7. Cheyanne

"Where do we train, though? You're persona non grata here, right? I mean with that whole debacle with Marty."

My concerned look is real. Not merely for my training but for Ronan's, too. I curse my emotions. Why do they have to hang out on my sleeve and not hide like respectable emotions?

Ronan smiles. There's a quiet assurance about the guy. I guess when you're as big and muscular as him, you can afford all that assurance. "I'll make a call. I know people."

I laugh, blush, and nervously twirl my green locks, all at the same time.

"Right. Of course, you do. What's it like being top dog?"

"That's top orc to you, missy."

I hear the cell phone connect.

"Steve, hi, it's me. You got any room in your gym? I have a wrestler who needs a place ASAP."

I watch Ronan walk away to continue the talk. Every so often, he glances my way, nods, and smiles. My stomach churns. I feel like a piece of meat on the auction block. I smile back.

"Steve's tapped out at Silver Buckles."

We both put our heads down to think.

"Listen, I started in the slums. Why don't we both go back there? Back alley gyms are great for working out kinks. No affected assholes around you, spouting their commercial bullshit. Just you and me in the ring, figuring things out."

My smile widens, then becomes a toothy grin. "Back alley gyms. I'm loving it. Lead on!"

Within a half hour, Ronan locates a mom-and-pop joint across Briarwood's train tracks, and for a cheap fee, we find ourselves standing in the center ring. The klieg lights are lit. Training or not, it's showtime. My hands are wrapped, but they're shaking like this is my first day on the ropes.

"Okay, so when I finish this ring jump…, then I land on two's, striding my opponent, and end with a leg pin. What do you think?" I stand there, puffing.

I feel like a fool. I know my face is red, not from the quick workout but from the gaffes I make. I trip over my feet on the approach to my two-handed torso maul. I roll when I should have jumped. And my ponytail gets caught up on the ropes. In my entire career, that never happened!

What am I, a drunken giraffe?I let fly some curses. Oh, great, yeah, and have a mouth like a drunken sailor, why don't ya?

I stumble to my feet like the drunken giraffe I am and wait for his critique. I'd rather be shot at dawn.

"Hm… not exactly what I expected from you. Maybe we need to back up. How ‘bout you tell me why you want to enhance the moves of Archimedes instead of developing a new character brand?"

Ronan holds the ropes open, and we duck out and sit on the bleachers. He looks off into the distance, and I lower my head in abject shame.

"Listen, I'm not used to this ring, and the lighting is off. And…"

"Okay, now that you have the excuses shelved, how bout you tell me what's really going on here?"

I raise my head and shoot him a look. One not so friendly. I'm ready to defend myself, God only knows why.

"How ‘bout you tell me what you think of my character, then? I mean, everyone else is in the line giving me their two cents worth."

"Honestly?"

"Is there any other way?"

"You're holding onto a ghost. Archimedes was a great intro for you. It got you passionate about the sport. It used a moral code you could live with. A character that made your parents proud. But it's time for a change."

"Easy for you to say."

"You heard about my blow-out with Marty. What was easy about that? And I'm still facing brand ruin if I screw things up. All I'm saying is that sooner or later, we all have to let the old go to ring in the new."

I smirk. "Lame."

"What's lame?"

"Ring in the new."

We chuckle.

"Okay, Ms. Smarty Pants. Now tell me about this new character, Disastra."

And with that invitation, I drone on and on about my arch-villain. Ronan finally puts his hand up to stop me talking.

"You know, my first character was a mess. I was an obsessive fan of The Hulk. What orc boy isn't at some point, right? And so, my dumb-as-a-post self basically copied The Hulk in a scrawny frame. When I tried to flex my pecs, nothing happened. There was nothing to flex. And my bestial growl sounded more like a pink flamingo caught in a bear trap. Orcs may grow into their hulking figures but not at the age of fifteen they don't."

