The smell of a WWE arena is distinct. It’s a cocktail of pyrotechnics—that sharp, sulfurous burning scent—mixed with spray tan, athletic tape adhesive, stale popcorn, and enough testosterone to fuel a small army. For most people, it’s the smell of excitement. For me, tonight, it smelled like anxiety.
I stood in the "Gorilla Position," the narrow, curtained-off area just behind the main stage entrance. The lights were blindingly bright on the other side of the heavy black fabric, and the roar of the crowd was a physical vibration rattling my ribcage.
"Coming up next, Intercontinental Championship match!" the ring announcer’s voice boomed, slightly muffled by the headset I was wearing just to listen to the production cues.
My brother, Nic—known to the millions screaming out there as Dolph Ziggler—was shaking out his arms next to me. He looked every bit the "Showoff" he claimed to be. His bleached blonde hair was slicked back, wet and perfectly set. His skin was bronzed to an unnatural hue that looked fantastic under HD lights but ridiculous in person. He wore the white leather belt of the Intercontinental Champion around his waist, the gold plates catching the flicker of the monitors.
He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, that nervous, electric energy radiating off him. He turned to me, flashing that cocky, million-dollar grin that I knew he’d practiced in the mirror a thousand times.
"You ready to watch perfection, YNN?" he shouted over the house music.
I crossed my arms, leaning against a road case. "Just don't do anything stupid, Nic. You've been complaining about your neck all week."
He rolled his eyes, dropping the character for a split second. "It's fine. It's just a stinger. I’ve got to steal the show, YN. That’s the job."
"The job is to walk out on your own two feet," I countered, though I knew it was useless. When the red light went on, Nic Nemeth disappeared, and Dolph Ziggler took the wheel. And Dolph Ziggler didn't care about necks or stingers; he cared about bumps, reactions, and stealing the spotlight.
"Go time," the stage manager signaled, pointing a finger at him.
Nic winked at me, slapped his chest hard enough to leave a handprint, and burst through the curtain. The music hit—I am Perfection—and the crowd reaction was a mix of boos and shrill cheers. I watched the monitor mounted on the wall. He did his spin, the pose, the hair flick. He looked invincible.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Please," I whispered to no one, "just an easy night."
It was never an easy night.
The match was against Kofi. They had wrestled a hundred times, maybe more. They had a chemistry that was telepathic, a rhythm that usually put me at ease because they knew how to protect each other. I watched the screen intently, my eyes tracing every hold, every reversal.
For the first ten minutes, it was a clinic. Nic was bumping around the ring like a pinball, making Kofi’s offense look like it was fired from a cannon. That was Nic’s gift; he could make anyone look like a superhero, sometimes at the expense of his own body.
"Great sequence," a producer muttered next to me, speaking into his headset. "Ready for the commercial break spot."
On the screen, Nic rolled to the outside. He was clutching his lower back, selling the effects of a dropkick. It looked good. Too good. I frowned, stepping closer to the monitor. Usually, when Nic sold a move, there was a subtle rhythm to it—a way he moved his eyes or positioned his hands that signaled to me, I'm acting.
This time, his face was buried in the mat outside the ring. He wasn't moving his legs.
"Get the break in," the producer said. "Dolph, look alive."
Nic pushed himself up, but his movement was jagged, uncoordinated. He stumbled toward the barricade, dragging his left foot slightly.
"He's dazed," I said aloud.
"He's selling, honey," an older road agent said dismissively, not looking up from his clipboard. "Ideally, we need him back in the ring in ten seconds."
"No," I said, the pit of my stomach dropping. "Look at his eyes."
The camera zoomed in. Nic’s eyes were glazed, swimming. He shook his head, sending droplets of sweat flying, and tried to slide back into the ring. He misjudged the apron, catching his shin and tumbling awkwardly through the ropes. It wasn't the smooth, athletic slide of Dolph Ziggler. It was the clumsy fall of a man whose equilibrium was shot.
