007: Destination Unknown [OCW, Block Party Finals]

IT'S THE DESTINATION that matters, not the journey. Sure, it's nice to watch the scenery go by, nice to see the landscape change but the ARRIVAL is what it's all about. I'm not really sure that James Raven understands how much this tournament means to me, how much this second chance – wait, is it a third chance now? Either way, I don't think a guy like James Raven or even a multi-time champion like Duce Jones really understands where I'm coming from. Raven was in Defiant, was in several other companies at the same time. He gets around and not much has changed where that's concerned. I did that for a while. Worked double header weekends in different states, losing sleep and going from one community center to another. The guy went through the motions, barely trying, hardly invested and they still billed him like he was the second coming – he seeded higher than me, despite the fact that he'd already shown his particular shade of yellow where this company is concerned after the whole Aidan Collins debacle. Don't twist this around. I'm not saying I'm envious or bitter, not by any stretch of the imagination. It is what it is and I accepted that a long time ago.

Self-discovery is a wonderful thing. So is self-awareness. I know I'm not the biggest guy in that locker room. I know I'm not the fastest or the most charismatic. I'm not a legend or a veteran and while I've been at this for nearly a decade, my name isn't one that's whispered in certain circles with any level of awe or reverence.

If you do what you feel is right, there's a price to pay. Sometimes it's a steep one. Life's quirky like that, you know?

When you do something you love, despite the odds stacked against you, only some people are going to like it. Others will loathe it – they'll tell you loudly and often how wrong you are to chase a dream. They'll say you need to have a backup plan – they'll call you a dreamer with the same level of disgust generally reserved for more derogatory terms. There's nothing you can do to change that and if you try, you're going to drive yourself crazy. I've forced myself to turn the other cheek, to grin and bear it.

Fact of the matter is this: what you see when you look at your own reflection in the mirror is rarely what anyone else does. You don't actually know me any more than I know you – there's nothing more alienating than rolling around, trying to beat the holy hell out of someone you're supposed to hate under hot lights and the scrutiny of thousands of people. You might believe there's an intimacy there and I've heard some wrestlers claim they know all they need to know about an opponent after stepping between those ropes. I disagree. Mike Best was the fish – symbolically – I don't truly understand what possessed Bifford to trot out that lesson. To be completely honest, I don't really understand 95% of what comes from that man's mouth.

Sometimes I forget basic human nature, and I hold these shallow beings around me up to that same insane level of expectation that I hold over my own head. It's disappointing, invariably. I am a mystery to some, a joke to others. I've been told more than once that people find me inspirational – that I'm amazing for even trying my hand at this physically demanding sport of ours. I'm not here for that. I never even thought that was on the table, to be honest. I just wanted to get out there, to mix it up with the heroes I had growing up. For years I was content to toil away in the shadows, denied the limelight that people like James Raven take for granted 24/7 – doors slammed in my face a thousand times over. I kept knocking. I didn't let the word NO become a definition. I kept working, just doing what I do best. Do not place me on a pedestal because I will let you down.

Over the years, people have speculated. Am I actually disabled? Is this a gimmick? Is this fake? They wonder if I'm who they think I am; and if not, why not? They read between the lines of every last word I write and every syllable I speak, looking for the secret meaning. To those who spent the time to consider the facts before blindly pigeon-holing me, thank you. You are the true gems. To those who embraced me without prejudice? I appreciate you. I love you more than you could possibly know.

To the rest, I suggest you work harder. More than half of you are still wrong and that makes me a very sad panda.

His hands shook, he wasn't aware that he'd whispered her name until she opened her eyes, blinking up at him through the tangle of hair splayed across her face.

"Max?" Sleepy concern etched her voice, taking in his still form. He sat with his back to her, his bad hand clutching at the sheets that were half on the floor. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, she could see it on his arms and the back of his neck, the darker vee down the back of his threadbare tee. "Honey?"

He said nothing. She wasn't even sure if he was awake or if he was dreaming, locked in some awful nightmare. Rayna reached out slowly, fingertips grazing the damp cotton. She kept going, slipping her hands underneath, gently tickling his back. He shivered at the touch, almost as though chilled from within – she knew he liked it, she knew what that shiver meant.

"Max? What's wrong?"

"Everything," he murmured, quickly correcting himself, "nothing. I don't know. I just…" with effort, he managed to unclench his fist and tried to smooth out the sheets. "Bad dream, I guess."

She pushed aside the sheets, moving from the bed and over to the mini fridge. She pulled out a bottle of water, pressing it into his hand. The condensation mixed with the sweat that ran down his arm. On autopilot, he raised it to his lips, spilling more over his chin than past his parched lips. His gaze was distant, that thousand-mile stare looking right through her.

"Bifford, Canon and Lurrr… I can't keep throwing myself at the Hall-of-Famers and expecting to come out on top." His voice came out hollow, "I got lucky against Vargas. I'm not part of the eMpire. I'm not Mike Best. I'm not. Even if I win this, I can't hope to beat any of those guys and-"

Rayna took the bottle from his hand before he crushed it, setting it safely aside on the nightstand, blocking out the clock. "Tell me what I can do. I hate seeing you like this."

"I don't know." He closed his eyes, dragging in a deep breath in an effort to steady himself. When his blue eyes opened, they were clearer and they met hers. "I'm in the deep end, Bunny. I've never been here before and it's freaking me out. This isn't a small pond like Defiant, with a roster of a dozen people. There are names in this place, people I still haven't met. There's so much history here, all these lifers with decades with the company and who do I think I am trying to come in here and upset the natural order? I…" he trailed off, his gaze darting away to fix on the sky beyond the parted curtains, at the sliver of light along the horizon. Dawn. He had places to be today: there was an autograph signing for the VIP ticket holders and he was supposed to be there. Everyone in the tournament was. The last thing he wanted to do was shamble in there like a zombie, telegraphing his sleepless nights.

"Max," she took hold of his shoulders, wrapping her arms around his neck as she stroked his sweat-damped hair. "You really need to get some sleep. You look like..."

"I know." 

She crawled into his lap, startling him from his reverie with a visible flinch. She cupped his cheeks, forcing his gaze back to hers. He looked at her, really looked. Now she could see the destructive power of his drive. There was anguish in his eyes as he looked at her. The ferocity softened as she stared, not allowing him that escape. "Listen to me: you can do this. The only enemy you have out there is fear. You know that, Max. I know you do. You've busted ass to get here. They put you back in because you have the biggest heart, the most passion in the entire wrestling business – they can see you as the winner you are and you can't let James Raven take that away from you-"

A rude sound escaped his lips, "Raven hasn't said anything relevant."

"Well if he does… don't listen."

"Don't think that'll be a problem." One corner of his lips quirked, just a twitch. A strange chuckle escaped his lips as he looked at her. The words that followed were almost ominous, for all of the naked honesty that was in them. "I love you, Bunny. I know I don't say that enough, but I do. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"I know," she murmured but he cut her off.

"No. I mean it. I would have never even reached out to OCW if you weren't…"

"I know," she said it firmer this time, kissing his cheek as she pushed him back against the mattress, "now sleep or you won't be able to walk, let alone win that match."

He complied, saying nothing more as he settled himself against the pillows while she adjusted the sheet, and cuddled against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her, and murmured against her hair, "will you still love me if I don't win? If I don't even make it past Raven?"

She laughed, thinking he was joking; sleep was dragging her under, "…no matter what. Always… and… forever…"

"Good," he muttered, closing his eyes against the blinding headache as he lay there. "Because I…" he didn't finish the thought. She might have still heard him and some things were best left unsaid.