010 [DWF]

They have no power over me – I know this is true but I keep handing it to them. I want them to view me as an equal. As a challenger. As an actual threat. Instead I get summarily dismissed. Betrayal is something I can accept. Being laughed at – it's happened so much I don't even hear it now. The fact that I made it here, the fact that I cleanly earned a shot at Aidan Carlisle the last time should grant me a little bit of a rub. A back-pat. A nod.

What I don't expect is this endless stream of backbiting nonsense. It's key to see the world through a different view, without the taint of your own self-importance. I am willing to go one step so you understand what my true intentions are. I want to reach that level.

That's what this is all about. I want them to look at me and see a fellow wrestler. Not some sideshow curiosity. Not some inspirational 10 o'clock news story sandwiched between more Trump nonsense and a bunch of terrorist attacks as the world continues to unravel. I'm not young. I know my best years are soon to be behind me. I'd really like to have that moment before it's slipped from my grasp forever. Validation. Life itself isn't worth a damn thing without risks. I told myself that. Now I'm telling you. Throw out all the garbage, all these trappings of fame and just exist in the moment. Real life destroys all dreams without discrimination. I know this.

Any wrestler worth their salt knows this.

You'd better believe James Raven knows this.

I'm so stupid, aren't I? I want the same thing they all do. I want a moment that's special and in the same breath I want to be the same as them. I can't have both. Such is my dilemma. 

I want to see the flashbulbs popping, wanna hear my music over the speakers with the blood pounding in my ears. I want to hold that belt to my chest and know that finally, for one moment, all the hard work I put in, all those hours I sacrificed any sort of extra-curricular life for the pursuit of this dream – this GOAL – was worth it. Is that so much to ask?

I want to be someone that will still be talked about when my time has come and gone. I think I've put enough of myself on the line to have earned that, don't you? I did. Before Aidan, before I went to FAW and was humiliated in their joke of a hardcore tournament, before Kasey Summers looked me in the eye and called me a loser, I thought I had.

Apparently, I was wrong. I'm just another cog in the wrestling machine. My name isn't meant for marquees, my face doesn't belong on posters.

It doesn't matter what they think.

I'll show up, and do what I'm supposed to do – do my best to win, to outlast another clusterfuck of a match like I did the last time. Earn another shot. Take another run at Aidan. Let life slap me back into place – stop dreaming, Max. You cannot possibly hope to win.

August 16, 2017

The lobby was deserted, the opulence understated beyond the glass and steel flash. Fancy paintings in muted colors. A fish pond with a little waterfall. The air smelled like cinnamon, vaguely like cookies and it was perfectly cool after the blazing heat outside. The sleepy security guard had taken his name and waved him to the elevator and now Max Ironside was sitting on a black leather couch, listening to the fish tank gurgling beside him. The receptionist was busy at her desk, filing her nails. It was quiet, almost ominously so – he hated to even breathe for fear it would be too loud.

Morning sunlight slanted across the space, painting a buttery yellow stripe across the marble floor and he edged his scuffed Converse into it, watching the dust motes settle down on the black fabric. With an audible sigh, he finally sat back, letting the cool, plush leather embrace him like a hug.

A voice interrupted his near doze, "Mr. Ironside? He's running a little late this morning. He'll be with you in a moment…"

Max nodded. After waiting a half an hour, he was starting to think he was invisible.

A few minutes later, a man built like a linebacker came down the hallway, sporting a smile that probably cost a few thousand dollars. "Max? Hi there, I'm Rick Wakefield. Sorry to keep you waiting-" the words actually felt sincere with that sheepish smile.

Max rose to his feet, holding out his left hand to shake – that always put people off. "It was no bother. Beats being out there in that godawful heat. New York in summer-"

"Nothing smells quite like it," Wakefield quipped. He'd been ready for the awkward shake, his massive paw completely smothering Max's hand. "Come on back to my office. Did you want something to drink? Sylvia," he called out, getting the attention of the receptionist, "could you bring some refreshments in? I'm sure Mr. Ironside is a bit parched after the trek down here-"

"It's no bother, really," Max cut in, too quiet for anyone to notice as he followed Wakefield down that hall, his shoes squeaking against the marble.

Once inside, he settled into the chair in front of Wakefield's desk.

"So, Max," Wakefield flashed that expensive veneer again, "what brings you in?"

"I…" Max swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "I think I need some professional help. I've been doing this for a while and it's really time to stop. Time to admit I've got problems doing it on my own. It's been this huge uphill battle for my whole life – not just my career – and it's starting to take its toll. I'm not performing at my best out there anymore. I'm making rookie mistakes and I need…" he broke off, shaking his head, clearly ashamed.

"There's no harm in admitting that. None whatsoever."

"You came highly recommended to me. From… someone I used to consider a friend." Max stumbled over the words, methodically squeezing the palm of his bad hand with his good one, trying to keep it from seizing up on him.

"I looked over the file. I'm happy to help in any way I can, Max. I've been a sports agent for a lot of years, ever since I blew out my knee in college. I make it a point to help people like you, those who've been-"

"Oh no," Max was quick to correct him, "I haven't been wronged. I'm not looking to make a case for a lawsuit or anything like that. I just need a little help with my image, with how I present myself."

"I see." Wakefield leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk as he steepled his fingers. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about your life, Max. Tell me the things I won't find in that file."

"What?" He hesitated, looking down at his lap as he swallowed hard. "Why's that important?"

"Because," Wakefield replied, "every hero's got to have an origin story."