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Jaron’s back slams into the canvas. He rolls out of the pin. Again. Another kick out. Jaron’s lungs scream at him. His whole upper body is a morass of bright yellow pain. He’s probably reinjured his neck, or maybe the his shoulder isn’t holding up as well as it should.
Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Kick out. All he does is make something out of nothing.
Red snarls above him, distant and echoey. The crowd boos when Red’s entrance theme hits, boos when he takes off his sunglasses, boos when he lands a move. He doesn’t even hit people in the back, just uses them against each other, same thing the crowd will cheer for in anyone else. Jaron’s not actually sure the crowd likes him, but they’ll cheer anyone over Red.
That’s just how the crowd is sometimes, maybe. Fickle. Today it like him. Tomorrow, who knows?
Jaron’s back is still on the canvas. The ref counts. Ten seconds before he has to get up. Ten seconds to figure out how he’s going to make any of this work. Ten seconds to pray to God.
A thousand voices count in unison with the ref. Seven. Eight.
Jaron rolls over to the ropes. Hauls himself up, streaky pain every time he uses the muscles in his back. But he broke the count, so he still has a chance to win.
Red stands tall, fighting stance aggressive. His breath is fast but steady. He gestures, open hand scooping towards him. Come at me.
Jaron knows he has to look like death warmed over, letting the ropes prop him up, not enough strength in his arms to hold them up. He can take Red, but not all the way. At some point the pain wins. Determination only gets you so far.
They meet in the middle. There’s not enough strength in Jaron’s arms to do anything. It’s comical how easily Red overpowers him.
The crowd boos. At least they care. It’d be worse if they were silent.
Red comes in for the scoop-slam.
There is a dizzying moment: face above the canvas. Confronting the inevitable. Maybe this is what it feels like in the moments before death. Realizing you’re going to heaven or hell and there’s nothing you can do about it, not anymore, all the different choices that have already passed you by.
Impact.
Jaron lands right on the third vertebra below his skull. The world explodes in hideous light and colors. Hallucinations. There is a ringing sound that slowly fades into the the boos of the crowd.
That’s Red’s music they’re playing. That’s Red’s arm hooking his leg, holding him down. Oh. Oh. Jaron lost.
The pain in his neck fades from the only thing in the universe to a nagging, unforgettable burn. Jaron lets his cheek lie still on the canvas. Shuffling sounds from above that have to be Red getting his hand raised by the ref.
“Sorry it had to happen like this, man,” Red says. He extends a hand from on high.
Jaron looks at it with dull confusion. “Don’t — don’t act like you wanted anything else.”
Red keeps holding his hand out. It’s an offer of help, probably better than anything Red could say directly. The crowd is screaming; someone yells, louder than anyone else, not to do it.
“Next time,” Jaron says. He levers himself up with hands that feel four feet away from him.
Red snorts. “You think there’ll be a next time?”
Jaron’s already leaving. You’re never supposed to turn your back on your opponent, but Red’s not really an enemy. He’s gunning for the title, so he’s gunning for Rek. Jaron’s just a stepping-stone. Not worth backstabbing.
Past the entrance curtain, just out of the sight of the crowd, Jaron lets himself touch his neck. The pain slowly, slowly subsides.
“That looked bad,” Bacon says. “Real bad.”
There’s no blood on Jaron’s hand. Small mercies. “I can get through it.”
Bacon’s mouth twists. “That’s what you said last time.”
“And I got through it last time.” Jaron snorts. “Anyway, there goes your five-step plan to get the belts.”
“So I’ll make it a seven-step plan,” Bacon says. “I’m not gonna let you wind up — well, you know what could happen. I don’t know why I’m saying this.”
“Let’s just go,” Jaron says. “I’m hungry. Let’s get Planet and go for food or something.”
“Yeah, okay,” Bacon says. “There’s a new pancake place on the way back home. Looked pretty cheap.”
It’s a matter of routine at this point to get showered and changed and sling all their gear in the back of Planet’s beaten-up Corolla whose gas money Jaron’s been funding for years. The passenger seat belt is frayed nearly through, and the radio dials stick badly enough that they just leave it on 104.9 and deal with the insipid DJ.
“That match was a mess,” Planet says. “I don’t know why multi-man tags were invented. I’ve never tagged with any of those guys.”
“Gotta throw more people on the card.” Bacon kicks the passenger seat, jarring Jaron’s neck. He always gets annoyed when it’s his turn to sit in the back. “Hey, it’s a paycheck.”
“Would be a bigger paycheck if I could win a match.” Planet glances over at where Jaron’s sitting, face light. “Or if you or Bacon could.”
Jaron’s mouth twists. “If I keep pushing, something’ll happen. It’s gotta.”
“Gambler’s fallacy,” Bacon heckles.
“Okay, you’re not helpful at all.” Jaron crosses his arms. “I want diner food. Let’s do that, and stop — stop nitpicking.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Bacon says. “So did you hear about everything with Parrot and Rek?”
