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Hunter had his elbow propped on the desk, chin pillowed primly on his palm as Pearce droned on, rattling off a laundry list of what sounded more like an arrest record than minor infractions from just one Raw taping.
Property damage. Manhandling of staff. Ignoring three separate directives from officials. And that was before adding in the two separate assaults by Roman, one on Bronson Reed and one on Bron Breakker.
Hunter’s gaze drifted, unimpressed, to the accused. Roman stood beside Pearce, arms crossed tight over his chest, frown set in granite. The man radiated a high level of disinterest, looking every inch like someone who had better things to do. Hunter knew for a fact that Roman would have been anywhere but here if not for the fact that he, personally, had sent for him.
“So Bronson’s in Medical?” Shawn piped up from the visitor’s chair across from the desk. He was sipping coffee from a mug shaped like a cowboy boot, legs spread comfortably as he craned his neck to look up at Pearce, who loomed over him.
Pearce blinked, caught off guard. “No, Bronson isn’t in Medical, he—”
“Okay…” Shawn frowned, set his coffee mug on the desk, and swung one leg over the chair’s armrest so he could face Pearce more comfortably. “Then Bron is in Medical?”
Pearce exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, neither of them are in Medical. The issue here is Roman refusing to follow orders.”
“You have any of your security put their hands on me again, and next time I’ll hospitalize them,” Roman cut in, voice low and sharp with threat, eyes narrowing as he stalked a half-step closer to Pearce.
“Roman.” Hunter raised his chin from his palm. Just that single word, uttered firmly, had Roman halting and stepping back with a short, irritated snarl.
“There. See?” Shawn said, gesturing helpfully at Roman. “He doesn’t like people touching him.”
“Or my things,” Roman added, as though that needed clarification.
“Or his things,” Shawn nodded solemnly, picking up the thread without missing a beat. “And therein lies the problem.”
Hunter turned his head slowly, pinning Shawn with a look. Don’t encourage him.
Shawn just sipped from his mug, wholly unrepentant.
“I’ll handle it,” Hunter sighed at last, leaning back in his chair, as he resolutely resigned himself to wrangling toddlers. He gave Pearce a brief, dismissive nod. “Thank you.”
Pearce’s lips tightened, clearly unhappy with the lack of accountability, then, true to form, made a show of straightening his suit jacket, buttoning it theatrically before pivoting toward Roman. The glance he shot the Tribal Chief was thick with disdain, punctuated by a scoff that practically vibrated with years of stress.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the four of them in silence.
“Hmm.” Shawn tapped the rim of his cup against Hunter’s desk. “I like him.”
“That didn’t go as terribly as I thought it would, either,” Cody piped up from his own seat next to Shawn. He’d been unusually quiet through the whole ordeal, but now his eyes darted around the room, testing the waters.
“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that,” Hunter replied dryly, not even looking at him.
His fingers interlocked over his stomach, gaze shifting pointedly to Roman. He had the patience of a man who had already sat through three crises before lunch and suspected a fourth was on the horizon.
“Look.” Roman’s voice snapped through the office as he paced the length of the room, shoulders coiled and every step a promise of bad decisions. “Bronson Reed in Paris? Fine. That’s the match. I don’t care—I’ll beat his ass in front of a thousand French people.” He paused, jaw working. “However. Bronson Reed plus a faction of clowns breathing down my neck at ringside? Nah. You’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m walking into Paris with that stacked against me.”
Hunter’s eyebrow lifted, the tiniest inch of disbelief. “Clowns?” he echoed. “That’s Seth Rollins, Paul Heyman, and Bron Breakker. Not exactly a clown car, Roman.” His tone was flat.
Cody shrugged and began to count on his fingers. “Seth is a clown, Paul’s a leech, and Bron Breakker is—” He groped for the right comparison and found it, perfectly earnest. “—he’s basically Big Dog Roman from an alternate universe.”
Shawn, perched on the corner of the desk with his cup cradled to his chest, chuckled into his mug. “Alternate universe,” he echoed, amusement softening his voice. He looked at Cody, then at Roman, cataloguing their affectionate glances with a wry air.
