't the least bit consistent, let alone authentic, it's a tough sell to the media for such a big show despite my completely legitimate argument. I was able to be more proactive with my career and the narrative surrounding it during my time away, assessing every case in my private and professional life for the most suitable outcome. It was better for me to keep my mouth shut in this instance until I had the right platform to speak.

I didn't always do that correctly as a younger man. While getting what I want in business isn't a stretch, twenty-one became twenty eight, which turned into thirty five pretty fast. That's too much time spent with not as much to show for it as I'd like.

"I don't have a choice here, Tim."

"In the time I've known you, I've never seen you so short sighted," His statement is followed by a pause before flicking his cigarette. "You're too composed to not see the options."

"Except when my reputation is called into question."

"It's not like that hasn't happened before, I'm sure."

"What did I gain from facing Mason then?" I ask while brushing my hair out of my face. My hand moves to the back of my neck. "I mean if I'm going into business for myself, that match didn't need to happen."

"No, it did," he retorts, "You needed to see where you stood and ensure you kept some leverage. Better that it happened then as opposed to SuperBrawl."

"Well nothing changed," I declare as I take a drag from my cigarette. "I proved I'm still the best." I pause and rest my cigarette on the ashtray. "And what good does it do to completely demoralize a kid making his way."

"Because it's NOT the same as being face to face with him," he says, "Please explain something to me."

"Ok, I'll try."

"Why is it so easy to show no remorse towards him, but struggle against everyone else?"

"Because he has something that's always belonged to me."

"No, because he exposes something very distinctive in you," He answers calmly, sitting his cigarette down in the ashtray. "It's primal... even reckless. Let me ask you this, do the boys watch the show?"

"Drake does where he's trying to break in," I reply. "But I beg Nikki not to let Hunter."

"See, you've matured to where the thought of your kids watching it makes you nervous."

"Only because I don't want my seven year old son to see that side of me." I sigh. "I don't even like that side of me."

"In reality, most people stay within a guideline because of a comfort level," Dr. Remke asserts, reaching for his bottle of water. He takes a swig before continuing, "Then they stagnate."

"You make it sound simpler than what it is."

"The only way it's more complex are under the most extreme cases, such as an undiagnosed mental illness."

"Perhaps I painted in too broad of strokes when I first introduced you to this line of work."

"Is this your way of retracting earlier comments?"

"No, just trying to look at this from a different angle," I say, drawing a deep breath before slowly exhaling to calm my rising stress. "This revelation didn't come overnight."

The free flow of information seems so naive, but it's a true master class in the art of psychology. I've seen a decent amount of sports psychologists in my life, but the good doctor makes it easier to dispel information because there's never been any judgement. It's important to feel a sense of pride in your profession, and showing him everything behind the curtain all those years ago made him the perfect asset for Championship Connections.

What I have always found impressive was the fact he was always analyzing the 'why' behind our actions and not just taking everything at face value. I went out of my way to make sure he didn't feel intimidated so he could absorb it objectively, which is easy when one can become awestruck by the pageantry and violence accompanying this industry. As someone who had reached a certain status within it, I've always felt a sense of duty to ensure an accurate portrayal of the athletes that choose this career.

Dr. Remke fetches his cigarette from the ashtray and pulls out a notepad from the file. I wonder if he has separate one for everyone on his case load, chop full of all the skeletons and juicy gossip hens across the world would cluck over?

"Remember when we went over compartmentalizing different aspects of our personalities?"

"I do."

"I think I was being a little vague with how that applied to the business."

"So it's a morality thing?"

"Mm hmm." I hum, carefully flicking the ashes into the ashtray as I pick it up. He takes a drag from his cigarette up as I continue. "They call that moral dilemma a turn."

"And just to make sure I still understand the terminology, that's when a person changes in the opposite direction in terms of how the crowd is supposed to react to them."

"Yeah," I affirm. "I've been on both sides of it. I've been booed, which I'm ok with. I'm at the point in my career where it's primarily cheers now." I motion for a bottle of water. "When the fans see me put a guy through a table, it's blood lust that drives those cheers. Even my not so flattering comments, they listen because I'm speaking to them. But most appreciate my contributions. All except the people that run the show."

"I could use this as an 'I told you so' moment."

"Don't pat yourself on the back too soon," I assert before taking a drag of my cigarette. "I never said I trusted the b*tch. I was playing the game, so I knew the risk."

"We both know that politics happen all the time in the corporate world," Dr. Remke replies, "The difference, and what handicapped you, is that you were doing something genuine. Guys at the top of their professions aren't known for that."

"Maybe. But you're right... he brings out something dark in me," I say as I take another drag. "I can't explain it, but it started to take hold and wouldn't let go."

"It sounds like a metaphor," he replies, "Maybe for the depressed state you've been in since the injury. Describe it to me if you would."

"Where are you going with this?"

He ponders for a moment, taking a drag from his cigarette before inquiring, "If that match in Las Vegas with... I think they call him Drakz would've been your last one, would you be satisfied enough to walk away?"

He's got me, and he knows it. I've been candidly making comments in the media for years expressing my displeasure with how the company operates, though I've attempted to make it constructive. From what I can surmise, the good doctor is seeing through the meticulously curtailed veil of virtue I've maintained. For how long? Probably since jump street, but he hasn't called me on it until now. My biggest fear is wearing out my welcome in the business, making myself either a laughing stock or a liability because of a physical decline. I'm not there yet, but the thought is in my mind.

I finally utter, "Nikki has wanted me to for a while."

"And you?"

"I can't bring myself to with that outcome."

"That's what I thought."

"Now what?"

He smiles and replies, "It's your call."

*****

Dean Residence
Atlanta, Georgia
April 17, 2017

"So I processed Hunter's paperwork for pre-k next year and got Drake re-enrolled in public school," Nikki says as she transfers dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. "It's better for their socialization."

"I agree," I say, taking a swig of my morning coffee. "Do you know what you're going to do yet? Let's be honest, homeschooling the kids was just as much of a job as wrestling ever was."

"I know, and I haven't decided yet. Maybe I'll come work at the firm," She says, checking her phone and scrolling through her internet browser. "I know you're going to need the help until you find a replacement with my dad having to step down."

"Has he scheduled his treatments yet?"

"They start next month." She says, placing her phone back on the counter. "I want to go with him, because I doubt he'll be in any condition to drive."

"You have my full support, whatever you choose to do."

She pauses and smirks.

"Of course I could just go on a shopping spree afterwards. I haven't done that in a while."

"Well, anything beats sitting idle. So yeah, take a day for you." I say with a smile. "I've had a replacement for your dad in mind for a while, I just haven't found the right time to approach the subject with Wayne."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me deal with this clotting condition and his cancer my way."

"You don't need to ask permission." I say, taking another swig of my coffee. "Your mental stability is vital as we continue to find out more about how your abilities are affected."

"Dr. Cabell said staying active and taking my meds are the only ways to maintain and hold off stinting," Nikki begins to explain. "Even though the first clot formed in my elbow, this is genetic. So there's a chance Drake or Hunter could have it too. My dad may even have it. That part scares me."

"All the more reason I want to look out for him while he undergoes chemo," I sit my coffee down and look Nikki in the eyes. "And not just because of his help with the firm."

"I know you're thankful that he was so welcoming to you when we first got together," She replies as she wipes down our marble counters. "But he was able to see the good in you when I kept myself guarded. That reminds me, I need to set up his room."

Marriage is harder than any fight, and I've got the battle scars to prove it. A fight in competition usually ends when the bell rings. At least after that fight, you don't have to share a bed with your opponent. Some of the behemoths I've jousted with don't frighten me as much as my five foot ball of estrogen when I'm on her sh*tlist. Our marriage had already gone through strenuous trials due to Nikki's illness forcing her to retire after she lost the National Title. I found myself coming home, only to leave again a day or so later to fulfill a company commitment. In truth, that isn't much time for us to sit down and discuss anything important.

