The green room reeked of Bengay, old blood, and tension thick enough to choke on.
Al Snow sat shoved in the corner, Head balanced on his knee like a fucked-up security blanket. He hadn’t said a word to the mannequin all night. Didn’t need to. The silence in his head was screaming louder than the crowd still echoing outside.Across the room The Rock owned every inch of space he stood in—gold chain flashing under the shitty lights, that big Hollywood laugh rolling out every few seconds. Mick Foley sat right beside him on the sagging couch, knees almost touching. Mick still had dried blood flaking from his hairline, stitches fresh and red from the hardcore match earlier. The Rock kept reaching over—casual, like it meant nothing—to brush a thumb across Mick’s cheek, wiping away a smear of red that wasn’t even there anymore. Fingers lingered. Just a second too long.Al’s grip on Head tightened until the plastic creaked.“You good, Al?” Mick asked, voice soft in that way that always twisted something ugly in Al’s chest.“Peachy,” Al muttered. “Loving the little shoulder-pat routine over there.”The Rock didn’t even glance his way. Just smirked wider.
“Jealousy’s a bad look, Snow. Maybe try therapy instead of talking to your toy.”Mick sighed—long and bone-tired.
“Guys. Not tonight.”Al was already on his feet, chair scraping back loud enough to cut through the bullshit.
“Yeah. Not tonight. Enjoy your moment, jabronis. I’ll be outside not giving a fuck.”He slammed the door hard enough the frame rattled.Outside the air bit cold. Al leaned against his rental, unlit cigarette between his lips just for something to chew on. He didn’t smoke anymore. Hadn’t in years. Didn’t matter.Gravel crunched.
Mick.
Always Mick.“You’re acting like a jealous kid,” Mick said, straight to the point.Al stared at the ground. “And you’re letting him touch you like you’re his.”Mick stepped closer—close enough Al could smell the copper, the sweat, the faint baby oil still clinging to his skin from the ring.
“You’re jealous of Dwayne?”“I’m jealous of anyone who gets to put their hands on you and call it part of the show.”The words landed heavy. Raw. No takebacks.Mick laughed once—short, bitter.
“You want me to say I hate it? I don’t. I like it when he touches me. Same way I liked it when you had me pinned against the lockers after No Way Out, biting my neck so hard I still have the mark.”Al’s cigarette fell. Forgotten.Mick kept going, voice lower.
“But you don’t get to act like I’m yours when you won’t even say it out loud. You want to own me? Earn it.”Al moved fast.
Grabbed Mick by the flannel, shoved him back against the cold metal of the car. The door dented.
Their mouths slammed together—teeth, desperation, tasting like blood and three years of bullshit neither of them had named yet.Al bit Mick’s bottom lip until he tasted iron. Mick groaned, hands already tearing at Al’s belt like he’d been waiting for this exact second.They stayed like that—pressed tight in the dark parking lot, breathing each other’s air, pretending this wasn’t the beginning of something that would probably burn all three of them to the ground.In the distance the arena lights started flicking off one by one.Al pulled back just enough to speak against Mick’s mouth.
“Next time he touches you, I’m gonna be there. And I’m gonna make damn sure he knows exactly who you come home to.”Mick’s smile was small.
Wrecked.
“We’ll see.”Al let him go.
Stepped back.
Picked up Head from the gravel where she’d fallen.Mick watched him walk away—hand pressed to his bleeding lip, eyes bright and dangerous in the dark.Neither of them said goodnight.(to be continued??)