12. Ronan

The girls' first show went well in the end, but I know we're going to have to keep the momentum going. So I'm going to take them with me to check out another venue where we might be able to add some matches. An unassuming joint that would work for all three of us. One we could use to test the waters in our new brands.

"You gals ready? Let's hit it."

"Coming," Camie and Chey chorus.

Chey and Camie are dressed in warm-up suits, ball caps, and oversized sunglasses. I get the look. They don't want to be recognized. I gulp down my urge to laugh. Instead of fighting the system, I join it, and throw on my shades, too. Autograph hounds are the last thing any of us need right now.

"Where are we off to?" Chey jumps in the front seat.

I smirk. "Better I show you than tell you."

In the rearview mirror, I see Camie screw up her face. She's right not to trust me. I smile back.

The girls stay quiet as I drive them into the seedier part of town. I feel them both tense up as soon as the wheels cross the railroad tracks.

"Take a chill pill. I'm not leading us into the fiery gates of Hell."

Camie in the backseat and Chey in the front both flash me bug-eyed stares.

After a couple of lefts and a right, we travel deeply into Briarwood's industrial park where machine shops, car chop shops, and biker gang hideouts populate the back streets. Nestled at the end of Church Road — named after a mob-connected and wholly agnostic councilman — is the Bang-ga-lang, one of the oldest wrestling venues in the state. It's owned and operated by Bob Galang, a former heavyweight in the industry, who had just about won every silver buckle championship that was worth winning.

I park in front and quit the engine. "We're here."

I look over at Chey. I can tell she's fighting for something to say that will not hurt my feelings. Her visible struggle alone makes me want to laugh. I clear my throat instead.

Camie, Chey, and I get out. Before we can close the doors, Bob bashes through the front door, bellowing. "Well, I'll be damned! As I live and breathe. If it isn't Ronan Bronson."

Bob lumbers down the stairs and bear hugs me. I bear hug him back. We both manage not to break bones.

I glance over at the girls. They're standing back, and it hits me that probably neither of them has come face-to-face with a Bigfoot. Bob is eight foot, six inches, about four feet wide, and covered in long bristle-brown hair.

Bob's odor hasn't changed a bit. Still a mix of beef jerky, bourbon, and chewing tobacco. Regardless of what the so-called Bigfoot research community experts say, Bigfoots do not stink. They like baths like everyone else.

I consider telling the girls Bob's actually the runt of his family's litter. But I'm doubtful it would get their jaws off the ground. I figure they'll get used to his size.

Bob slaps me on the back. His black eyes bore into mine. He doesn't even turn to acknowledge the girls. Bob's an asshole like that.

"How long has it been? Four years, five?" Bob flashes his Chicklet-gum-like toothy grin.

"At least five, I figure."

"Listen, you lout. I forgive your absence ‘cause I'm such a Lawless fan. But I'm damn glad you finally showed your face. Come on in."

Bob finally looks over at Camie and Chey and makes way for them to enter the venue first. But he still doesn't say a word. I know Bob's supposed snobbery won't go down well with Chey. I'll worry about smoothing over that slight later. It's time to make a deal with my old wrestling buddy.

The four of us enter the main ring area. The bleachers are the old wooden type with more coats of paint than there are colors in the rainbow. The arena lighting is old, perching on a rickety iron catwalk above. The bulbs offer more glare than illumination. The ring has seen better days, too, but the ropes are good and strong and the floor is level. What more can a fighter ask for?

Bob ushers us to the judge's table, and we take our seats. He slams his giant hands on top. The girls jump, but Bob just stares at me. "Okay, pal, ‘fess up. Why are you here? I know this is no friendly coffee klatch you're after."

Bob always gets straight to the point. I like that about Bob.

"We three are looking for a venue. Simple as that."

Bob leans back in the chair and crosses his massive arms, the hair strands swinging in unison. "Makes sense. I noticed you and your Lawless character were AWOL in the town's main arenas. No newspaper sports page headlines. No line-up promotions."

I clear my throat, unsure I want to go down that road. "Yeah, well, things change. Chey here and I are trying out new moves and new character brands, and we need a constant venue to do that. My mind went straight to yours. Low key, where we can iron out the kinks."