Nikki had a difficult time dealing with my being gone on a singular pursuit of regaining the World Title. And I while I could relate to being passionate about something that got taken away too soon, empathy has never been my strongest quality. The impasse was so deep that she left with the kids and moved in with her father. I'd like think it was for the space we both needed to reflect. It was the lowest point in my life, however, akin to my heart being ripped from my chest because I caused it. I couldn't tell you what happened in that time away, but it was an arduous six months to put it mildly. Did it contribute to amount of concussions I suffered that eventually landed me here on the injured list? Definitely, because my mind was elsewhere.

"Can I ask you something?" Nikki asks.

"Shoot," I reply.

"Why did you travel so much last year?" Her tone turns serious. "I guess I'll never understand the need since it's like a month between shows."

"I'm reliable," I respond while picking up a financial report. "I'm the only top star that can hold a press conference by myself and keep the police from getting involved. Where they switched to a new show schedule, the media commitments doubled to offset the lack of dates."

"I guess it's a good thing that you can rest more now that you're going to be home for a while," Nikki retorts. "You're worn down."

"We're losing at least a third of our income though while I'm out," I say, sitting the report down on the bar. "Even if we were able to land every major prospect, we're still taking a pay cut."

"Why not look at merging with Wayne?" She inquires, taking my coffee mug as I finish it. "After all those trips to Phoenix, you can't tell me the idea never came up."

"It did, but we didn't think the time was right."

"I don't see how it could be any better," She says while stepping closer. "Plus, you've seemed a little... off recently. These migraines are starting to concern me."

"I suppose I don't handle stress as well as I'd like to lead on."

"Baby, I don't think it's stress related at all," She leans over the counter top and looks at me before asking, "You mean you really don't remember?"

Remember what? Is there a test I didn't know about?

"No...should I?"

"When you came back from the Exodus show, there was a fog surrounding you," Nikki begins. She clears a lump in her throat. "You'd get this far away look in your eyes, and it's like you didn't recognize me."

"I couldn't forget you if I tried."

"You called me Penny."

"Wait...what?"

"That part isn't as important as finding out after the fact that you spent the night in the hospital with a concussion." Nikki says, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. "I had to find out from Penny. And it's only gotten worse."

"I didn't want you to worry and try to talk me into stopping."

"I'm your wife, it's my responsibility to worry about you because no one else will!" Nikki shouts, the tears starting to fall to her cheeks. I go to wipe them away and she falls into my arms. "Look, I don't care that WFWF didn't pay my royalty check." She sniffs. "The money isn't going to matter when we're shelling it out to pay for 'round the clock care because you're brain dead and disabled."

"I'll be damned if I let that happen."

"Do you think they're gonna care if they have to throw constant obstacles in your way as long as Trace Demon is in charge, and Lila Sleater is doing his bidding?" She asks in between sobs. "What exactly are you planning to do, keep chasing Drakz?"

I wish there were other options. I've reached a point in my wrestling career where only a handful of matches make sense, and he just happens to be one of them. Our first title match feels hollow despite successfully doing what hadn't been done in five years, or ever depending on who you ask.

In the process of developing into the negotiating shark that I am, I finally started to recognize that I held a level of power to reject anything that wasn't to my benefit. It's the same degree of clout I've used to proctor high value contracts and other wish list items for my clientele, although I've rarely ever cashed it in for myself. Hmm, maybe it's time to call in that ace card.

"I never said anything about doing this their way." I say, holding her close. "Please understand that I have to finish this. If I quit now, he wins."

"You're not even a week out of the sling for your shoulder, and Dr. Salmons is talking about doing another fuse on your neck," She says, turning away from me while grabbing the dish towel once again. "That's on top of the concussions."

"All I know is I can't let him get away," I say as Nikki turns her back completely to me. "Why should he when he took something from me... from us?"

"Do you even hear yourself? You're contemplating a suicide mission," She says, drying her eyes on the dish towel before she discards it on the counter. "Don't you see he's living in your head rent free?"

"He's doing everything he can to avoid facing me because I was able to beat him."

"In one match," Nikki retorts with a sneer that cuts me to the core. "Yes it was for the title. But who walked away in Vegas?"

"That's not as important as being the one standing in the end."

"You're not close to the condition you need to be in!" She shouts, trying to hold back another round of tears. "He doesn't have same responsibilities you do, and yet you're making hasty decisions when I'm the one that has to pick up the pieces!"

In one of the few times I've ever seen Nikki lose her composure, she picks up a plate from the sink and slams it on the counter, and I can feel my psyche breaking along with it. I slump over as she turns to me, her eyes bloodshot from the tears and asks, "Now is that fair?"

"I don't even know what's fair and what's not anymore."

"How long can you expect to wait him out?"

"He can't duck me forever."

"And for that, you're willing to just put your life on hold?"

*****

You got your shot. Now what are you going to do with it?

*****

Part Two: Guilt

Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
Present Day

"Do you think I'm being selfish?"

"Well I guess the better question is, do you think it's ok to be selfish?"

That's a loaded question, eh doc?

"I don't know how to really answer that."

"Probably because you can't see a way to answer it without blowing your cover."

"Cover?" I ask, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. "You might want rephrase that."

"Ok, then let me put it in a little more...blunt terms for you," Dr. Remke replies, flicking his cigarette in the ash tray. He takes a moment to straighten up before asserting, "F*ck being professional for once."

"Ok, whoa!" I shot out, taken aback by his brazen declaration. "I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've ever heard you curse."

"So?"

"I like it."

"Good, because didn't you just say you hired me to pull out the best in everyone under this banner?" He retorts forcefully. "The truth is, Josh, you've become so consumed by retention rate that you've gone away from what made you and this firm different."

I pause for a second before stating, "My name and what came with it got them in the door and made all this possible."

"See, that's where you're wrong," He replies as he takes a drag from his cigarette, "These guys and girls signed with you because of authenticity. You haven't shown that in a long time."

"Bullsh*t!"

"Bullsh*t," He says, pointing a finger at me. It's almost as if he's piercing my soul. "Now I'm not going to accuse you of glad-handing and insult your integrity. But you've slowly went all corporate and it got you hurt."

Talk about a jagged pill to swallow. I'd be lying if I said that I was ready for him to essentially unload on me, and I don't think he's close to finished either. But there's a lot of weight to his words, as it's things I've often thought but haven't truly expressed. Everyday for the past three and half years I'd look in the mirror as I'd wash my face, and I'd struggle to see the real me because of what I allowed myself to become. That part nauseates me. The fire which took a boy from College Park all around the world dissipated, and what was left was a man on the wrong side of thirty teetering on the brink of conceding defeat.

Dr. Remke sees it, the turmoil plaguing me. And I think that's why he dressed me down. In his own way, it's to stress the severity of this situation while attempting to remind me that my actions since returning were no accident. They were merely to inspire more of the explosive displays of violence that brought me to the dance, something I know I'll need in droves come bell time.

"Until you start being honest with yourself and me, we're just wasting time, Josh."

"I think that's why I've approached this the way I have."

"Because you can't afford to repeat history."

I slow my breath down. I know he's wanting to get my adrenaline pumping so that I can say something that he can use to continue his point.

"See before, it was about trying to do things the right way," I begin, clearing my throat and taking a drag off my cigarette. "I've done plenty of shady sh*t in my life. I felt at the time that I owed something to the business."

"Care to detail that a little more?"

"Most people are conditioned to believe that wrestling moves on when you shine up the next crop of stars," I say, sitting my cigarette down on the edge of Dr. Remke's ashtray. "Guys who have some skin in the game emphasize it. I think it's because they're living a dream that doesn't happen otherwise. Hell, even I find myself subscribing to it at times."

"Is that why you wanted him a hundred percent last time?"

"It is."

"Almost as if it were a measure of penance for how you may have acted early in your career?"

"I never saw a problem with treating the World Heavyweight Championship with the reverence it deserves, even though I don't respect my opponent," I shot out. "But since you want to look at it that way, yeah...it was," I rub my face. "I've been called the single most gifted athlete who ever stepped in between the ropes. I've had that distinction since I was fifteen years old. It's a lot for a kid who didn't even have a driver's license to process."

"I can understand the pressure that placed on you, but that doesn't tell me why the need to ensure his health..."

"Because there's honor in beating someone at their best! It's pure... undeniable," I interrupt, running my fingers through my hair, tugging the ends in frustration. "I didn't want him to have an excuse, still don't. But I don't want any excuses either," I rest my forearms on my knees before continuing, "As many times as I've recieved that praise, there's just as many instances of me pissing it away."

