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Cody was buzzing with an energy he couldn’t quite name. Literally, his blood was thrumming like a live wire, his palms couldn’t decide between fidgeting and clenching, and his mouth had gone bone-dry at least three times in the last ten minutes.
He’d just publicly declared his intention to participate in WarGames against BronBron Logan by siding with Punk, and he hadn’t stopped shaking since.
He’d like to blame this one on pure impulsivity, but that would’ve been a lie. He’d had a long, meticulous, borderline contractual discussion with Hunter about it, filled with so many assurances, conditions, and don’t-make-me-regret-this’s that Cody had left the office with a headache and a promise-heavy heart. Still, Hunter had given him the green light.
Come November 29th, Cody Rhodes would be locked inside a double steel cage with nine other men. Four of whom, he had no idea who they’d be. Which, really, was a detail he should’ve clarified before publicly signing himself up for hell.
Right now, he was pacing the length of Punk’s locker room. The man was the current Heavyweight Champion, and thus owned the most luxurious locker room on Raw, bar Roman. So, by proximity, and for reasons Cody could not yet justify, it had become Cody’s new stomping ground.
He was aware he only paced when he felt guilty. Roman had told him once, in that uncomfortably knowing tone that made Cody feel like his mind had been read and neatly filed away. Cody had laughed it off at the time, but the observation had lodged itself somewhere deep. And now, he was pacing once more, which meant something in him felt wrong.
Why he felt guilty tonight, though, he couldn’t quite figure out.
“Cody, will you sit?” Punk groaned from the couch, his eyes glued to his phone. “You’re giving me vertigo and I’m not even looking at you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m on edge,” Cody said before dropping into Punk’s couch.
It was not quite as plush as the one the company tended to lug around for Roman, and Cody found himself frowning as his fingers brushed the unfamiliar texture of the armrest.
“Why?” Punk asked flatly, still scrolling. “You nervous? Or did someone take your stars and stripes cape away again?”
Cody exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. I just feel—remarkably tense for some reason.”
Punk finally looked up, frowning. “This isn’t your first WarGames, is it? Because if it is, I swear to God, I’ll march right up to Pearce and tell him I’m not babysitting—”
“It is not my first WarGames,” Cody interrupted, cutting off what was already shaping up to be one of Punk’s infamous lectures.
He had participated in a WarGames match on the same side as Seth Rollins. The event particularly stuck with Cody because that was the night Punk had made his triumphant return, and it had taken every single man in the cage, Cody included, to keep Rollins from clawing Punk’s face off before the cameras even got their reaction shots. It was rather funny that Punk himself didn’t even remember. Or maybe he did, and he just enjoyed pretending otherwise.
“Then all you gotta do is relax,” Punk said. “Bronson and Bronson share a single brain cell, and Logan—no offense, is blonde. So that tells you everything you need to know.”
Cody raised an eyebrow. He wanted to be offended, really, he did, but it wasn’t like he was naturally blond either. And, well, Punk wasn’t wrong.
“The only one we should be wary about is Heyman,” Punk went on. “But lucky for us, the guy won’t be stepping into a ring anytime in the next four millennia.”
That actually made Cody snort.
Still, his brain wouldn’t let him rest. He chewed the inside of his cheek before voicing the thought that had been quietly gnawing at him. “We have no idea who the other two members of their team are going to be.”
Punk leaned back, unbothered. “Which is why we focus on our last two members.” He waved a dismissive hand. “We need some heavy hitters to balance out the team. No offense to you or Jey.”
He waved his hand dismissively, the gesture somehow both casual and insulting.
“I feel like I should take offense anyway.” Cody blinked.
“Then do it quietly,” Punk replied without missing a beat. “Anyway, I would suggest giving Randy a call, and probably your fiancé.”
The name alone was enough to send a full parade of alarm bells clanging in his skull. The guilt that had been simmering under his skin suddenly flared up with a vengeance.
