Post by Ash Blake on Jun 24, 2021 22:38:46 GMT -5
"Are you even listening to me?" Olivia Adler snapped, an abrupt end to the seemingly stream-of-consciousness babbling that rolled around in her boss' ears like white noise as she stared at the dim glow of her cell phone screen like a deer caught in the headlights.
Ash slunk deeper into the loveseat, her eyes not moving from the screen. She could feel the walls closing in on her; her apartment was tiny, there was no disputing that, but the peering eyes of her intern fixated solely on her as her legs dangled over the armrest of the shabby floral print chair beside her made that cramped, claustrophobic feeling just the slightest bit more real. Not that Ash minded — the company was nice. Most of the time, at least.
"Yes, of course," Ash finally murmured in response, to which Olivia shrugged and rolled her eyes.
"It's just fuckin' weird is all," she said with a sigh, if for no other reason than to avoid more silence. The sound of cars outside and wind battering the windows greeted her in response. "Just, the timing of it and everything."
"What do you think's happening here? Carter's going to blindside me and try to strike out on his own? He's had plenty of chances to go down that road, and he's still here."
"Look, all I'm sayin'," Olivia responded, gesturing with her good arm, "This whole insurance policy thing is sketch as hell, Ash. I don't think it's crazy to say the vibes are off. Not to mention him acting like Daddy Big Dick with the prod—"
"I'm not worried about Carter," Ash interjected, eyes peering over the screen and shooting daggers into Olivia's. Despite barely speaking above a whisper, there was a firmness to her voice that assured Olivia that this conversation was over.
Though, as her eyes darted back towards the screen, Olivia couldn't help but study her boss's changing body language. Her shoulders slouched forward, her eyes brightened, the corner of her mouth tugged upwards as she let whatever the image transfixed her consume her whole, staring at the screen with an almost religious awe.
Swinging her legs over the side of the chair and hopping to her feet and traipsed over to the loveseat, plopping down next to Ash and peering over her shoulder, to see a familiar face staring back at her: a photo of the woman seated next to her — a decade younger, sporting a pair of thick-rimmed glasses — beaming into the camera, leaning into the one-armed embrace of a gangly, baby-faced doofus in full pads, stringy, sweat-slicked hair smeared across his forehead.
"Who's he?" Olivia asked, causing Ash to almost jump out of her skin in surprise.
"Just some guy I dated in high school. One of those Facebook memory things popped up and it's—"
"Tell me about him."
"What do you wanna know, 'Liv?"
Olivia shrugged. "Dealer's choice."
Hey, Carter. How've you been? I know, it's been a minute since we've just been able to chat, you and me. C'est la vie, right? Of course, these aren't exactly the most friendly circumstances for us to catch up, but what can you do, right? I'll try to make this as brief and painless as possible, so, feel free to take a seat, pour yourself a drink, get comfortable.
Welcome to your performance review.
Obviously, I've been a little behind schedule with this. These are supposed to be quarterly, after all, and we're well past that at this point. Though, I don't think you'd be one to complain about that considering how rocky that first quarter was for all of us. Still trying to work out the kinks, figure out what worked and what didn't, and of course it didn't help that the diamonds in the rough we projected from the initial sponsorship class turned out to be more rough than diamond.
Present company excluded, of course. But, that was inevitable. Derrick Vayden needed the pressure placed on him to transform him; pressure he couldn't handle. Noris Cranley needed focus, and — well, the less said about that unfortunate situation, the better. Jim Mud just needed to be left to his own devices with an ant farm he could shake up any way he saw fit.
But you? You just needed the opportunity. You'd lived your whole life up to that point in the service of others. Being the breadwinner. The provider. The one who held everything together, even when he thought he was going to fall apart at the seams. You just needed someone to tell you that it was okay for you to put yourself first.
At least, that's what we assumed at the time. Of course, the truth is always a little more disappointing than what we hope to see. You were our ace, the chosen one with the briefcase already in tow. The way I saw things going that October night when it all came together, you'd still be right here in the main event of Evolution, it'd just be you with the belt.
But you stumbled out of the gate. And you stumbled hard. Marching into the first round of the Wrestler of the Year tournament staring down Corey Black, you were playing with house money. You had all the momentum in the world.
And he almost took your head off.
You had the chance for vengeance at XIII, when you could've made all four of those gutless so-called 'Gods' regret picking the fight, and you were on the sidelines when the decision happened. Samson and Peter were enacting the doom that came to Graham Baker, Vayden ate the pin, and you were in no man's land.