I sigh and tilt my head down. Dr. Remke takes a drag from his cigarette. I know he's studying my posture.

"You've always been very in tune with your public image," Dr. Remke says, flicking an ash from his cigarette. "That's why I want more than just a basic answer."

"Maybe I didn't want to see what people were warning me about."

"That there's no honor amongst thieves?"

"No," I state before picking my cigarette back up. "The fact people change after facing him. I know I have."

"How?"

"Because I finally saw being virtuous was taking years off my life."

"Is being noble really so bad?" Dr. Remke asks.

"Honestly?"

"Yeah, honestly."

"I've never felt so powerless in my career," I say, and I can feel myself getting choked up. I snipe the cigarette in the ashtray "I'm supposed to protect him... and I couldn't."

The sling is off now, and Drake's finally regaining some mobility in his shoulder. I know he's downstairs working through his rehab, or at least he should be. An incident like Halloween would be enough to rock even the most unshakable man to his core. I know because it shook me despite seeing everything imaginable in the last twenty years. But that's what desperate men do. Shock value creates a response, and that's always been Isaac's biggest strength. You never know how you're going to react to a situation until it happens. I'm more angry with myself that I didn't have better preventative measures. But then again, I foolishly believed he wouldn't go there.

"You weren't even on the same continent."

"That's not going to make this guilt go away," I say before taking a drink of water. "And a guy like him will never know that feeling of helplessness until he's put in that position," I sigh. "I should've taught Drake how to defend himself better."

"He's a teenager," Dr. Remke says. "You know they don't always listen. You probably didn't either at that age."

"At that age, I was wrestling grown ass men in armories and getting touted as the next breakout star."

"Ok, bad example."

"Look, I didn't have anyone guiding me, so it's hard to say if I would've heeded veteran advice." I state as Dr. Remke takes a drag from his cigarette. "Maybe I wouldn't have been saddled with a name I wasn't ready for."

"Isn't marketing a key part of what you do though?"

"Well as cool as it is, having a nickname as grandiose as 'The Franchise' isn't always what it's cracked up to be."

"What's wrong with it? He asks.

"I was taught that everyone should eat well when business is good," I say before taking a drink from my water. "But it's instances like Halloween that point out how narcissistic our industry can be." I shift to the edge of my chair. "The older I get, the more I realize how unrealistic it is to expect equal opportunity."

"Is that why you despise the name so much?"

That name, one that I've become synonymous with, has been the subject of plenty of ammunition from fellow competitors and a legion of vocal detractors. But it's also a prime example of the business's self serving nature. It's akin to walking a tight rope when it's what people know you as. A miscalculation here, a critical loss there, and I'm labeled as overhyped. Truth is, I was fast tracked early on and the price I've had to pay for such a name is the astronomical expectations of excellence. While I have proven myself as one who can deliver the goods, I am human. He, through the good fortune of the same kind of run, is really the only person who can understand that pressure I've been navigating.

Maybe that's why we have to fight. There's no one left.

"A guy like Isaac is the reason I hate that name," I begin as my tone becomes more deliberate. "Sure, I have positively affected every company I've ever worked for. And I believe I'm worth every f*cking cent of that contract. But I won't be around forever. Then what's next?"

"There has to be some..."

"Everyone worth a sh*t is gone because he and his entourage drove them all away," I say. "You don't have to ruin people's lives to prove your worth..."

"And you don't like being associated with that," Dr. Remke continues my thought as he takes a drag from his cigarette. "Yet you are because you are compensated very well."

"It's not to say that I've always been above it," I reply. "Ten years ago, I would've crippled the sonofab*tch and went to bed with a smile on my face. I massage my temples to stop the headache I feel coming on. "It wasn't until I didn't have wrestling that I understood there was more to life than wrestling."

Dr. Remke rubs his chin, the stick the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He begins to write in his notepad before asking, "So what do you really want to gain from this?"

"I want to continue being a standard bearer, Tim," I say as I stand up from the chair. "But I want to build something and not just have it built around me." I grab my water bottle from the end table. "And what that comes down to is respect."

"From what I can gather, you're pretty much universally respected." He states while sniping his cigarette.

"It's not just respect," I retort. "I want HIS respect."

Dr. Remke stands up from his chair before echoing what I've been telling myself for five years, "Well, go and take it."

*****

Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
October 15, 2019

"Sloppy. Just f*cking sloppy."

"He's working through the progressions, Josh," Wayne asserts as we intently watch the in ring session. "But he's making the right reads."

"That leapfrog, drop down, hip toss is slow," I say, taking a drink from my water bottle. "That's a good way to rip a rotator cuff."

"Maybe, but all those things can be smoothed out and refined."

"You ducked your head too quick!" I shout out at the sound of a stiff kick to the face before turning to Wayne. "He's just not ready to go live."

"There's only one way to determine that, and that's by getting in there," Wayne retorts, packing his cigarettes. He takes one out and lights it before advising, "Maybe you should cut him some slack."

"Honestly... I didn't want him to even pursue this."

"Well, isn't that the beauty of it being his decision."

"He's different," I state before motioning for a cigarette. "He's been coddled, protected. He's doing it for all the wrong reasons."

"And you did?"

"What else would I do with no formal skills outside of beating people up?"

Wayne is drawn back to the action and exclaims, "That's what I want to see! Now keep the pressure on!"

"I'll admit, there's some talent," I say, taking a drag from my cigarette. "And he is a quick study."

"I feel a comparison coming."

"You can't tell me the comparisons ever let up."

"Remember, not everyone starts out as a phenom," Wayne advises.

"People will expect nothing less with his pedigree," I retort. "You add our stamp of approval, ... and I just don't want to set him up for failure."

"I doubt we cast that big of a shadow."

"Really?" I inquire. "Wanna ask Scarlett."

Wayne pauses, contemplating his next words. Finally, he stands up. "Ok fellas, take five!"

I watch as the two young men exit the ring. I was them once. Eager to learn and to please. I'll never discourage a prospect from shooting their shot in this line of work. However, I've become more pessimistic about what's advertised versus reality and I'll admit that. You must take ownership of your entire career, including things that aren't so flattering. That's difficult enough without any additional baggage. I guess that's why I want to hold off on throwing him in there so quickly. Even though my status for returning to the ring is in limbo, I've made enough enemies in this business who would love a fresh piece of meat that came from my training camp.

Wayne looks over at one of the young men tying his sweaty hair back. He smiles before observing, "Looking pretty blown up, Drake."

"I'm fine, Uncle Wayne."

"Did you run your two miles?" I ask. "That's part of your conditioning program."

"Uh."

I'll take that as a no.

"Then what the hell are we doing here?"

"I'm still trying to get used to the workouts, Dad," Drake says as his teenage defense mechanism starts to show. "This is different than everything else I've done."

"Just like Tae Kwon Do was different," I say, knowing that'll sting. "And dirt bikes. Don't forget about football."

"I get it, Dad," Drake shot out. "You can stop the lecture."

"I don't think I will."

"Careful, Josh." I hear Wayne say under his breath.

"You have unlimited access to our state of the art training facilities. Sh*t that I put millions of dollars into building," I assert. "You're basically getting the keys to take your career as far as you want to go. And you wanna tell me that two miles is too much to do?"

"I don't see you doing any, either," Drake snaps back. "All this talk about leading by example."

"That's right, you don't see me do it," I say as Drake smirks. "Probably because you're still in bed when I'm getting my work in."

That effectively wipes the smile off his face.

"You've got advantages over every other prospect in wrestling schools around the world." I continue, knowing that he's blocking me out. He always does when the conversation gets too uncomfortable for him. "And you refuse to use them."

"Uncle Wayne," Drake says as he turns to Wayne. He takes a drink from his Gatorade bottle and asks. "What did you think?"

"Kinda putting me on the spot, ain't ya?" Wayne asks with a chuckle.

"Well, you are Dad's mentor," Drake replies. "And it's pretty clear he's not gonna give me anything to go off. So, can you tell me something?"