Kofi saw it. I saw Kofi hesitate, breaking character for a micro-second to check on him. He grabbed Nic by the hair, pulling him up for a grapple, whispering something. Nic shoved him away, stumbling back into the turnbuckle.
"Finish it," I hissed at the screen. "Just go home. Go home now."
But Nic wouldn't quit. He climbed the turnbuckle. He was going for a high-risk maneuver, something flashy to pop the crowd before the commercial ended. He balanced on the top rope, his legs shaking visibly.
"Don't," I whispered.
He jumped.
It was supposed to be a crossbody. But his timing was off. He under-rotated. Kofi tried to catch him, to cushion the blow, but Nic came down at a horrifying angle. His head whipped back, slamming against the canvas with a sickening thud that the ring microphones picked up clearly.
The crowd gasped. It wasn't a cheer; it was that low, collective intake of breath that signals something has gone wrong.
Nic didn't move. He lay crumpled in the center of the ring, limbs splayed unnaturally.
"Cover him! Cover him now!" the producer shouted into the headset.
Kofi dropped down, hooking the leg. The referee counted. One. Two. Three.
The bell rang.
Kofi rolled off, his chest heaving, looking down at Nic. Nic wasn't getting up to argue the count. He wasn't getting up to throw a tantrum. He wasn't moving at all.
"Medical!" the referee shouted, throwing up the 'X' symbol with his arms.
My blood ran cold. I didn't wait. I pushed past the producer, past the cameramen, and sprinted toward the curtain.
By the time I got to the other side of the curtain, they were already dragging him through. Two referees and the ringside doctor, Dr. Sampson, had him hooked under the arms. His boots were dragging on the concrete floor.
His head was lolling forward, his chin resting on his chest. His hair, usually so perfect, was matted with sweat and hanging in his face.
"Nic!" I shouted, rushing forward, but a security guard put a hand out to stop me.
"Give them space, YN," the guard said gently.
"That's my brother!" I snapped, dodging his arm.
They laid him onto a gurney just behind the Gorilla position. The chaotic noise of the arena seemed to muffle around us, the world narrowing down to the pale, sweaty figure of my brother.
"Nic? Can you hear me?" Dr. Sampson was shining a penlight into his eyes.
Nic groaned, a low, guttural sound that terrified me more than the silence. He tried to push the doctor’s hand away, his coordination non-existent.
"Get... get off..." he mumbled, the words slurring together like he had a mouth full of marbles.
"Dolph, stay down," Sampson ordered. "You took a hard hit."
I pushed into the circle, dropping to my knees beside the gurney. I grabbed his hand. It was clammy, trembling.
"Nic?" I squeezed his hand. "Hey, look at me."
His head rolled toward me. His eyes were open, but they weren't focusing. The pupils were different sizes—one blown wide, the other a pinprick. He looked through me, not at me.
"Did I... did I win?" he whispered.
I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. "No, Nic. Kofi pinned you."
He frowned, confusion knitting his brow. "Kofi? I... I thought I was wrestling... Miz?"
I looked up at Dr. Sampson. His expression was grim.
"We need to get him to the trainer’s room. Now," Sampson said, standing up. "Let's move."
"What happened to him?" I demanded, my voice trembling. The question hung in the air, heavy and accusing. I looked around at the agents, the producers, the people who ran this machine. "What happened to him?"
"He slipped off the top rope," a referee said quietly. "Landed right on his head."
"He shouldn't have been on the top rope," I said, my voice rising. "He was hurt before that. Didn't anyone see?"
"YN, let us work," Sampson said firmly.
We moved as a unit down the concrete hallway, the wheels of the gurney rattling. Wrestlers who were warming up stopped and pressed their backs against the wall to let us pass. I saw concern on their faces—John, Randy, Rey. They knew the cost. They knew the look of a guy who had his bell rung.
In the trainer's room, the fluorescent lights were harsh and buzzing. They transferred Nic onto the padded table. The room smelled of rubbing alcohol and Deep Heat, a smell I usually associated with recovery, but now associated with trauma.