Right. That’s what had been eating him alive since he stepped out of Hunter’s office. Since he’d walked out to that ring and announced to the world, and apparently, to Roman too, that he was joining Punk’s side in WarGames. While Roman wasn’t some overbearing tyrant who needed to approve every move Cody made, this was definitely something that Cody should have discussed before stomping out to the ring.
Roman wouldn’t be furious… probably. More tired and exasperated. Maybe even disappointed, which was somehow worse, because Cody dreaded that weary silence more than any argument.
If Cody prayed hard enough, maybe he could talk his way down to a sigh and long-suffering glare.
“Why are you making that face?” Punk’s voice snapped him back to reality. He motioned around Cody’s head in vague circles. “That look right there, like you’re suddenly constipated with the concept of Roman joining—” He stopped mid-sentence, as the realization dawned in real time. His eyes narrowed. “Roman doesn’t—or didn’t know about you joining in WarGames up until tonight, did he?”
Cody opened his mouth to argue, finger raised like he had solid evidence to dispute the fact. But his brain blanked out completely, his mind unable to conjure up any answer or subterfuge. His finger dropped and he sagged back against the couch in surrender.
Punk blinked at him, then tossed his phone onto the table. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Okay—first of all,” Cody began, the words spilling out faster than thought, “Roman is not the boss of me. I am the Undisputed Champion. I don’t need to ask for his permission to fight a match.”
“Are you trying to get me killed?” Punk demanded, voice jumping an octave.
“Second of all—” Cody continued, talking over him. “I… don’t actually have a second point. But I think the first one still stands on its own.”
“Cody,” Punk clapped his hands together, inhaling and exhaling before talking slowly as if to break the point down for a very dense toddler. “No one is insinuating who tops or bottoms here.”
Cody made a noise that could best be described as a scandalized wheeze. His eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”
“What I am saying,” Punk continued blandly, without mercy, “is that your fiancé—who was hospitalized by Meathead #1 and Meathead #2, by the way—might not take it too kindly that you just volunteered yourself to tag-team in a cage with the same guys who nearly paralyzed him. And you did it without telling him first.”
Cody blinked, mouth slightly open. Oh shit.
“Ah, shit.”
Punk nodded in agreement. “Exactly.”
If Cody was being completely, one hundred percent honest with himself, he had done this on purpose.
Maybe not consciously; he hadn’t woken up, looked in the mirror, and thought, Today I’m going to ruin Roman’s blood pressure. But somewhere deep in that reckless, self-sacrificing corner of his subconscious, he knew he’d thrown himself into this match for him.
Because Bronson and Breakker hadn’t just been problems, they’d been Roman’s personal nightmares for months. They’d mocked him, blindsided him, stripped him of his shoes like some kind of twisted trophy hunt, and then hospitalized him in a beatdown that still made Cody’s blood boil if he thought about it too long.
So yeah, maybe Cody had cracked. Maybe he’d inserted himself into this match not just for WarGames, or team glory, but to settle the score on behalf of the man he loved.
Roman would be utterly livid if he ever figured it out. That kind of deadly quiet and unrelenting cold fury that wasn’t loud. Because the moment Roman realized Cody had willingly put himself on the chopping block to ‘avenge’ him, it wouldn’t matter how noble Cody’s reasoning was; it would still look like a stupid, self-destructive attempt at playing knight in shining armor.
But Cody couldn’t help it; he needed to do this. How he felt at the moment had nothing to do with logic or strategy. It was simply raw instinct, a bone-deep ache that refused to allow the people who had hurt Roman walk scot free.
He could already hear Roman’s disappointed sigh feat. jaw clench,
“From that look on your face—” CM Punk said exasperatedly, since he had somehow become an emoting translator, “—I’m gonna go ahead and guess you’re doing this as some twisted, self-righteous attempt at revenge on Roman’s behalf.”
Cody’s head jerked up. “It’s not revenge,” he said, bristling. “I’d like to think of it as... the natural consequence of their own stupid actions.”