"You are making progress," Wayne says as he takes a drag from his cigarette. "But I do think you need to train more consistently at match speed. This is a very controlled environment we have here compared to what you'll get on the road. He flicks the cigarette onto the concrete floor. As he snubs it out with his boot, he says, "Josh and I just want you to succeed."

"You can't control a lot of things," I say in an attempt to get his attention. "But you can control staying in shape."

"Ok, Dad. I get it."

"Look, the opportunities you're getting weren't around when Wayne and I first broke into the wrestling business." I say with my tone starting to lower. "Which is why you can ill afford to f*ck it up."

Wayne shoots me a glare and whispers, "What are you doing?"

"It's ok, I got this." I whisper back, before raising my voice back to my previous tone. "I could stand here and tell you that everything about wrestling is just as it looks on TV, packed crowds, bright lights, and big paychecks. And that may be partially true. But genuine people like myself and Wayne are rare.

"I've heard you say all of this before, Dad," Drake interrupts.

"And you need a cold dose of reality," I respond. "The majority of people you'll meet would rather slit your throat if it helps build their legacies. And that's the mentality that you need to have to survive!"

You could hear a pin drop with the silence that fell over the room. Many of these kids that come in our doors are skeptical when I tell them the truth about our business. I can see it by the scoffs on their faces, much like the look on Drake's face. I know what he's thinking, sour grapes from a broken down has been. Helicopter parenting extraordinaire.

But that wasn't the point, rather a plea for him to understand what it is he signed up for. This business isn't fair and I've seen many worthy combatants fall victim to the shark infested waters, myself included. I used to be ashamed to tell my story because there's probably more cases of bad judgement than good. I attribute my own survival to stubbornness and a timely blessing or two. I tell my story now in the hopes that it'll resonate with someone else just so they can rely on more than just luck.

"Why don't you go get some lunch and come back later today, Drake," Wayne says as he pats Drake on the back. "Tonight, we ramp you up."

Drake smiles and nods as he throws a towel over his shoulder. Wayne's face shifts to his normal gaze. He motions me with his head as he turns on his heel and walks towards his office.

I know he's not happy with what I said, and I could care less. Ultimately it's my investment of resources into Drake, so I will tell him what I believe he needs to hear. There is a valuable need for soft skills, but Wayne has been known to sugarcoat a little more than I'm personally comfortable with. I suppose we're going to need to figure out how to balance our management styles to make this partnership work, because we still haven't ironed out the details fully after a year together.

I walk into his office and he closes the door before asking, "Would you like to tell me what the hell that was about?"

"Just having a candid conversation with my son to hold him accountable," I say, before leaning against Wayne's filing cabinet. "Don't even pretend like I said anything out of line."

"Slit your throat," He says while retrieving a cigarette from his pack. I take one as well upon his offer. "That's a little on the extreme side."

"Did you forget where we've spent the bulk of our careers?"

"I didn't..." He says, lighting his cigarette and pointing towards me. "Biggest difference between us is I don't let one part of my career define me."

"That's quite the assumption without much merit."

"Really?" He asks. Then why exactly are you doing this again?"

"You talking about out there?"

"No," He says with an exhale. "You've had this love-hate relationship with the wrestling business for about as long as I've known you." He sits down at his desk and lights a cigarette. "I just don't see the point in putting yourself through it anymore if you hate it as much as you claim."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Yeah?" Wayne says, flicking the ashes out in the ashtray. "Try me."

He's calling my bluff. Of course he's calling my bluff. He always has. But isn't that what a good mentor is supposed to do? I've always believed it because anyone who has ever attempted to assume that role in my life has.

It's been nearly two and a half years since that fateful tournament match, and I've found myself growing more and more anxious at the thought of competing. I've visited doctors from all corners of the globe and all they all tell me that my medicals have shown the right kind of improvement. I'm kind of in a state of purgatory because I haven't been cleared despite the encouraging appointments. Maybe it is the second neck surgery I had done last year. Same song and dance, so there's no point in getting my hopes up.

What's weird is that I don't miss wrestling, despite being as involved with it probably more so than when I was competing. I've enjoyed working with the kids, and being able to spend more time at home has been something I've sorely lacked. There is, however, a certain magnetism about being able to control the narrative inside the ring.

Wayne hands me a cigarette. I light it up before saying. "I love wrestling, and I probably always will."

"You mean the business itself?"

"No, I mean the actual art," I say, carefully trying to collect my thoughts. "It was probably the first thing I fell in love with. The competition is when it's pure. This sh*t, what I was talking about with Drake, ain't pure."

"Then why can't you just find that purity again?"

"Easier said than done when all I can think about is him."

Wayne takes a draw from his cigarette. He knows damn well who I'm talking about.

"Has anyone ever questioned what you've accomplished in your career?"

"I'm sure I've had my detractors."

"Not from my vantage point." I say before taking a slow draw from my cigarette. I let out a deep exhale. "So wouldn't it be easy to sit where you are and admonish me about this when you're revered by our peers?"

"You are too."

"Am I?" I ask as I start to pace. "Sure, I hear the praises about my athletic ability. I hear the praises about my marketing prowess. But I hear just as much about what happens in high stakes matches as I do about anything else."

"So your World Title means nothing?"

"It loses its value when the media continues to write article after article putting a f*cking asterisk beside it," I say before putting cigarette out in the ashtray. "Even to this day, I have to hear about how Samael Ahriman gifted me the title."

"So what," Wayne asks rhetorically. "You didn't ask for him to be there. You don't even like the guy."

"You wouldn't understand because that never happened to you."

Wayne takes a draw from his cigarette and puts it out in the ashtray. He runs his chin and stares at me, waiting to see what I may say next.

I lean against the filing cabinet and ask, "Do you think I really beat him last time?"

Wayne leans back in his chair, folding his hands together before replying, "You got the pin."

"Yeah, I won," I kick the filing cabinet and raise up before exclaiming, "BUT I DIDN'T BEAT HIM!"

Wayne leans back and rubs his temples. I know that he's at his wits end with me today. Every wrestler knows the difference in a clean match and the clusterf*ck my match with Isaac turned into. How can I expect the masses to appreciate it when I can't? I know Wayne is trying to make me see it was out of my control. But I pride myself on being able to fight my own battles, and the optics still don't look right because of the months that followed.

"Ok, I need you to walk me through how that's even possible," Wayne calmly replies while scratching the back of his head. "Because I watched the match, and it was pretty clear to me who was better."

"I don't remember anything about the match," I say, my voice starting to crack. "The last memory I have from that day was putting my hoodie on in my locker room. That's it!" I huff. "I'm completely blank from then until I woke up in the hospital."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with what happened afterwards, would it?"

"Yeah, I carry that with me because of how easy it was for them to pull off that stunt," I say as I finally start to compose myself. "I would've been able to fight back if I had even a tenth of my wherewithal."

"And what good are you doing dwelling on it?" Wayne asks as he lights another cigarette. We really gotta stop chain smoking. He exhales deeply and I know he's about to hit me right between the eyes with truth. "Do you know what's always held you back?"

"Injuries... self inflicted misfortune."

"Real confidence."

So that wasn't what I was expecting to hear.

"I look at you and I see two people: the kid you were, and the man that you are," He begins as he exhales a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. "And for all your gifts, you still question where you stand in this business," He deliberately flicks the ash into the ashtray. "Why? Do you think you don't deserve the praise or anything you've earned?"

"I guess," I reply as I walk around and slump in a chair. I sigh. "Hell, I'm not even sure how I should feel."

"Then let me give you some clarity."

"You can save the pump up speech."

"Well if it gets you motivated to make a choice with your career, then so be it. But this isn't what it is," Wayne begins, taking a long exhale from his cigarette. I lean back in the chair, curious to hear how he could possibly put a positive spin on my turbulent career. "There was a reason I wanted to lock you down long term all those years ago."

"To guide me?"

"No, to protect you from this happening," Wayne turns around and reaches into the old bookcase behind his desk and retrieves a bottle of bourbon, Wild Turkey to be exact. "Have a drink with me."

"It's ten thirty in the morning," I say while sitting up.

"And you need a drink." Wayne says as he takes a couple glasses from the book shelf. He pours a glass and slides it across the desk to me. "So take the f*cking drink."

I nod before taking a drag from my cigarette. "When I stop and think about it, I've done fairly well for myself all things considered."