Sampson began the concussion protocol. Following the finger. Reciting the months of the year backward. Squeezing hands.
Nic was failing. He knew it, and I could see the panic rising in him. Not panic about his health—panic about his spot.
"I'm fine, Doc," Nic insisted, trying to sit up, only to sway dangerously. I put a hand on his chest, pushing him back down.
"Stay down, you idiot," I said, my voice cracking.
"I have a live event in Philly on Friday," Nic mumbled, closing his eyes against the light. "I can't miss Philly. I'm the headliner."
"You're not going to Philly," I said sharply. "You don't even know what city you're in right now, do you?"
He opened one eye, trying to glare at me, but it lacked his usual fire. "I'm in... I'm in..." He paused. His face fell. "Where are we, YNN?"
The vulnerability in his voice broke my heart. This wasn't the Showoff. This wasn't the guy who stole the show and bragged about it on Twitter. This was Nic. My big brother who used to drive me to wrestling practice in his beat-up Honda.
"We're in Detroit, Nic," I said softly, brushing a wet strand of hair off his forehead.
He sighed, sinking deeper into the pillow. "Right. Detroit. Rock City."
Dr. Sampson finished his initial check and turned to me. "He’s got a significant concussion, YN. We’re going to need to send him for scans to rule out a bleed or neck trauma, given his history. He’s done for tonight. He’s done for a while."
"How long?" Nic asked, his voice sounding small.
"Indefinitely," Sampson said. "Until you pass the impact test. No arguing."
Sampson stepped out to call the ambulance and update the Talent Relations head, leaving us alone in the small, sterile room. The sounds of the show—the pyro, the crowd, the commentary—were faint rumbles in the distance.
I pulled a metal folding chair up to the side of the table and sat down. My hands were shaking, so I clasped them together in my lap.
Nic stared up at the ceiling tiles. He looked younger without the grimace of the character on his face. He looked pale beneath the bronzer.
"I messed up the spot," he whispered. "Vince is gonna be pissed."
"Stop it," I said. "Stop worrying about Vince. You could have broken your neck, Nic. You could have been paralyzed."
"It comes with the territory," he muttered, the standard wrestler defense mechanism kicking in. "I just... I lost my footing. I felt dizzy right before I jumped."
"Because you were already hurt," I insisted. "I saw you outside the ring. You were dragging your leg. Why didn't you stay down?"
He turned his head slowly to look at me. "Because I’m the guy who delivers, YNN. I’m the workhorse. If I stop, they find someone else. There’s always someone new from FCW. Always someone bigger, stronger. If I lose my spot..."
"If you lose your life, the spot doesn't matter!" I snapped, standing up. I paced the small room, the adrenaline finally turning into anger. "Do you think the fans care? They’ll tweet about it for a day and move on. But mom? Dad? Ryan? Me? We have to pick up the pieces, Nic. I have to watch you forget where you are. I have to watch you slur your words."
He winced at the volume of my voice. I immediately regretted it.
"Sorry," I whispered, sitting back down. "I'm sorry. It's just... it was scary, Nic. Really scary."
He reached out, his hand searching for mine. I took it. His grip was weak.
"I know," he said. "I got scared too. Just for a second. In the air... I knew I wasn't going to make the rotation. It’s a bad feeling, knowing gravity is about to win."
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I grabbed a wet towel from the counter and gently wiped the spray tan and sweat from his face. He let me do it, closing his eyes.
"You're a mess," I said affectionately.
"I'm perfection," he mumbled, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"You're an idiot with a concussion," I corrected him. "And you're going to the hospital, and then you're coming home with me. No hotels. No rental cars. You're sleeping on my couch for a week where I can watch you."
"But my luggage..."
"I'll get your luggage."
"But the loop..."
"The loop can survive without Dolph Ziggler for a week," I said firmly.
He opened his eyes and looked at me. The haziness was still there, but there was a clarity of emotion behind it. "Thanks, YNN. For being here."
"I'm always here," I said. "Since Kent State. Since the beginning."