Roman didn’t smile. He squared his shoulders, eyes flashing. “Long story short: I don’t need three different kinds of distractions when I’m trying to finish Bronson. So if I need to take them off the board now, you bet I’m taking them off the board now.”
Hunter’s folded hands moved to the desk; his voice even. “Roman, you can’t just deliberately attempt to cripple staff—”
Roman’s response was a snarl. “Then you better tell Pearce to bar them from ringside.”
Hunter inhaled slowly, weighing a thousand angles. “We can’t just ban people from ringside every time somebody’s uncomfortable, either,” he said. “Paul isn’t even a licensed competitor, for God’s sake. We’ll deal with it.”
“Deal with it?” Roman spat, hands flying. “Hunter, that is not good enough.” The room tightened around him; even the fluorescent hum of the office felt louder.
Shawn, ever the innocuous instigator, raised his palms, asking for the floor. “Sorry, excuse me.” He cocked a brow at everyone. “I thought Seth had a fatal four-way with Jey, Punk, and Knight?”
Cody jerked his chin at Roman in translation. “Watch Seth take interest in plotting to screw him,” he said flatly, “instead of being worried about that.”
Roman’s stare sliced to Hunter. The man’s voice dropped to the tone he used when he was both pleading and commanding. “And you know he’s gonna do it, Hunter.”
Hunter looked at Shawn, then at Cody, then back at Roman. For a moment, there was only the soft clack of fingertips on leather and the low stadium hum drifting through the window.
Shawn’s grin widened; he loved nothing more than being theatrical. “Oh, I love this dynamic. Both of you should visit sometime.”
“Shawn, don’t encourage them,” Hunter muttered long-suffering, scrubbing a frustrated hand down his face.
Roman folded his arms again and stared Hunter down. “So? What’s it gonna be? You barring them from ringside, or do I gotta walk into Paris and start breaking contracts myself?”
Hunter exhaled, a long, bone-deep sigh that seemed to carry the weight of hundreds of bickering staff. He looked so wrung out, even his beard was tired of holding its shape. The worst part? He knew this wouldn’t be the last time he would have this conversation this week. Not by a long shot. Clash in Paris couldn’t come soon enough, if only because maybe then he’d get five uninterrupted minutes of peace.
“I’ll consider barring Bron,” Hunter said slowly, carefully picking his battles. “I’ll also remind Seth he’s got his own fight. But if you’re asking me to keep Heyman away as well, you’re pushing it.”
Roman leaned forward, his frown tightening into something lethal. His arms uncrossed, palms pressing flat against Hunter’s desk, and his voice dropped low. “Push harder.”
Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Roman—”
“He’ll do his best,” Shawn interrupted breezily, cutting his husband off before Hunter could launch into what Shawn privately called his pre-recorded management speech. He’d heard it so many times he could recite it word for word, complete with dramatic sighs.
“Shawn!” Hunter snapped, though without real bite.
Shawn ignored him and turned in his chair to face Cody, who had been sitting quietly waiting his turn. “What about you? Any complaints to add to the pile?”
Cody shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Not really. I could ask for Drew’s head on an Undisputed Championship match-shaped platter, but I figured that could wait until Roman finishes his thing.” His gaze slid sideways to Roman, and his tone softened almost instinctively. “I’m only here for emotional support. For now.”
Roman didn’t acknowledge it outwardly, but Hunter caught the faintest twitch of his jaw, a nearly imperceptible tell that Cody’s words had landed.
“Well,” Shawn said brightly, flashing a grin at Hunter, “how do you argue with that?”
Hunter let out another sigh that sounded like it had been fermenting for decades. “Thank you, Roman. Cody.” His eyes flicked between the pair of them, full of managerial suffering and the faintest dash of affection. “I assure you, I’ll handle it as best I can.”