"You have," Wayne confirms. "I just hate that we missed the opportunity for you do so much more."

He takes a sip of his whiskey, and that warm sensation of boubon brings a smile to his face. Wayne then rolls his neck and his stoic gaze returns before saying, "The b*stards in the office took it out of my hands."

"I've always thought it was me and my attitude."

"Far from it," Wayne says. "You know how you have to send proposals in for approval before you ever go to the table?"

"Yeah?" I say as my interest peaks.

"I sent it in," He says, taking another sip from his bourbon. "Six years, three million per year with twenty five percent pay per view cuts."

"Not bad."

"Now what I'm about to tell you, use it how you see fit," Wayne advises. "I nearly lost my job over that proposal. And they damn sure made booking talent for me a lot more difficult."

"They extorted you?"

"Yeah," He says, and I can see a tear falling down his cheek. "I believe it was something along the lines of... it's either him, or you and Vanessa."

"I understand," I say as a take sip from my glass. I'm trying mask my shock, but Wayne sees it.

"You're a survivor, Josh," Wayne says while polishing off his drink, and I can sense a big weight being lifted off his shoulders. "I knew you'd be ok." He lights a cigarette. "Now that you have a family of your own, I think you realize the decision I had to make back then."

"Either lowball the stupid kid, or be replaced."

"Yeah," He says while pouring another drink. "The rest is speculation, but it wasn't a year later that he came back, won Scars and Stripes, then disappeared again."

"Kinda convenient timing," I reply.

At least I know that Wayne saw my value, even if I questioned it. It does explain why he had to play such a hard line with me when we negotiated back in '07. I make similar decisions that dictate a person's life now because I do have a family to feed. It's the underhanded nature of it all that's rubbed me wrong. Wayne has given me a great gift, one of a clear conscious. I want to end my career on my terms. That's all that matters to me at this juncture, the one iron I have left in the fire.

"There's a whole maze of collusion in that joint," Wayne asserts. "And if you're going to go back, you need to put an end to it for good."

*****

I feel like I've been here before.

Yup, nearly down to the feeling I got walking into the arena for our first title tilt. It's the last thing I remember and I know you've tried like hell to forget. But the one thing I'll always remember from that night was a certain look in your eyes. It's the same expression I've seen every time you look at me. It's almost as if you're having a moment of realization, a voice gently informing you that you're dealing with someone different than the rest of the schmucks around here. Someone you honestly aren't prepared for, especially in your complacent state of mind. And that voice keeps getting louder until you scream out for it to stop. See I was exactly what you needed to reinvigorate that mentality to get back on top and stay on top at any cost then, just like I am now. The proof is in your actions. Everyone's talking about how this is the most single minded you've been in forever. And that makes you uncomfortable, especially since you want to consider Michael your magnum opus. I say f*ck beating him, I don't think you could've lasted this long had you not encountered me when you did. What isn't as well known, however, is that you were what I needed to embrace a part of me I left in the past. The part of myself that only cared about what was good for me, no matter who it hurt. I'm glad you got to meet that side, Isaac, because he's been salivating for the chance to meet you.

So can we call my actions since returning selfish?

Absolutely.

And that's bad news for you, because I whipped your ass when I actually cared about my public image.

What do you think I'm gonna do to you at Wembley, now that I have one foot out the door and intend on leaving the company with that belt unless I'm convinced otherwise?

I warned you a long time ago about that ego. I told you then it was gonna write a check your ass couldn't cash. Now you gotta pay up and the bank account's overdrawn.

Sad way to go out. But hey, that's not my problem.

Let me digress for a second. See if I had to describe our one major difference, it'd be that I actually made a life and legacy for myself I can take pride in. That's the buzzword surrounding this match, legacy. I've been asked by several people in recent years if I've ever considered leaving the wrestling business for good? It's a valid question because I'm thirty five years old and have wrestled exactly one match in four years, which was five months ago. I've been doing this as my main source of income since I was fifteen and I work a more physically demanding style than you, so there's plenty of milage on my body for comparison's sake. I'd be remiss if I forgot to mention that after Vegas five years ago, I didn't have anything else to prove. I added the one championship that eluded me because of decisions I made earlier in my career, and I did it at your expense.

I have considered it nonetheless.

I attempted it a decade ago... and it didn't stick.

But Isaac, you really don't understand what retirement truly is.

Which is why it's incredibly foolish of you to put such a stipulation on yourself, such permanent implications. When Nikki came to the show that night, it was to talk some sense into you about getting in the ring with me again. Then on top of not letting her finish what she came to say, you tried to corner and intimidate her, praying she'd cower to the almighty 'God Slayer'. She's my wife yes, but Nikki doesn't actually have a dog in this fight. Me spiking you on your head was all my doing, no set up involved or required. She didn't want me to come back and finish up my contract because of what our first foray did to us both. The fact she considered you as well is a helluva lot of compassion for someone she despises. I understand my family's quality of life is her reason to covet my eventual retirement. But she hopes for a decent quality of life for you too, despite everything you've put us through. So it begs the question, do you have any clue what you're going to do after SuperBrawl, suddenly having so much time on your hands? It's an honest question, because that's what's coming to you. Don't answer that yet, because I have a theory. You're going to be numb, having to spend everyday eating your words. And what about that nauseous feeling in your stomach, you ask? You'll most likely dull it with your opioid of choice until the money you've made from me dries up. Painkillers... heroin, it's all the same to a known addict. Every day you're gonna wake up and stare at yourself in the rear view mirror, and it's just gonna be you.

No titles.

No career.

Nothing.

Really something to be proud of there, buddy.

Look at me playing your therapist.

Oh, was I not supposed to bring up your 'not-so-secret' secret?

F*ck you.

It's not like you haven't conjured up everyone else's dirty laundry for the sake of getting them so angry they lose focus. So what... now you're gonna talk about my marriage and my family hoping that'll do the trick? Rant on about me going through a funk when I first came out of retirement years ago? Yeah, that's redundant. Nah, you'll probably give us this pretentious sermon about how unstoppable you've been for years. Gotta make sure to include that. Maybe you'll complain to Ralph Malph that I'm not playing fair to gain sympathy points when I've never demanded anything I haven't earned. I wasn't the one who ducked this match for five years and changed the 'rules' to suit my needs, you were. Or maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe you'll keep it simple and use our beef to justify bragging about breaking my son's arm to show you still got it?!

Go on, soothsayer, I'll wait. Your list of references and cliches should be riveting.

Do me a favor, just stop, okay? High school ended twenty years ago and all the cool kids moved on.

And yes, I said that you'll be making money courtesy of me at SuperBrawl. I guess no one's had the heart to tell ya that this company's decreasing value is directly correlated with the your decreasing worth as a top draw. You couldn't even sell out a stadium in your native country until my name was on the bill, and that's on you. In case you forgot, in this line of work the World Heavyweight Champion is responsible for being an attraction that puts asses in the seats. But I'm sure you don't care about that and it makes sense, considering how badly you want this company to fold. Use and abuse 'em, then dump 'em. The ole Isaac Cray M.O.

Let's not dismiss who the real a**hole is in this situation. So take a bow.

That's just it though, Isaac... no one cares anymore. They want you to go away just as badly as you want to go. And I'm gonna give everyone what they want at Wembley.

But it kills you that I have at least four people who care about me. You always make it a point to mention them, and now you've gone and committed felony assault against one of them because Drake is still a minor. Why? Is it because I was able to have my cake and eat it too? Do you resent that I didn't sacrifice my identity or happiness to reach the apex of not one, but two professions? Or are you jealous by the simple fact I succeeded on my own originality and natural talent, while your career is still largely defined by being a less outlandish version of Michael Kyzer no matter what you do?!

You went to Michael all those years ago and begged him to make you a star. Fifteen years later, and he still eclipses you.

If the fruit's gonna be hanging that low, might as well pick it.

That's really why he lugged his broken down ass into the last SuperBrawl and proceeded to go through the motions. He knew he had nothing left in the tank. He was just happy to lie on his back and collect one last paycheck before f*cking off to his mansion in the 'burbs ahead of overdosing in a ditch. But he went out at the hands of the monster he created all those years ago, just the way you two planned it. Your back injury didn't create that monster the way you like to tell people, oh no. He created that monster the moment he put you over amongst other stars that took up management positions alongside you. Little did he know it was the inception of the biggest middle child complex the world will ever see.