"Yeah," he breathed out. "Since the beginning."
The door opened, and Dr. Sampson returned with two EMTs pushing a stretcher. The reality of the night crashed back in. The bright lights, the sirens, the long night ahead in the ER waiting room.
"Ready to go, champ?" one of the EMTs asked.
Nic tried to sit up again, his pride flaring up. "I can walk. I don't need the stretcher."
"Nic," I warned.
He looked at me, then looked at the stretcher. He sighed, defeated. "Fine. But nobody takes pictures. If I see a phone out, I’m superkicking someone."
"Deal," the EMT said with a chuckle.
They helped him transfer over. They strapped him in. It was a humbling sight for a man who, twenty minutes ago, was standing on the turnbuckle screaming that he was the best in the world.
As they wheeled him out into the hallway, toward the ambulance bay, we passed the Gorilla position again. The main event was starting. John Cena’s music was blaring. The crowd erupted, a deafening roar that shook the walls.
Nic turned his head on the stretcher, looking toward the curtain, toward the light and the noise. I saw the longing in his eyes. He wanted to be out there. He wanted the noise. He wanted the pain if it meant he got the glory.
I put my hand on his shoulder, blocking his view.
"Eyes on me, Nic," I said.
He looked up at me, blinking slowly.
"We’re going," I said.
"Okay," he whispered. "YN?"
"Yeah?"
"Did the fall look cool at least?"
I couldn't help but laugh, a tear finally escaping and rolling down my cheek. "Yeah, Nic. It looked spectacular."
"Good," he sighed, closing his eyes as the cool night air hit us in the ambulance bay. "That's good."
I climbed into the back of the ambulance with him, the heavy doors slamming shut, sealing out the roar of the crowd. For the next few hours, he wasn't Dolph Ziggler, the Intercontinental Champion. He was just my brother, and he was hurt, and I was the only one who could tell the difference.
As the siren wailed into the Detroit night, I held his hand and watched his chest rise and fall, grateful for every breath, hating the business that did this to him, and knowing, with absolute certainty, that as soon as he could stand straight, he’d go right back to it.
But until then, he was mine to protect.
"Rest now," I whispered. "I've got you."
And for the first time that night, he actually listened.
The rain in Manchester doesn’t wash things clean; it just makes the grime stick to you harder. It was a relentless, grey drizzle that coated the windows of the tour bus, turning the passing city lights into blurry, weeping streaks of amber and neon.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, feeling the vibration of the engine in my teeth. My body screamed in that dull, familiar way it always did three days into a European tour. My lower back throbbed from the superplex I’d taken through a table an hour ago, and my left wrist was taped up so tight my fingers were starting to tingle. But none of that physical misery compared to the knot of lead sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach.
I looked at my phone. No new messages.
Across the aisle, Natalya was meticulously organizing her gear bag, but she kept shooting me worried glances. She knew. Half the locker room probably knew by now, or at least suspected. In this business, secrets have a shorter shelf life than fresh fruit.
"You okay, YNN?" she asked softly, her voice barely rising above the hum of the bus.
I pulled my gaze away from the wet Manchester streets. "I’m fine," I lied. It was a wrestler’s lie—the same one we tell doctors, agents, and fans. "Just tired."
"Did you talk to him?"
I let out a breath that shuddered in my chest. "Yeah. Before the main event."
"And?"
I looked down at my taped wrist, picking at a loose thread. The image of Nic’s face—Nic, not Dolph; the man, not the Showoff—flashed in my mind. The way his jaw had locked tight, the way the light had died in his eyes, replaced by a cold, defensive shutter coming down.
"He didn't take it well," I whispered.
The phrase hung in the air between us, heavy and understated. He didn’t take it well was the polite way of saying he had looked at me like I had just driven a steel chair into his spine during a curtain call.
We had been in the catering area, tucked away in a corner behind stacks of road cases. It was the only privacy we could find in the chaotic labyrinth of the AO Arena. I had ripped the bandage off quickly because I knew if I hesitated, I would lose my nerve.