And the less we say about Trios, the better, right?
You were the ace, and you were not getting the job done. Plain and simple, the sum of its parts, that's all it was in those early goings. So I had to tip my hand and get us all back on course. I took this belt off of Corey Black because with each passing day the chance that you would dried up inch by inch. You needed more time to marinate. You needed to be run along the whetstone a few more times until you were ready to utilize the opportunity you finally seized.
Because ultimately, you couldn't dethrone the person on top. It's wonderful you've built this resume in the last few months. You've taken the heads of so many men who've previously held this belt it'd make anyone's head spin. It's a remarkable accomplishment, truly, if one that's only recognized in hindsight. Because you know as well as I do, Carter, that at the end of the day, all those heads up on your mantle are a nice prize, but they're really just a test. Opportunities to prove that you belong here, in this moment. Staring down the person atop the mountain and being able to put them away.
I know you have the guts for it, Carter. But killer instinct doesn't mean much when you don't have the ability to execute. And the harsh truth is this, Carter:
Philidor Holdings may have owned Corey Black's reign from the start. We may have owned the man himself the second we dug deep enough into his brain for him to decide to team with Walter.
But in that same stretch, Corey Black owned you. And if he were in my shoes right now, I'd love to tell you I'd have all the faith in the world that you'd be able to take the belt from him outright, no Spencer Adams required, but only one image flashes before me every time I try and picture that.
That you'd be an afterthought in the biggest moment of your entire career to this point because everyone would see the end coming: Corey Black taking your head clean off this time and punting it at my feet.
I'm sorry to say that. Really, I am. But we both know this wasn't going to be all peachy, and I definitely don't want you to take that personally. You have sharpened yourself. You've grown so much these last few months, Carter. I mean that sincerely. The carbon's becoming diamond.
The way you've dealt with The Lost Breed and The Following in this span has been nothing short of breathtaking. Knocking over the first domino for one and tearing the other apart from the inside, all riveting stuff. You've established yourself, Carter. Whether you know it or not. You're the most steady, reliable, right hand man a girl could ever ask for.
But you don't shine quite so bright yet, do you? This should be the moment you make your great leap to the top, where all the work you've put in against men who were once at this level gets put to the test, but that's not quite the game here, is it?
Because I'm not Corey Black, Carter. I have no intentions on taking your head off. I have no intention of slamming the door shut in your face. Because really, this isn't about us. We're on the same side, right? And you're the dutiful son, acting like a hangeron in this match that I neither need nor exactly desire.
But, this was inevitable. Spencer Adams would've been the perfect fattened calf for you too. Another man who's been here before, scratching and clawing for another run at the top before his body gives out on him. More's the shame that circumstances are the way they are, though.
Chin up, Carter. We all have a role to play in this grand symphony we call Philidor. And in order to maintain the well-oiled machine each part needs to know their role. We can't have someone getting too big for their britches, thinking they're the one calling the shots. That's how you get organizational confusion. You wouldn't want that, would you? Of course not.
So remember, Carter: you're the insurance policy.
I don't think I need to tell you what that entails.
Dealer's choice. The words echoed in Ash's head as her eyes darted back from the screen to her expectant intern, eyes fixed on her with a wide, almost-genuine smile on her face. Ash couldn't remember the last time she'd seen ol' Olive Adler with a smile that wasn't a sneer on her face; this might've been a first.
Her eyes drifted back to the screen; Forgot I used to be able to smile that wide.
"We met because I was tutoring him," Ash began, quickly trailing off into another uncomfortable, unbearable silence as she felt the warmth of Olivia's body as her intern scooched in closer to hear her better. "Well, I guess we didn't meet there, you grow up in a place like Cottonwood Falls, you kinda know everyone your age, you know?"
Olive cocked her head. "Wouldn't know."
"Right," Ash responded. "Of course."
A silence once again fell over the pair, as Ash's eyes bore holes through the screen.
Do you start with this picture? Tell her about the day it was taken; the hottest day of the year, one hundred and something on the thermometer and there you were, watching practice in an empty field on the side of the school, wishing they'd have thought to plant at least one tree out there decades ago. How you showed up to school the next day sunburnt because you left your sunscreen on the—
Or do you start with how, of course, that tutoring meant — at the start at least — that you were just doing his homework for him until he asked if he could come over on the weekend sometime, so I could actually teach him something?