Isaac Cray, the f*cking Jan Brady of The New Epoch.

MARSHA, MARSHA, MARSHA!

MICHAEL, MICHAEL, MICHAEL!

Sound familiar?

At this point, I don't know if you're whining because he overshadows you, or if he just gives you that much of an erection.

Now what's ironic is that you're gonna go out at the hands of the monster you've unleashed, on the biggest stage, in front of the nation you've denounced. And I won't show the same restraint you showed Michael.

That's a pretty lonely island to be on, Issac.

But at least after it's over, you can stop sleeping with one eye open.

****

Part Three: Fear

Championship Connections
Atlanta, Georgia
Present Day

"You just had to bring me here, didn't you?"

"You keep avoiding this and it's going to tear you up," Dr. Remke asserts as he pushes open the door to the in house gym. "The only way to beat him is by confronting this situation."

I haven't been in this part of the building since that fateful night. I've tried. But everytime I come close to the door, I have flashbacks of him. His smile, the sick pleasure he got from psychological warfare. I was able to get a measure of retribution against him at the press conference, but I'm still emotionally charged and I can't be. His bag of tricks runs deep. When avenue failed, he went another.

I've spent the day with Dr. Remke attempting to sort out the my own mental hurdles, what's real versus what I've manufactured throughout the years. Truly getting over them will take time, but I can see the finish line. The title that got stolen from me and closure from him, those immediate rewards, are in plain sight. This is the final obstacle and I can choose to tip toe around it or go through it.

I exhale and say, "Ok, let's do this.

As I step inside the gym, Dr. Remke notes the gym's prestine condition, "See?"

"Everything is in it's proper place," I gasp. "I thought this place would still be a wreck."

"We have a good staff here, Josh," He states. "And we take the same pride in this place as you do. Not to say he didn't break a few things on the way out to make a scene."

"How long did it take?"

"Not long. Those were all material things that can be replaced," He says before pointing to the back of the gym. "Right there is why he still has any power over you."

I see Drake taking his sling off and slowly move his arm in a circle. Five months post surgery and I know where he is in that stage. He's plateaued and I can sense his frustration, even from a couple hundred feet away.

"I don't know how he can forgive me for what happened."

"You'd be surprised how resilient kids are," Dr. Remke says. "Look at him though, take a good look. What do you see?"

"I see my son rehabbing an injury that could've been prevented." I say as I watch him sit down at the shoulder press machine.

"And I see a young man who is determined to reach his goals," He retorts. "If anyone has a reason to be traumatized by this, it's him. And here he is, putting in the work to rebuild himself."

Dr. Remke takes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and places it behind his ear, "You're not going to know if he forgives you by avoiding him."

"Is it ok to be scared?"

"It is," He says as he fishes the lighter from his shirt pocket. "But only of the unknown." He places the cigarette in his mouth and lights it. "At worst, he may be angry with you and that's normal."

"That's the last thing I want."

"You can't expect him not to be angry," Dr. Remke says as he takes a puff from his cigarette. "That'd be like me telling you not to be mad about the concussions."

"I know," I sigh before asking. "Will you at least go over with me? "

"I've taken you as far as I can to make it here," Dr. Remke says. "This part you gotta do solo."

"I know," I say as I shake his hand. "Thanks, Tim."

"Just be his dad," Dr. Remke advises. "That's what he really needs."

Dr. Remke pats me on the back as he exits the gym. I take a long slow breath as I start to walk through the gym to the ring. Drake has gotten in and begun to run the ropes. It's hard to believe the same scrawny, meek kid with a penchant for the dramatic is now six foot, one hundred ninety pounds. He really is developing into a young man.

As I step into the ring, I notice him wince as he hits the ropes. Those calloused places along his torso and back have gone soft and will take weeks to return. But he continues to run in spite of the discomfort, and a sense of pride resonates in my soul. He's doing it. I've always said that Drake had the intelligence to accomplish anything he wanted. The discipline to follow through was always my concern.

"Come in angled on your right side," I finally say, only giving Drake what details he needs. "It'll keep that bad shoulder from making contact and allow you to get a hand up in case someone follows you in."

"Ok," Drake says as he adjusts his form, then asks. "Like this?"

"Much better," I affirm. "You know, I fought a lefty in my first ever title match. They do everything ass backwards."

"Did you win?"

"Does it matter?"

"Kinda," Drake says as he hits the ropes. "The only fair fight is one I'm winning. So I'll take the advantage."

"I did win," I say, and Drake slows to a stop. "But to be fair, the guy wasn't very good."

"Oh," Drake says, his head dropping slightly.

"But hey, that was also a whole lifetime ago," I say as I motion for him to start again. "You're getting much better training than he got," I grab a Gatorade bottle from his bag that he has on the apron. I take a drink before asking, "How you feeling?"

"I'm sore."

"Make sure you see Chloe in massage before you go home," I say as I lean in the corner. "She'll get that tension out of your shoulder."

"I will," He blankly states as he runs ahead.

"Take a second to get a drink," I say as I push myself out of the corner. "I need to ask you something."

Drake slows up and walks over to his bag to grab his other Gatorade bottle. He carefully sits down on the mat. As I join him he says, "If you're wondering whether we're good, we are."

"Good thing that isn't what I'm asking."

"Ok," He says with a hint of confusion. "What is it then?"

"I've gotten so consumed with trying to keep you away from the business," I begin, putting my arm around his shoulder. "I've never actually stopped to ask you why you want to do this."

"Well, it isn't to be you," Drake chuckles.

Smartass.

"Gee, thanks," I scoff sarcastically.

"I couldn't be you if I tried," Drake continues. "There are things you can do physically that I can't... that nobody can." He unscrews the cap on his Gatorade bottle. "The best I can do is just be me, and I won't get that working in the office."

"Even though I'm going to leave it to you boys?"

Drake pauses, then smirks. "I just know I wouldn't be happy. I guess what I really want is for us to have something to share."

"Really?"

"Yeah," He confirms. "You ain't gonna believe this, but the only thing Dustin Gillespie and I have in common, besides DNA and a last name, is childish things like partying and trying to get laid."

"Ok, too much information."

"Well Dad, I am sixteen," Drake says before taking a drink of his Gatorade. "It was bound to happen."

"I know," I laugh. "Sometimes I still picture that eight year old boy."

"You and Mom both do," He retorts. "You're always worried about the friends I make, or decisions about my life," He ties his hair back. "Honestly, yeah being carefree is fun and all... until he has one too many, and I end up with a bloody nose for telling him as much."

"I'm glad she kept me away from him."

"I know it's your responsibility to worry, and I appreciate it," Drake says as he finally turns toward me. "But if I wanted to have the sh*t kicked out me for free, I'd be in Macon with him."

"Well, get used to feeling like that on a daily basis."

"At least I'll be making money doing it."

I take a drink from my Gatorade before saying, "I want you to understand that it's going to be a while before you make any serious money."

"Yeah, Uncle Wayne already told me."

"A lot of people look at wrestling as a get rich quick scheme, and that just isn't the case," I continue. "So the question you've got to ask yourself is... are you ready to be miserable?"

"Miserable?"

"Yeah, because that's what those first few years are," I say as I close up the Gatorade bottle and sitting beside me before asking, "Do you think you can handle the grind of travelling constantly, sleepless nights, hospital visits, and people trying to undercut you at a moment's notice? You've seen it happen to me throughout all of this."

"I can't promise you anything," Drake says with a smile. "Us teenagers always want to find things out for ourselves."

"Seriously, Drake. I need to know that you won't get discouraged when times get tough," I continue. "Because this business is selfish, and everyone looks out for their own benefit. While we can be an advocate, Wayne and I can't hold your hand and make you better by proxy." I point my finger directly into his chest. "You've got to be willing to put in the work and make smart decisions with your career."

"I know you're right," He says as he closes up his Gatorade bottle. He stands up and reaches down to offer me a hand up. I stand up and he asks, "Do you still get nervous before a match?"

"Every time," I reply. "It's time to get out when you don't."