I told him I wasn’t renewing. I told him I had accepted the offer from the other side—Japan, specifically. A grueling tour, a new style, a complete departure from the glossy, high-production life of WWE. It was my dream. It was the reset button my career desperately needed after two years of stagnating in the mid-card, trading wins and losses with no direction.
I expected him to argue the logistics. I expected him to talk about the money or the injury risks.
I didn't expect the silence.
Nic Nemeth is one of the best talkers in the industry. Give him a microphone and three minutes, and he can sell ice to a polar bear or make an arena full of people want to tear his head off. But in that corner, surrounded by the smell of stale coffee and muscle rub, he hadn't said a word. He just stared at me, nodded once—a sharp, jerky motion—and walked away to get taped for his match.
Now, hours later, the silence was deafening.
The bus hissed to a halt in front of the hotel. It was a swanky place, typical of the UK tour accommodations, blending modern glass with old industrial brick. We filed off, a parade of limping giants and exhausted athletes dragging luggage through the rain.
I scanned the lobby as I waited for my room key. The boys were already gravitating toward the hotel bar, desperate for a pint to numb the bumps. I saw The Miz holding court, I saw Seth checking in, but I didn't see the bleach-blond hair I was looking for.
"Room 412," the receptionist said, sliding the key card across the marble counter.
I took it, muttering a thanks, and headed for the elevators. I knew his room number. We always requested rooms on the same floor, usually next door to each other if the travel coordinator was feeling generous. Tonight, he was in 414.
I stood in the hallway for a long time. The carpet was a dizzying swirl of maroon and gold. I could hear the faint sound of a television from 416, the distinct hum of the ice machine down the hall. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a fist.
I knocked on 414.
Nothing.
I knocked again, harder this time. "Nic? It’s me."
A long pause. Then, the lock clicked. The door opened, but only a crack. He didn't have the chain on, but his body blocked the entrance. He was still in his gear pants, though he’d taken off the boots and knee pads. He was shirtless, a bag of ice taped to his shoulder, his hair damp and chaotic, lacking the slicked-back perfection of his TV persona.
"I'm tired, YN," he said. His voice was rough, gravelly. It lacked the usual melodic cadence.
"I know," I said, leaning my hand against the doorframe. "I am too. But we can't... we can't leave it like that."
"Like what?" He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "You made a decision. I'm respecting it. Isn't that what a supportive partner does?"
"Don't do that," I pleaded. "Don't do the passive-aggressive thing. Please, Nic. Let me in."
He stared at me for a moment, his blue eyes searching mine for something—regret, maybe? Or hesitation? When he didn't find it, he sighed, stepping back and swinging the door open.
The room was standard hotel fare: beige walls, a generic abstract painting, a bed with too many pillows. His suitcase was open on the luggage rack, an explosion of spandex and street clothes. It was messy, just like him.
I walked in, and the door clicked shut behind me. The sound felt final.
"So," he said, walking over to the mini-bar and pulling out a bottle of water. He cracked the seal with a violent twist. "Japan. That’s the big plan."
"It's a six-month excursion, Nic. It’s not forever."
"Six months in this business is a lifetime, YNN. You know that." He took a long drink, wincing as he moved his iced shoulder. "Six months. You disappear, the office forgets you, the fans move on to the next shiny toy, and I’m... where am I?"
"You're here," I said, stepping closer. "Doing what you do best. Stealing the show every night."
"Stealing the show for who?" He spun around, the water splashing slightly. "I do this... I survive this grind because I have an anchor. Because when the politics get stupid and the booking makes no sense and my body feels like it's falling apart, I have you. We have the road."
"We still have us," I argued, though my voice trembled.
"Do we?" He paced the small length of the room, his bare feet sinking into the carpet. "You're talking about a twelve-hour time difference. You're talking about me being in Des Moines while you're in Tokyo. We barely make it work when we're on the same brand, YN."
He stopped pacing and looked at me, his expression cracking. The anger was receding, revealing the raw fear underneath. "Why didn't you talk to me first? Before you signed."