“Cody, the last thing I need is someone turning this match into a tragic love story about avenging their fiancé. I’m not interested in your quest for romantic justice.” Punk snapped, “This is my opportunity to clean up the mess Seth conveniently fucked off and left behind, and toss his underlings in the garbage where they belong, and I am not going to let you, or Roman, or you and Roman take my attention away from that.”
He looked Cody dead in the eyes, “I will put you down first if I have to. Both of you.”
Cody stared back, his expression cooling by the second. Punk’s intensity didn’t intimidate him in the slightest; it only made his spine straighten in determination.
“Punk,” Cody said evenly, “with all due respect, I would love to see you try.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to bite into, the air practically crackling between them.
Then, Punk’s lips twitched, a slow, deliberate smirk unfurling across his face.
“By the way,” he said, voice dropping into that near-menacing calm of his, “I don’t think I congratulated you on your engagement.”
Cody tilted his head. “That’s right, you didn’t.”
“Well,” Punk drawled, “congratulations.” He gave a mocking little nod. “But I couldn’t help noticing the distinct lack of a ring.”
Cody’s nostrils flared, and his posture stiffened just enough for Punk to catch it, which, of course, only made Punk grin wider.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about the ring,” Cody said tightly, his tone clipped and dignified, which only made Punk look more entertained. “It’s right where it’s meant to be.”
Punk leaned back with his hands raised in mock surrender, eyes glinting. “Just saying.
The tension between them was winding tighter by the second when the locker room door swung open, and for once in his life, Cody could’ve kissed Jey Uso for his timing.
Jey strode in, already mid-sentence like he’d been talking to himself in the hallway. “I’m glad y’all are bonding and all,” he said, gesturing between the two, “but we got bigger problems. We need two more members to round out our team for WarGames.”
He scowled, counting off on his fingers. “Considering the frontrunners consist of me, who’s, you know, unfortunate enough to share blood with Roman—Punk, who everybody hates…” he glanced at Cody, pausing deliberately.
“And Cody,” Jey finished with a grimace. “Who is, well… Cody, that doesn’t say much for our chances of having allies.”
“Are you insinuating,” Punk started with mock offense, “that I rank higher on the dislike scale than the Stronk Boys?”
“Yes,” Jey deadpanned without hesitation.
Punk nodded. “Fair enough.”
“I’ll see what I can do about Randy,” Cody groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He owes me a couple of favors.”
“And Roman,” Punk added flatly, like it was the most obvious solution in the world.
“I don’t want Roman here,” Jey said instantly, arms crossing tight over his chest.
Cody’s agreement was instant, a full-body nope that flared before his brain could even form the words. The last thing he needed was to stand across from Roman in that WarGames cage with the weight of that look that blended disappointment and concern into one perfectly exasperated expression.
It would start with Roman trying to reason with him and end with him crossing his arms, going silent, and making Cody feel about two feet tall with nothing but a raised brow and an unimpressed sigh.
No, thank you.
This was one of those rare instances where Cody intended to stand firm, consequences be damned. He wasn’t going to let the sheer gravitational pull of Roman’s quiet disapproval sway him. Not this time.
“Well, you’re gonna have to suck it up, because we need help,” Punk said, throwing his hands up like he was explaining basic math to particularly difficult children.
“I’m with Jey,” Cody blurted out, faster than he meant to. The heat of Punk’s stare immediately landed on him like a spotlight.
“Oh, you’re with Jey,” Punk repeated incredulously.
“Two against one,” Cody said, sitting up straighter as if that would make the argument sound more logical. “We’re not calling Roman.”
For a beat, all Punk did was blink at them. Then he exhaled a sharp breath through his nose.
“Unbelievable,” Punk muttered, leaning back in his chair, irritation radiating off him in waves. “Fine. Democracy wins. Two geniuses versus the one guy who actually wants to win a match.” He tilted his head toward Cody, eyes narrowing. “So tell me, oh brave revolutionaries—who do two against one have in mind?”
Cody and Jey exchanged a quick glance, the kind that said neither of them had any idea who that might be.