Or about the worst day of his life. The moment that, in hindsight is the reason you two aren't—
Or is it the moment that you fell for him, when he—
Or how you scroll through the pictures posted, hoping the woman asking doesn't notice the date, or any of the comments. How these moments were officially documented after he—
"It's tough," Ash says, finally breaking the silence. "There's just, so much to talk about."
Olivia pondered her words for a moment.
"Then how about we start with why you've never mentioned him to me before."
Oh,, echoed in Ash's head as she gulped.
"Alright."
Of course, Carter's an insurance policy who's done an admirable job of big leaguing you at every possible turn, isn't he Spencer? Just another thing for me to be proud of, even if his eagerness to do so led him to act outside the chain of command. Still, it's nothing I'd feel the need to scold him for, considering how effectively he's sidelined the Havoc winner, my rightful challenger at Evo, in his own run to this very moment. Truth be told, Spencer: it looks good on you.
It looks exactly like what you deserve, actually. A demented, self-centered glory hound being pushed to the side in his own title shot. Any attempt to spin this like you're the conquering hero drowned out by advertising and hissy fits. Did it make you feel strong to strongarm production staff, Spencer? To get outmaneuvered so thoroughly that the object of your impotent rage was long gone before you even had the idea to try and confront him?
Or is being a nonfactor in moments like these just an accepted fate for you, these days? I didn't forget Timebomb, Spencer. You know, another of these big moments for you. You could've taken my belt off me then and there; the kicker is you might not have even needed to put me down in order to do so. But that didn't happen, did it? 'Fraid not, Spence. You were so thoroughly underwhelming in that opportunity I wouldn't even blame the people you're trying to rally behind for forgetting you were even there.
Because that's what this is, right? Spencer Adams rallying the captive audience to pin their hopes and dreams on him as he stumbles into his post-2018 existence: getting to the precipice of another world title run, and then letting it spill from his fingers just as quickly. But now, there's a villain for you to flex on. You can posture all you like, you would be white knight, but that armor doesn't quite fit, does it?
Because you aren't a hero. You're an opportunist. You're a leech, sucking anything you can get your grubby little claws onto dry. And then you discard them, drop them to the ground like toys you just don't want to play with anymore.
You can bloviate all you want about how this company deserves a happy ending like you did on the run-up to Havoc, and you know what? I even believe you, Spencer. You aren't a hero, but you're exactly the hero this company deserves: a fraught, emotionally-stunted narcissist who never found an ally he wouldn't screw over to maintain pole position. Let's face it, Spencer, you would never put yourself on the line to protect this company you feel so strongly needs to be saved from us.
The only thing you've ever sacrificed is your own ability to hold the moral high ground over how anyone wins this belt. You remember Kyle Kemp doing the heavy lifting for you, don't you? Maybe if he does something useful for once and stomps Winston DiVito's skull in, you can beg him to pick you to inherit the tag titles after the weight of doing it on your own this time sinks you like your meddling, overcontrolling influence sunk the careers of everyone in #FightSmart not named Spencer Adams.
That's the difference between you and I, Spencer. I never did this for an ego stroke. I did this with a mission in mind: better the lives of the men and women we've sponsored. Jim Mud has a playground on which to do whatever he pleases. Noris Cranley was heinously crippled by someone you'd never pass a shred of the moral judgment you throw on us. Carter Shaw has become the man everyone knew he had the potential to become. And we gave Lissie Hope the resources she needed to overcome an overdose that almost killed her. An overdose that earned her at best tepid "thoughts and prayers" tweets and at worst (and at much more commonly) snide jabs wishing she'd gone all the way.
You know Lissie, don't you? Of course you do. You loved her, until she proved to be an actual human, not just a Real Doll for you to vent to and occasionally have sex with. Then, you tossed her aside when she needed you the most. Story of your life, isn't it? The hero who can't save anyone close to him. Yeah, you're exactly what this company deserves.
The company that employed a literal serial killer in Walter. The company that barely slapped Frank Lowe on the wrist for committing actual (alleged) murder. The company that will time and time again bring these freaks into contact with athletes just trying to ply their craft. Yeah, you're just what the doctor ordered.
You can think you're the brave revolutionary all you'd like. You aren't gunning down Heydrich in his convertible. You aren't killing the tyrannical king. You're just a Jack Ruby cosplayer with a gun about to jam.
Because it's never been about saving anything to you. It's been about getting the credit. Sure, you're going to take this belt away from me. You're going to land the first blow, the first black eye to this stable since I took this belt from Corey Black in the first place. And everyone's going to love the new World Champion Spencer Adams again. You might not even need to rope someone into a self-serving tag title run to keep yourself from washing out entirely.