That was the dagger. That was the part that made me the villain in this story.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands. "Because I knew you’d talk me out of it."
The silence returned, thicker than before.
"You think I would have held you back?" He sounded hurt now. Deeply hurt.
I looked up at him. "No. I think you would have made me realize how much I’d miss you. I think you would have been so wonderful and supportive that I would have stayed here, in the same spot, being miserable professionally just to be happy personally. And I... I can't do it anymore, Nic. I feel like I’m suffocating in catering. I need to wrestle. I need to prove I can still go."
Nic stared at me. He, of all people, understood the hunger. He was the guy who scratched and clawed for every inch of spotlight he ever got. He was the guy who bumped like a maniac just to make a three-minute segment memorable. He knew the sickness of needing to perform.
He walked over to the window. The curtains were open, revealing the weeping Manchester skyline. He placed his hand on the glass, his silhouette framed by the amber streetlights.
"I remember when we first started riding together," he said quietly, his back to me. "That tour in Texas. You were so green. You didn't know how to call a spot to save your life."
I smiled weakly, a tear slipping down my cheek. "I almost broke your nose practicing a dropkick."
"You did break my nose," he corrected, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smirk. "I just didn't tell anyone because I didn't want you to get heat."
"You protected me."
"I always protect you." He turned fully, leaning back against the window sill. The ice pack on his shoulder was melting, water dripping down his tricep. "That’s my job. Not just in the ring. Out here."
"I don't need protection right now, Nic," I said, standing up and walking toward him. "I need you to understand. I need you to be proud of me."
He looked down at the floor, shaking his head. "I am proud of you. That's the worst part. I look at you and I see a star that isn't being used. I know you're going to go over there and kill it. You're going to have five-star matches and the internet is going to go crazy and everyone is going to ask why WWE let you go."
He looked up, his eyes glassy. "But I'm selfish, YNN. I'm a selfish prick. I don't want to wake up in a hotel room in Omaha and not be able to come knock on your door. I don't want to drive four hundred miles without you in the passenger seat picking the music."
I closed the distance between us. I reached out and gently placed my hands on his waist. His skin was hot, radiating the adrenaline of the match and the heat of the argument.
"It's going to be hard," I whispered.
"It's going to be hell," he countered.
"We can do hell. We’ve done hell. Remember the booking in 2018?"
He let out a snort of laughter, genuine this time. "Don't remind me."
He reached out with his good arm and wrapped it around my shoulders, pulling me into him. I buried my face in his neck, smelling the unique mix of his cologne, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the arena. It was the smell of home.
"You really signed it?" he asked into my hair.
"Yesterday."
He tightened his grip. "Six months."
"Six months."
"And if you love it? If you decide you want to be the Queen of Stardom or whatever?"
"Then we cross that bridge when we get to it," I said, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. "But Nic, I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving the job. There’s a difference."
"Is there?" He looked skeptical. "This job is our life. It consumes everything. You know that."
"It doesn't have to consume us."
He sighed, a long, weary exhale that seemed to deflate his entire posture. He looked older in this light. The lines around his eyes were deeper. The years of bumping, the concussions, the travel—it all added up. He was the iron man, the guy who never got hurt, the guy who was always there. But tonight, he looked fragile.
"I hate this," he muttered. "I hate that you're right."
He pulled the ice pack off his shoulder and tossed it onto the armchair with a wet thud. Then he took my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the dampness on my cheeks.
"You have to promise me something," he said, his intensity returning.
"Anything."
"Don't let them change your finish. That superkick is money. And if anyone takes liberties with you over there, you tell me. I don't care if I have to fly to Tokyo and cash in a Money in the Bank briefcase I don't even have. I’ll handle it."
I laughed, a wet, choking sound. "I can handle myself, Ziggler."
"I know," he whispered, leaning his forehead against mine. "I know."