Cody gave a solemn nod and rose from his seat, falling into step beside Roman as they headed toward the door. Roman, however, stopped at the threshold. He turned back, and for the first time all meeting, his tone dipped into something that wasn’t anger or defiance. Something that almost sounded like pleading.
“Hunter,” he said evenly, though there was weight behind it, “your best better be enough.”
Then he was gone, Cody following him out, the door clicking shut with a soft finality.
A beat of silence.
“Ahhh,” Shawn cooed, dragging the single syllable into a taunting sing-song. He clasped his hands dramatically over his chest. “Young love. Remember when we used to support each other emotionally?”
Hunter snorted at his husband’s romanticized version of their history, the sound sharp and humorless, because that never happened. Not even close. The earlier iterations of their relationship had mostly revolved around violence, and not the fun, productive kind either. Theirs was the kind of chaos where bruises were badges, and apologies came with a round of unsolicited sparring. They had spent years perfecting the art of beating the hell out of each other, and somehow, in the process, carving out their own bizarre version of love.
The therapy bills alone had been obscene, and not just for the physical damage.
“I have no earthly idea what you’re remembering,” Hunter said finally, voice tight with a mix of disbelief and bemusement as he leaned back in his chair. “If you’ve started manifesting things that never happened, perhaps it’s time we booked a doctor’s appointment.”
Shawn smirked, unfazed. “C’mon, Hunt, you gotta admit they remind you a little of young us. Tall, looming, and emotionally constipated—that’s you.”
Hunter’s brows arched dangerously. “Are you somehow insinuating that you’re Cody in this instance? Because I’m pretty sure young you lacked the emotional maturity by a wide margin—”
“Hey!” Shawn exclaimed, mock offense flaring across his face, hands flying in exaggerated indignation. “I supported you!”
“Supported me? With well-timed, well-placed kicks to the jaw. Yeah, you really outdid yourself there.” Hunter leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, remembering the days when his dental plan lived in fear of Sweet Chin Music.
“People are different,” Shawn insisted, waving his hands as he bought into his own nonsense. “What works for one person doesn’t necessarily work the same for another. You can’t just dismiss my methods outright!”
Hunter chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, but you never even tried a solution that didn’t involve booting me in the face. In fact, the only reason you’ve stopped is because your legs can’t reach that high anymore.”
That earned him a withering death glare. And Hunter laughed harder as Shawn leaned back with a dramatic flourish, thumping his cowboy boots onto the desk ominously, one after the other, soles practically hitching under Hunter’s nose.
“Say something stupid, I dare you,” Shawn threatened, affection looming under the threat.
“You’re the love of my life,” Hunter said instantly, placing a solemn hand over his heart.
Shawn considered this, then gave a smug nod. “Wise choice.”
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, Hunter leaning back in his chair, Shawn sipping the last dregs of his coffee. Finally, Hunter asked, “You think those two are actually going to get hitched, or is this something short-term?”
“Depends on when Roman asks,” Shawn replied easily, setting his empty cup down on the desk beside his boots. “Too soon, and Cody’ll think it’s just adrenaline. Too late, and it looks like a pity proposal.”
Hunter barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Wait, wait, wait. You seriously think Roman is going to propose? Roman?”
“Yes,” Shawn said with total conviction, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. “Have you seen the way the man looks at Cody?”
Hunter scoffed, incredulous. “You know Cody tried to give Roman a match in Paris? He cornered me with this pitch about how Roman was upset about not having a title shot. So Cody was going to volunteer his Undisputed Championship, just so Roman could win it and not feel terrible anymore.”
“That’s sweet,” Shawn said without missing a beat. “And I’m telling you, that right there is why Roman’s going to propose. Man would be stupid to let a guy like that slip.”
Hunter jabbed a finger at him like he’d caught him in a lie. “Wrong. Cody is literally Blond and Sweet with a capital B and S. He’s the type of guy who walks around with a ring already in his pocket, just waiting for the perfect dramatic sunset to pop the question. It’s going to be him.”
Shawn scratched at his jaw, eyes narrowing in mock thoughtfulness, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the gears turning.