"Good to know."

I wrap my hand around the back of his head and pull his head to my shoulder. Drake hugs me in return. A son needs his father's love, and all I've ever wanted was to give him the father that he deserved, the one I never had growing up. It takes more than the lucky sperm to be a parent, and it would take too long to name all the attributes required.

As he continues his ascent into adulthood, I realize that my role in his life is going to look similar to today. He's strong willed and defiant, qualities he'll need to protect his own best interests in this industry. There's many parallels to life in wrestling: we're born, we grow, we evolve, we move on. While he may not be me, my influence is more present than I believed. I guess I'm doing something right after all.

As I release him, I turn on my heel and pick up the Gatorade bottle. As I walk to the ropes and climb out of the ring, a familiar phrase stops me.

"Hey Dad."

"Yo?" I glance over while climbing onto the apron.

"I forgot to ask you why you fight?" Drake asks. "I know why I want to fight. But why do you when you don't have to?"

I rub my beard for a moment to ponder the question. So many reasons, but only one seems appropriate.

"I fight to give you a world worth inheriting."

*****

Dean Residence
Atlanta, Georgia

"Josh," I hear Nikki's angelic voice call out from our bed. "Max is asleep."

"Yeah," I reply. "He just went."

"Put him back in his crib and come to bed."

"Just a sec," I say. "I wanna make sure he stays down this time."

"Did you feed him?"

"Eight ounces."

"Diaper?"

"Yeah," I say with a thumbs up.

She turns over and looks at the clock before saying, "You know you have a flight in the morning."

"I know," I say, carefully rising from the rocking chair. "I just wanted to hold him for a little bit longer."

It came as a surprise to everyone close to us that Nikki and I were expecting a new bundle of joy. Truth is, it surprised us too. We were done having children, we thought, after Hunter, especially when her health took a turn for the worst. But a closely monitored pregnancy and a scheduled cesarean later, and he came to us in September 2019. He's perfect. Just perfect.

Why does this business have to go and f*ck up my chance to properly experience being a new father?

It's understood that when the phone rings, you answer. Nikki may not be on the road with me anymore, but she knows and has attempted to remain supportive. But as my flight back to hostile territory looms, she's been apprehensive. Isaac is dangerous, and Nikki saw first-hand the lengths he'll go to remain champion. She's given me space I need to focus, something that I know has been a gargantuan task. And she's done it willingly because she knows how important it is to me.

Throughout all of this, I've felt pity for Isaac in that regard. The moments of serenity and joy he'll never experience, or a love that lasts beyond time it takes for him to get off that he denies. I pity that his life is the best it's going to be. But he chose to chase the dragon, living his life one vial at a time. Once upon a time, I did too. So I can't judge him for the path he's traversed, even if I decided years ago it wasn't for me. It's too bad that he'll forever be known as the one trick pony who got beat at his own game by a more well rounded man.

So why again do I want to fight him so badly, when I have all this to come home to?

"Ok little buddy," I whisper as I lay Max down in his crib. "Daddy will see you soon."

"I know it's hard to let him go," Nikki says as she rolls over to face me. "It's no picnic on us, either"

"Sometimes when I can't sleep, I'll sit up and just watch him," I say as I walk over to our bed. I sit down on the edge and turn to face her. "Tonight is one of those nights."

"We might as well make the time you have left productive," She replies while maneuvering around in bed. The next thing I know, her purple neglige flies toward my face. "Consider this incentive."

It's hard to argue with that. If we end up expecting another, you can point to tonight as that night.

I slide my feet into bed and she can not wait to kiss me. Her lips are so soft and moist, and she melts into me as we lower to the bed.

My hands caress the contours of her skin, slowly making their way across her celestial curves. She straddles me while not releasing her kiss, almost as if she's holding on for dear life. I move around to kissing her neck, and Nikki shoots her head up in exstacy while my fingers graze her erect nipples. She is mine, and I am hers, our hips rhythmically start to shift as one as I find my way inside.

Making love to a woman is more than just the act of f*cking. There is a trust, a selflessness, a connection.

You can't replicate that by paying for it.

Nikki digs her nails into my chest, and it stings differently than usual. Strange, but I won't stop her. This could be the last time I ever do this, if Isaac has his way. I am going to cherish it like it is. Her body starts to tremble and she digs harder.

"Josh," Nikki moans between gasps, completely hypnotized by the moment. "Please come back home to me!"

"I will." I say as I clench her hips.

Her pleasure turns to pain, as tears begin to well up in her eyes. Our rhythmic movement slows to a stop without a climax. In some unexplainable way, she is projecting what I'm feeling. As Nikki slides off, she snuggles beside me. I wipe the tears from her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Nikki sobs while motioning for her neglige. "I just wanted to give you a fitting go away present."

"It's ok," I reassure her. "Because I will make it home."

"But will you be the same?" She asks.

"I don't know the answer to that one," I say, which does very little to ease her mind. "And I can't promise you that I'll be exactly the same."

"Will you at least be some resemblance of the man I married?"

"Yeah," I say as I gently kiss her head. "Because that's who I am now."

"What about at Wembley?"

"Well," I begin as I sit up in the bed and retrieve my shorts. "For that night, I have to bring back the old me."

"Promise me you won't go too deep into that rabbit hole."

"This rivalry has pulled it back to the surface," I reply. "And I know it's the only way I'll survive."

"Why do you say that?"

I exhale deeply. But even that doesn't prepare me for what I utter, "Because I'm afraid of him."

Nikki is stunned by my revelation, and I'm not sure whether it's because of what I said or her own suspicions.

"Is it because of Drake?"

"No," I state. "It's because of Vegas." I run my fingers through my hair and clutch onto her hand. "I've never been scared of another competitor until him. When I leave Wembley, no matter what happens, I don't want to be afraid anymore."

"Then you do what you have to," Nikki says as she kisses my hand before intertwining her fingers with mine. "I won't watch if you don't want me to."

"I want you to watch," I assert. "Because our whole family needs this vindication."

He needs to be stopped, and I'm the one who has the best chance of doing it. The hopes of so many who have been oppressed by his reign fall on my shoulders, and the only person I need to concern myself with is me. That's nothing new, because the welfare of others has played a role in much of my adult life. I wouldn't have it any other way, but the difference is I'm putting my own needs before theirs. These are the terms I want to end my career on however, by vanquishing the last skeleton in my closet.

"You know, I've crossed some lines during this I know I can't come back from," I say as I lower myself into bed. I collapse into my pillow and look over at Max's crib. "What if it isn't enough?"

"Then at least you did it with a clear mind," She says, wrapping her arms around me. "I know you can accept that."

I turn back around, and Nikki meets me with a gentle kiss. It's not the same passion as earlier, but it washes away all the negativity I've been harvesting since that one night in January 2016. The cathartic feeling of finally feeling free is sublime, far greater than any crowd. I close my eyes and succumb to her embrace.

Wrestling will come and go, it already has once before. But we'll be ok because I've already won at life.

Not bad for a kid from the ghetto.

*****

Let's look beyond the words for a minute.

Frustration is a helluva thing, and often times we say things that get taken out of context. That's exactly what's happened since Sonic Boom.

"Oh, Josh Dean wants to leave WFWF with the title."

You've made damn sure that's the only sound byte getting played. Congratulations.

Ask yourself, Isaac, do you really think I want to leave like this? I mean a buyout would've been much easier than taking this route. I'd still get my money and I wouldn't have to put myself at risk anymore. I know, it sounds like I'm talking out both sides of my mouth. But I'm going to stop you before you deep dive into a half-cocked rebuttal and give everyone some sorely needed perspective. Maybe it'll become crystal clear what kind of a buzzsaw you're running into at SuperBrawl, but ONLY if you listen closely.

This company has been the one promotion I've ever felt I could be myself in. This company, if you would read between the words I've spoken, is the one place that's really treated me as more than just a number that needed to be fit inside a little box.

"We'll just keep you in your current spot for now. Your time is coming."