We stood there for a long time, the rain drumming a steady rhythm against the glass. The anger had burned itself out, leaving behind a melancholy ache. We both knew the next few days would be weird. The locker room whispers, the awkwardness of travel, the countdown clock ticking in our heads.
"Stay here tonight?" he asked, his voice vulnerable.
"I wasn't planning on going anywhere."
We moved to the bed, collapsing onto the duvet without bothering to get under the covers. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and I curled up into his side, resting my head on his chest. I could hear his heartbeat—slow, steady, strong.
"YN?"
"Yeah?"
"You're going to miss the catering though. The muffins are top tier."
I smiled against his skin. "I'll survive."
Silence settled over us again, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the arena. It was a comfortable, sad quiet.
"Hey," he said after a while, his hand idly tracing patterns on my arm.
"Yeah?"
"If you get a five-star match before me, I'm going to be so pissed."
I chuckled, shifting so I could look at his profile. He was staring at the ceiling, but there was a small smile playing on his lips. It was the Showoff smile—cocky, resilient, masking a thousand other emotions.
"I guess you better step your game up then," I teased.
He turned his head, looking at me with that intensity that always made my knees weak. "I'm Dolph Ziggler," he said softly. "I'm always stealing the show."
He kissed me then, desperate and sweet, a kiss that tasted of goodbye and hold-on-tight.
Outside, the Manchester rain kept falling, washing the city in grey. Tomorrow, we would get on another bus. We would drive to London or Birmingham or Glasgow. We would tape our wrists and lace our boots and go out there to entertain thousands of screaming strangers.
But for tonight, in the quiet of Room 414, the show was over. It was just Nic and YN, trying to figure out how to keep holding on when the world was pulling us in opposite directions.
He hadn't taken it well. I didn't expect him to. But as his breathing evened out and his arm draped protectively over me, I knew he hadn't let go either. And in this business, that was the biggest win you could hope for.
The next morning was a blur of early alarms and checkout lines. The reality of the night before seemed to vanish under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hotel lobby.
I was standing near the revolving doors, nursing a lukewarm coffee, when he walked up. He had his sunglasses on indoors—classic Ziggler—and his leather jacket zipped up to the chin. He looked like a rockstar who had partied too hard, which wasn't far from the truth of our emotional hangover.
He stopped next to me, not looking at me directly, scanning the lobby for the producers.
"Bus leaves in ten," he said.
"I know."
He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "I watched some tape last night. Of that promotion you're going to."
I turned to him, surprised. "You did? When? You were asleep."
"I woke up. Couldn't sleep." He shrugged. "Their champion... she leaves her left side open when she goes for the lariat. You can counter that into the Zig Zag."
I stared at him, my heart swelling. He hadn't just been angry. He hadn't just been sad. He had been studying. He was already booking my matches in his head, looking for ways to make me look good from 6,000 miles away.
"The Zig Zag?" I raised an eyebrow. "Stealing your move?"
"Paying homage," he corrected, finally looking at me over the rim of his sunglasses. "And it's only stealing if you don't do it better than me. Which you won't."
"Is that a challenge?"
"It's a fact."
The producer shouted for everyone to load up. The mass of bodies began to move toward the doors.
Nic grabbed my hand. It was quick, subtle, hidden between our bags so the dirt sheets wouldn't have a field day if someone snapped a picture. He squeezed my fingers—three times. I. Love. You.
"Go be great, kid," he muttered.
"Don't get lazy while I'm gone," I shot back, squeezing his hand in return.
"Never."
He let go and strode through the revolving doors, stepping out into the grey morning. He walked with that exaggerated swagger, the one that screamed confidence, the one that told the world he was the best damn thing going.
I watched him go, taking a deep breath of the damp air.
He hadn't taken it well. He was scared, and so was I. But as I watched him pause by the bus and wait for me to catch up, I realized that "well" didn't matter. "Real" was what mattered. And this—the mess, the pain, the loyalty, the love—was the most real thing in a world built on smoke and mirrors.
I adjusted my bag, tossed my coffee in the bin, and walked out into the rain to join him.