I visualize this pathetic display, and I howl. Ronan's eyes spark and he chuckles.

"Okay, enough with the visuals. Are you ready to train? I mean, really train?"

I happily nod. We climb back into the ring.

"Show me one of your classic Archimedes moves but perform it as Disastra.

I stand there gobsmacked.

"Hey, you there. Yeah, you. In the shadows."

"Yes, sir." A man in overalls approaches the ring.

"What's your name?" Ronson asks the man, who I'm assuming must be part of the janitorial staff.

"Jerry, sir."

"Okay then. Hey, Jerry, could you do us a favor? We need your opinion on a move we're about to make. Could you sit there? Yeah, there, high up. And tell us what you think?"

"Sure thing. Hey, you're not…"

Ronan smiles and nods.

"Holy cow! Wait ‘til I tell the boys at the bowling alley. Can I have your autograph? I have a paper towel here."

Ronan nods. "Yeah, sure, pal. Just watch, okay?"

"Yes, sir!" Jerry sits down, leans in, and is all gleeful.

"Okay, Chey. Now, first do the move as Archimedes. Then repeat it as Disastra."

"Oh, God, I haven't. I mean, there's been no…"

Ronan and his Howitzer-powered pecs move into my personal space. "Chey, fight or flight. Which is it going to be?"

I swallow the bullfrog lodged in my throat. I quickly nod.

Ronan steps out of the way.

I decide it'll be my one-and-a-half flip off the ropes into a four-limb freeze.

"First one. Archimedes," I call to Jerry. The janitor nods.

I flip, I land. I brace all four limb points on the mat.

Jerry claps like he's cleaning chalkboard brushes. My left eyebrow lifts.

Not earth-shattering, obviously.

"Okay, same move, Jerry. But as Disastra, Lady of Doom."

I rotate my shoulders and my head. I close my eyes to visualize my villain essence, fill my lungs, stamp my right foot, and let Disastra fly. By the end, the sound of my body hitting the mat echoes in the empty space.

I look over. Jerry rockets out of his seat. His hands are clapping so fast they're a blur. And some kind of manly hoots came out that I didn't know were possible for a throat to make.

I crane my neck to check Ronan. Finally, a smile.

From behind me, I hear raucous clapping and hooting. I turn around to see it's Camie and Marie, an up-and-coming wrestler and her manager mom. Everyone in the industry knows them, but it's the first time I've seen them watch me. It's unnerving but exciting, too.

It takes me a minute to realize the noise is getting louder as other gym rats, some of whom are wrestlers I've seen on the circuit, join in. At one point, half the gym is clapping for my little show.

"Wow. Looks like you have a following."

I shake my head, trying to hold back a reflexive grin so I don't look stupid or overeager. "I think it's a fluke," I say modestly. I don't bother to tell him that there are probably more people clapping for me here than at my last official wrestling match.

"Nah. They wouldn't bother to stop and pay attention if they didn't like what they saw. You saw Jerry's reaction on your second go as Disastra. And that man doesn't know you from Adam. Passion, Chey. It's passion that rules this sport. Without it, there's nothing to watch."

I put my head on a swivel and see the bright eyes. I let the clapping and the cheers wash over me.

I blink frantically so Ronan won't see the sheen of tears that I can feel filling my eyes. He's right. I just performed the same move twice. If the move was bad, it should have been a strike both times. People like the moves, they just hate Archimedes.

And that hurts. I'm not ready to let go of Archimedes, even if everyone else is ready to see her go.

Ronan either doesn't see my upset face or he just doesn't acknowledge it. "Awareness today. Practice tomorrow. Today was hard. Tomorrow will be worse."

We both laugh, but mine is a polite chuckle. Ronan didn't get to where he is by being Mr. Nice Guy in the ring. I believe I'm in for a training awakening. My muscles have sympathy pains.

"Passion. That's all there is?" I ask, daring to look into the orc's eyes.

"Passion. If you have that, you have the world."