The rest of the drive passes in companionable gossip. If Jaron doesn’t think about his neck, it mostly stops hurting.
*
“You’re kidding me,” Jaron says.
Bacon grimaces, but his shoulders are shaking like he’s suppressing a laugh. “Nope. Rubber match. They’re putting you back up against Red.”
“It’s been a week! They really couldn’t find anything better to do with him?” Jaron knows as he says it that it’s futile. He needs to start planning. Learning from last time.
“That’s why it’s a rubber match,” Bacon says. He mimes bouncing with his hands. “That’s you. And Red, I guess.”
“The booker is really trying to get him that title shot, I guess.” Jaron rolls his neck. It twinges. “Easier to justify with a good win-loss record.”
“You won’t let him win,” Bacon says. “I know you. You don’t know when to quit.”
Jaron shrugs. “I doubt he does either.”
“We’ll see.” Bacon knocks his shoulder against Jaron. “Want me to come out with you? Moral support at ringside?”
“Nah,” Jaron decides. “You’ve got a match, too. Don’t wear yourself out.”
Match time rolls around way too fast. Jaron loses himself in the rhythm of working out, training, giving rides, missing home. He’s behind the entrance curtain with Red, fragile moment of tentative alliance before they try to crush each other.
The problem is that everyone wants the same thing. Maybe the Buddhists had it right.
“May the best man win,” Red says. It somehow doesn’t come off as dismissive, just a touch smug.
Jaron nods. “See you.”
Time for his entrance. It rolls by in a blur: music, walk out, high-five the kid in the front row. Wait.
Red has his entrance routine down pat: blaring intro horns, settling into something synth-y. Three beats, then Red burst through the curtain. The crowd bays for his blood; he revels in it ostentatiously. It’s not the first time Jaron’s seen it, and it won’t be the last.
Formalities with the referee, and then they’re in the thick of it.
Red starts the same way as last time, goes for a knuckle-lock. Jaron doesn’t take it. They’ve established that Red is stronger than him; he doesn’t need to prove it twice.
Jaron goes for the elbow to the head instead, lands a solid hit. Red goes for a chop in return. Small mercy: Jaron’s breath punches out of his chest, but it wasn’t an elbow.
They trade strikes. It’s even. That’s the problem with he and Red: they fight exactly the same way. Except Jaron has his neck, and his shoulder, and Red has exactly the same endless well of determination to pull from.
Eventually, Red pulls back, goes for the suplex. They get stuck circling around each other, no one gaining an upper hand. The minutes tick by. It’s all a waste of stamina, just wearing each other down.
Jaron has to go all in. Figure out something stupid, or something that’ll hurt. He wonders if Bacon’s watching. Hopefully not.
He starts climbing the turnbuckle as soon as there’s a pause.
Red cocks his head, clearly analyzes the situation. His chest is heaving, but so is Jaron’s. After a second, he moves towards the turnbuckle. All according to plan so far. It’s just the parts that come next that might be tricky.
Jaron drops down to the second turnbuckle. Red frowns, then starts climbing the ropes too.
He knows about Jaron’s neck. Red’s going to be sure he can get the upper hand with anything high-impact.
He’s wrong.
It’s only a few seconds for Red to get to the second turnbuckle, even. Jaron grabs his shoulder, hooks an arm around Red’s neck and heaves. He’s heavy, terrifyingly so, but with the element of surprise Jaron can heave him into the
And then: the inevitable. The heaven-hell moment where you figure out which way gravity will take you.
Except Jaron isn’t dead, at least not yet. His calves catch on the top rope. He hangs, upside-down, skull a foot from the unpadded canvas of the ring apron.
Red tumbles. He collides with the apron with a sickening thud, then falls gracelessly to the laminate floor.
Jaron heaves himself up. His whole upper body screams in a familiar kind of pain.
But he’s standing, and Red isn’t.
The ref counts.
Jaron stares as Red slowly, slowly rolls over.
Seven. Eight.
Red gets to his knees, lifts a hand.
Nine. The crowd screams, joyful and overwhelming.
Red’s hand is on the apron.
Ten.
A sound makes its way out of Jaron’s throat.
Red looks up. His bleary eyes find Jaron’s.
For some reason, Jaron almost wants to apologize. He doesn’t. He just ducks out of the ropes and extends a hand to Red.
Red looks at it for a long moment. His mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I have a brand to keep up, you know.”
Jaron snorts. “Let’s not do this again.”
“I’ve got bigger fish to fry,” Red says. “Have fun with Bacon and Planet. Seriously. This isn’t worth it.”
“So why do you do it?” Jaron’s got a second at most before the ref starts getting impatient. They’re on a timeline.
“Nothing else is more worth it, I guess,” Red says. “Good luck.”
“…Thanks,” Jaron says. He suddenly wishes he had taken Bacon up on his offer, that Bacon was at ringside to diffuse the tension or uncomplicate the situation or remind Jaron of his seven-point plan.
But he hadn’t.