Bob's black eyes sparkle. He slams the table once more. None of us jump this time.

"Hot damn! Sure, the Bang-ga-lang is all yours. Me and my investors would be pleased as hell to have a big ticket like yours to fill the rafters."

I make no mention of Chey's falling fan numbers or my rift with Murphy. What Bob doesn't know is better for us.

"That's good, real good. Listen, about the place…"

Bob leans forward. "Don't say another word. My boys can clean up the joint for you and the little ladies here. Redo the locker rooms. Get in the supplies you need. Don't you worry your handsome orc head about details like that."

I look over at Chey and Camie. With or without their shades, their first impression of Bob isn't good. Chey looks like she wants to punch the big galoot into tomorrow, and Camie looks like she'd like to throw a grocery bag over his smug face. Bob's macho vibe isn't hitting on all feminist cylinders. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out this has been a huge mistake.

"Right. Listen, bud, let us think it over. We really have to scram. Agent meetings to attend, all three of us. I'll call you."

I nuzzle the girls to the front door, and they quickly get the message and happily oblige. It's not until we get outside that I realize my arm has been around Chey's waist the entire time like it was the most natural thing to do. Most surprisingly, Chey doesn't seem to mind because she hasn't said a word.

She smells like fruity body spray, something with melon and grapefruit. It sets my nostrils flaring as I fight the urge to lean in closer, to take another whiff.

I shake off the shock and get into the car before Bob can lumber out and drag us back in.

* * *

The three of us start our warmups and stretch back in our gym. No one says a word about Bob and the Bang-ga-lang. I'm relieved.

"Look at the time, guys. I have to go. Mom's expecting me back at The Faun."

Chey and I wave goodbye and keep at our routine. There's no time to waste. We have to nail down the moves, the both of us. Counting on getting the ring cues right by a wing and a prayer will not cut it.

Chey and I are alone in the center ring again. It feels good. We're both focused and driven. No words are needed. Others are training around us, but to me, the world has shrunk to our ring alone.

I stop my stretching and look over at Chey. Her moves are so fluid. She makes it all look so easy. There's no doubt she's from wrestling royalty. It's as if she was born to wrestle in the ring. While I've had to work like a dog to get my sketches down, Chey seems to float through hers.

At some point, I realize I'm not just appreciating Chey as a colleague. It's become more than that. My body is reacting as an orc. All senses are on the alert. The arousal alert. It's a real attraction I have to her, and I think I've just been playing it off all along. Lately, I can't deny it.

The look she gives me says it all. She thinks I'm cute, even if she doesn't want to admit it on a regular basis. I shake off the thought as another floods my mind.

I think back to the meeting with Bob and my arm around her the entire time. Chey didn't fidget, didn't move. The attraction has to be mutual. There is no fight between us to have it be otherwise. My assumption Chey paid me no mind at all from our first meeting must have been dead wrong, or maybe I've grown on her.

Truthfully, I always thought she was hot, but this feels like… more.

I lower my head to do the leg stretches. I don't feel the muscles pull. I don't feel any pain. My mind is a whirl at my recent realization. I'm filled with a mix of unbridled joy that makes me want to grab her and carry her away, but also deep uneasiness, knowing a romantic relationship will only make things worse. But for whom, though? For her or for me?

I can't lie. For me. For her. For us both. For our brands, our careers, our everything. An orc and a human? What the hell am I thinking?

To shed the disquieting thoughts, I jump to my feet and start my foot routine. Keep moving, keep ducking, keep swaying. Think of the moves. Think of the fans, the routine, the ring. Think of anything but her.

I call out. "Heading for the showers."

Chey nods and quickly waves. She's completely in her zone. Good.

I jump out and head for the lockers. I'm not in panic mode, but I'd be lying if I said my mind isn't racing. The what-ifs start piling high. The big picture seems impossible. When have wrestling romances ever worked? Ever lasted? They're just flashes in the pan. Passion that quickly peters out.

I shed my workout clothes and hit the hot water. No matter the deluge on my body, my mind won't let go.

Chemistry and the desire to pursue her are driving me. How does an orc overcome the urge?

Under the shower spray, my mouth fills with water as I whisper. "I don't."