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 hadnāt said a word to the mannequin all night. Didnāt 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 ināgold 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 overācasual, like it meant nothingāto brush a thumb across Mickās cheek, wiping away a smear of red that wasnāt even there anymore. Fingers lingered. Just a second too long.Alās grip on Head tightened until the plastic creaked.āYou good, Al?ā Mick asked, voice soft in that way that always twisted something ugly in Alās chest.āPeachy,ā Al muttered. āLoving the little shoulder-pat routine over there.āThe Rock didnāt even glance his way. Just smirked wider.
āJealousyās a bad look, Snow. Maybe try therapy instead of talking to your toy.āMick sighedālong and bone-tired.
āGuys. Not tonight.āAl was already on his feet, chair scraping back loud enough to cut through the bullshit.
āYeah. Not tonight. Enjoy your moment, jabronis. Iāll be outside not giving a fuck.āHe 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 didnāt smoke anymore. Hadnāt in years. Didnāt matter.Gravel crunched.
Mick.
Always Mick.āYouāre acting like a jealous kid,ā Mick said, straight to the point.Al stared at the ground. āAnd youāre letting him touch you like youāre his.āMick stepped closerāclose enough Al could smell the copper, the sweat, the faint baby oil still clinging to his skin from the ring.
āYouāre jealous of Dwayne?āāIām jealous of anyone who gets to put their hands on you and call it part of the show.āThe words landed heavy. Raw. No takebacks.Mick laughed onceāshort, bitter.
āYou want me to say I hate it? I donāt. 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.āAlās cigarette fell. Forgotten.Mick kept going, voice lower.
āBut you donāt get to act like Iām yours when you wonāt even say it out loud. You want to own me? Earn it.āAl moved fast.
Grabbed Mick by the flannel, shoved him back against the cold metal of the car. The door dented.
Their mouths slammed togetherāteeth, desperation, tasting like blood and three years of bullshit neither of them had named yet.Al bit Mickās bottom lip until he tasted iron. Mick groaned, hands already tearing at Alās belt like heād been waiting for this exact second.They stayed like thatāpressed tight in the dark parking lot, breathing each otherās air, pretending this wasnāt 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 Mickās mouth.
āNext time he touches you, Iām gonna be there. And Iām gonna make damn sure he knows exactly who you come home to.āMickās smile was small.
Wrecked.
āWeāll see.āAl let him go.
Stepped back.
Picked up Head from the gravel where sheād fallen.Mick watched him walk awayāhand pressed to his bleeding lip, eyes bright and dangerous in the dark.Neither of them said goodnight.(to be continued??)