Your savior, ladies and germs. Ain't he something? I hope everyone in this company, from the talent to the executives look at him and squirm, knowing he's the best man to represent them. Because at the end of the day, each and every single one of you have only yourselves to blame when the man who hasn't been able to grab this brass ring since the inaugural year of this company inevitably chokes like every other time he's been in this spot since the miracle run.
Of course, you look at the circumstances for this one and you almost can't blame him for not getting the job done here. We've given him the ultimate out. He can puff his chest out and insist that it was two on one. And, in a sense it is. It is mean and cruel and unfair and exactly what a snake like Spencer Adams deserves.
And, of course, his new flame is going to be at ringside to witness every second of this, in living color. There's a lot of things that could go wrong in this match, Spencer, given that you have to look out from all angles. This is the wrestling business, and what a nasty business it is. Tell me, should worst come to pass, do you think Ms. Floyd would spend every waking moment by your bedside in the hospital?
Or are you at least just hoping she spends more time than you did at Lissie's?
Thoughts and prayers, Spencer.
I won't waste either on you.
"He was the reason I went to A&M in the first place…" Ash began, pulling her knees to her chest and turning away from Olivia. "I thought it would be— I don't know. He'd gotten a scholarship there until…"
Though all she saw was the wall in front of her, Ash couldn't help but hear the moment play out: the thuds and pops of pads colliding, followed by an unmistakable snap/ Then screaming. Familiar screaming. Her chest tightened and her throat ached.
"It was a freak accident, they said. I always closed my eyes when he was about to get hit so I didn't see it when it happened. Still haven't. After that, though, poof went the scholarship, even after all the physical therapy."
Another silence lingered, more oppressive than the others. Ash shook her head.
"I tried to convince him to come with me when I moved out for college. Maybe I should've gone more local or something, but… I don't know. I guess since it was the plan before, it could still be the plan but—"
In the blink of an eye, Ash found herself back in Cottonwood Falls, seated on the foot of her bed in her childhood bedroom, watching as the once towering figure of her first love hobbled back and forth in front of her, the soft thuds of his crutches echoing in her ears.
"I can't, I just can't," he repeated, almost as if it were a mantra. "To live in the fucking shadow of what I could've been if it weren't for…"
He couldn't bring himself to say the words; all he had to do was look at the crutches under his armpits for her to get the point.
"There's more in College Station than just—"
"I got somethin' here, Ashley. My uncle's gonna get me on at his—"
"Is that what you wanna do with your life?" Ashley interjected, launching to her feet, her face reddening. "You talk a big game about what you're gonna do after high school, and you're gonna settle for—"
"I ain't settlin' for shit, Ash." He said, jabbing a finger into her chest. "You think I want this shit? Nah, I'm just accepting my circumstances."
"You're givin' up, is what it sounds like to me."
"Don't you ever fuckin'—" he paused for a second, trying to find the words. "Look, guys like me, we ain't even supposed to make it fifty miles outside the county line. I had a chance, a shot in the fuckin' dark, and, well, look at me."
He gestured to himself, crutches and all.
"I had a shot, but it wasn't meant to be. It's time for me to be a grownup."
Ash's lips curled into a frown and she crossed her arms. "Then I'm stayin' right here with you."
"For someone so smart, you're the dumbest girl I've ever met. Go. People like you are supposed to leave this place. For everyone else's sake."
His eyes welled with unbidden tears he tried his hardest to wipe away. In the blink of an eye, her defiance slipped, and she embraced him, tears already streaming down her cheeks.
"Don't cry for me," he muttered. "And don't be an idiot. You got the opportunity of a lifetime, Ash. Do it for me, at least."
"I love you, Travis Leary," Ash murmured against his chest.
"I love you too."
And in the blink of an eye, Ash was back in Flatbush, wiping away tears as she took a breath, steadying her voice.
"We tried to make it work long distance, but…"
"Yeah, that hardly ever works."
Another silence, this one less paralyzing as Ash tried to find the words to—
"All's the same, maybe you guys could give it another shot. You look happy in that picture."
Ash forced a smile to her face as she turned to face Olivia once more. "Yeah, I don't think that'll—"
"— work out, yeah sure. Everyone says that. At least if you're planning on a homecoming, bring me with. I wanna meet him."
Yeah, sure. Ash thought to herself, as she allowed her head to rest on Olivia's shoulder. I guess we could do that.