Then six months later, I'm told they decided to go with someone else who I knew didn't have my work ethic or upside. I can't tell you how many times I've heard that. It burns in my memory and keeps me going, even despite injuries that should've taken me out. Loyalty is a strange thing that has been detrimental to my career on more than one occasion, including in promotions not named WFWF. Yes, they do exist, hundreds of them, and a lot of them have a damn good bankroll. But they never interested me as much as WFWF has. I owe a lot of my overall success to this company, because in 2006 they took in a twenty year old kid with no direction and taught him how to be a professional. Fast forward fifteen years later and he's the top name in the industry, with millions watching him start to scratch the surface of his potential.

Sadly, gratitude only goes so far. As we speak, it isn't enough. Not with the shape this company's in. Not with the shady business practices being employed for much longer than the combined duration of my tenure. That's why, to put it simply, I don't want to be here.

Not while you're here.

It's because of you, Isaac. You and the culture you keep impressing upon those who either don't know better or are too lazy to look for a better way. A culture that should've died in 2007 still exists because you've stayed around long enough to ensure it. And it all starts with a narrative. I know I'm not the first person that's been affected by this mentality. But I promise you, I WILL be the last.

Because I'm not just some star like the Ray Smiths, ZMasters, or Johnny Michaels of yesteryear that you were able to usurp.

I'm not even the generational talents I mentioned in my public grievance.

I'm Josh Dean, the most transcendent talent to EVER come into this company. I can do it all at an elite level, including win.

And you know it too, which is why you've wanted me gone or buried beyond repair at the very least.

The old saying goes history is written by the victor. In your case, you've been able to influence the narrative for such an extensive period because you do win... a lot. I won't take that away from you. But excuse me if I have a hard time buying into the concept of being addicted to winning. Now I've been around my fair share of addicts, even had to send a few to rehab. And I can safely say, that one still sounds as asinine as the first time I heard you say it.

No sh*t you like the high associated with winning, everyone does. If you don't, well you're in the wrong sport.

So let's not make it more complicated than what it really is, your point of control.

That's what you're genuinely craving. It's something you don't definitively have with me, and you're itching from withdrawal. The tape's out there and has been for years. Try to deny it, but the entire world has seen me pin your shoulders to the mat for a three count when all the money was on the line. You've merely used my absence as a way to sweep that under the rug with Lila and Trace Demon's help. Outta sight, outta mind. I know you don't talk about that because it doesn't fit the narrative. You know, the part about being a self made legend who carried an entire industry on his spaghetti-thin back. What's your favorite way of describing it, 'The Constant', or some some bloated sh*t resembling it? I assume you could also sell most on the fallacy of missing meals and surely add that into the equation too, since we're making up folk lore as we go.

Except you didn't.

But, we simply can't let the world know how much help you truly had throughout your career, right?

I did though, and it wasn't because I was more concerned with getting a fix to keep up appearances. No matter how successful I became, no matter how far the hood became a distant memory, I never forgot that feeling of going to bed hungry. My methods have matured over the years sure, but hustling is still hustling. Why else do you think I live ten minutes away from where I grew up, for the nostalgia? I'm pretty confident no one ever asks for PTSD. And let's not kid ourselves, Sherlock, you know where I live. You were probably casing the place to see if you could steal something of value to me, like you did Frank. Been there, done that... to survive. But just between us, I could give a sh*t less about any possessions I have.

That's right, even that belt.

It was so easy to just dump the title on your stomach like trash once I made my point with it. And that's exactly what the title has turned into, because that's how you've treated it. It's kinda like if you mistreat a woman. She will leave to find someone who will treat her better. Nevertheless, I may've given it back to you sooner. But you just had to be so damn hard headed to avoid signing the contract. I guess we aren't so different in some senses, because stubbornness drives our success.

Now if you were truly everything your resume suggests, the undisputed G.O.A.T., then I'd be little more careful when choosing my words. The problem is, I just see too many things that are subject for debate. I suppose when you have nothing in your own life outside of your profession, you have to go above and beyond to magnify its importance. But the fact you don't have anything else is YOUR fault, no one else's. Typical you: delusions of grandeur at it's finest.

Sorry, but I can't relate to that.

It must be nice residing in that little snow globe world you created, Isaac. All while painting yourself as a tortured artist trapped inside his art. Talk about convuluting an image. Which is it, Isaac? Because it all seems pretty clear that you don't have a clue whether you're 'THE MAN' or an antiquated politician. Here's an out of the box idea, pick one and stick with it. You know, a piece of glass makes a pretty distinct sound when it shatters. I've had to repair plenty of windows, and it's a very delicate job. I swear I can hear the crescendo of a whole house coming down right before my very eyes because of that little crack I made five years ago. Hard to build on a foundation that fragile. It's symbolic... because you don't know how good you've had it these past fifteen years. You've never had to feel as though your passion had no value, oh no. You never had to feel like you weren't wanted by ANY company, because Michael always made sure you came along as part of the deal. Now that he's gone, you're looking for your way out too because you've had your fun. And you're leaving a f*cking mess for everyone else to clean up in the process!

Just like 2006.

Just like 2012.

Same sh*t, different era.

But there ain't no going back this time. I'm personally seeing to it. If for no other reason, I'm doing this because I wasn't in a position to do anything about it when I was in a similar situation elsewhere ten years ago, because of people like you. I am now, which means you gotta deal with karma finally coming back to get you. There's always been a double standard when it comes to you and Michael, if we're looking at it from the lense of relating our paths. You two sh*t on this company and left it to die, outta what...boredom? Then when you decide to come back and 'grace' us with your presence, you get a goddamn hero's welcome. I left before due to sh*t like this, and I was blocked from returning to WFWF for seven years. I spent the majority of my healthy athletic peak wrestling inferior talent, until a freak accident left me with a broken neck! It's no coincidence that Wayne couldn't help me then and why, Isaac? Because I knew my worth, and was willing to fight for it on my own? Now I've went and upset the apple cart again, like I did then. Others are starting to see it for themselves, too. That's the real revolution you like to conveniently accost. I didn't coin the term revolution because it's a clichéd trope. You can bet I spearheaded it seven years ago, however, when someone finally had enough sense to offer me another contract. Even when I had to prove myself again like a nameless scrub, I took inventory of EVERYTHING and went straight at the source. Many men and women may talk it, but I prefer action.

Wanna know how to get rid of a snake, boys and girls? You cut the motherf*cker's head off!

Beats sitting around and being bitter.

That's the difference, and it's pretty simple. I want this company to have a chance at success again. The only way that happens... is without you. I want these kids like Mesh, Trey Carter, and hell even Johnny Mason to be viable options to make this company money after veterans like us start dropping off. I didn't ask to, don't even want to, but I represent them. I also represent how full circle we've come, because now you've officially become the status quo you once fought against. It was always going to be you that I went after when I got cleared, Isaac. And I held out until I got you, because nobody else would satisfy me.

Why?

To be honest, because I'm sick of you.

Seven years is awful long time to think about one person. The past four years, I've had nothing but time to think about what you did to me while I sat at home. All because doctors told me that another round with you could kill me. You don't have to consider any REAL ramifications, Isaac, but I do. Michael had something similar to consider, if what he was doing was leaving the kind of legacy his daughter wouldn't be embarrassed by. That's why I don't take the same issue with Michael I take with you, but he's still guilty by association. No, what I'm teaching my three sons is that a man fights for what he believes in. But I'm mainly showing Drake that a champion puts himself through whatever hell he has to until the job is done!

I'm not afraid of ending my own career, if it means you never step foot in a WFWF ring again. And there's a very high probability of that outcome. Because while I know I'm better than you in between those ropes, you'll go out kicking and screaming to hold onto that last little sliver of prestige. The stage it's happening on is more than what you deserve, and quite the send off for a petulant child who's in denial of any wrongdoing. It's almost as pathetic as you bargaining for more time, because you don't want to admit IT'S OVER! Maybe I'd be doing this company a favor by leaving with the title and giving everyone involved a fresh start. That's fine. I'm at peace with my career, the one thing my first attempt at retiring gave me.

You won't see it now, but I'm doing the best thing for you by forcing you to face the reality that you can't beat Father Time, and you won't beat me at SuperBrawl. It means more to me than it does you, just like it did in Vegas.

You simply aren't as good as you used to be, Isaac. I was right before and I'll prove that, again.

History's fixing to repeat itself. It's time you came to grips with it.