“Hunt,” Shawn said at last, his voice dropping into that mischievous lilt Hunter had learned to fear, “I’ll make you a deal.” Swinging his boots down from the desk with a heavy thud, he leaned forward on his palms, wedding ring catching the office light.
“A wager in fact,” he declared, eyes sparking. “If whoever we pick actually proposes, the picker wins.”
Hunter pushed up from his chair, straightening to his full imposing height and folding his arms. His eyes narrowed. “The picker wins what?”
Shawn smirked, shrugging one shoulder with faux nonchalance. “If Cody proposes, you can pick whatever you want. Sky’s the limit.”
“And if Roman proposes?” Hunter pressed.
“When Roman proposes—” Shawn corrected, grin wide and wolfish, “—I get to pick a new ring for our anniversary.”
His gaze flicked down to the gleaming, offending band of metal on his finger, and he had to bite back a sigh. It had been fifteen years. Fifteen long, stubborn, love-drunk years of wearing what could only be described as a Viking raider’s lost treasure chest melted down and fused with a cursed pirate doubloon.
The ring was heavy, over-engraved, and had once stabbed him in the hand when he tried clapping too hard. He’d nearly said no to Hunter’s proposal on principle alone the first time he glanced the jewelry. And every time he brought up swapping it out, Hunter had smirked and tossed out the cruelest joke of their marriage: “Whoever proposed first gets to pick the ring.”
That had been the end of it. Because Hunter had already played that card, and Shawn was not about to re-propose just to fix his jewelry. He had principles… now. Perhaps he would add that to his list of reasons when trying to convince Roman to propose first.
His and Hunter’s fifteenth anniversary was around the corner. The stars were aligned, fate was handing him this opportunity on a platter, and Shawn Michaels did not squander gifts from the heavens. If he played his cards right, and he always did, he’d be sporting a new, sleek, comfortable silver ring come Christmas.
Hunter’s lips curved into a grin that said he knew exactly what Shawn was plotting. “Deal. But when Cody proposes—and I win—we’re upgrading.” His eyes lit with mischief. “I found this shop. Leather and Antiques.”
Shawn groaned loudly, already envisioning the nightmare-fuel of a shop. He shivered involuntarily as the smell of old leather wafted from his imagination and hit him in reality.
“Really interesting mix, almost like it was built with me in mind.” Hunter mused, far too smug, “Anyway, I've had my eye on a pair of rings there for a while, Norse inscriptions, a little ironwork. I think it would make a wonderful replacement for our fifteenth anniversary.”
Shawn glared at him. The mere thought of another Norse-inspired monstrosity on his hand made his skin crawl. Absolutely not. He wasn’t letting Hunter win this one. He could already picture it: a ring so heavy it bent his fingers at a forty-five-degree angle. Maybe with a wolf’s head carved into it. Or a sword motif. Or God forbid, a cross.
“Do we have a deal?” Hunter finally stretched out his hand.
Of course, it was the left hand. The one wearing his own matching version of their intimidating, medieval torture device of a wedding ring. Shawn rolled his eyes to the ceiling, muttered a prayer, and took it.
Hunter’s grip was firm as he used it to yank Shawn around the desk and into his space. Their fingers interlocked, and before Shawn could quip his way free, Hunter tugged him into a kiss that was hot enough to knock Shawn’s cowboy hat halfway off his head.
When they pulled apart, Hunter reached up and tilted the hat back into place with a smirk. “There,” he said simply, voice low and satisfied. “Now we have a deal.”
Shawn stared at him for a long moment, lips still tingling. Then he jabbed a finger into Hunter’s chest. “You just enjoy your final moments as a Sexy Pirate, Hunt. Because the day Roman proposes, I’m marching us straight to Tiffany’s, and you’re not stopping me.”
Hunter chuckled, low and dangerous, clearly thrilled by the challenge. “Cody is gonna beat him to it, cowboy. And when I win, you’ll be rocking a ring so badass, Odin himself will weep with envy.”
Shawn groaned again, throwing his head back in agony. “God, give me strength.”