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Max stares at the arena ceiling. The ringing of the crowd’s noise is hurting his ears. He can’t figure out if they’re cheering for Joe or lamenting Max’s defeat. He spent so much time in the past year earning the love of these people, he cannot figure out what they want from him at this point anymore. This wrestling ring, that championship belt… it has all been Max’s property for so long.
He’s not sure who he’ll be without it.
Hands touch him. It’s Adam. Adam, who’s on crutches himself. An injured man taking care of another injured man. The pair of them must look pathetic to the world.
Distantly, Max hears Adam’s words. “You’ve fought with everything you had!”
It’s nice. Max doesn’t deserve nice. Not right now. Nevertheless, he allows Adam to walk him out of the ring. They limp off together. Max doesn’t dare look back at the crowd. He doesn’t dare to see the faces and speculate on what they’re thinking.
He will go back and watch the footage later. He will come up with a game plan on how to make it up to them, how to prove himself to them, how to win their love back even while his body is falling apart. Longest ever reigning World Heavyweight Champion. That’s right. Nobody can take that away from him, not right now.
Adam guides him back to the locker room. The crowd noise fades into the background. As they walk through the backstage area, Max pointedly ignores everyone trying to talk to him. His steps grow heavier with every corner turned, each one carrying the weight of his shattered dreams.
The shower is painful. Max’s limbs are heavy and all the energy is gone from his body. Slowly but surely he manages to get himself cleaned up and dressed. He knows he should get checked up by the doctor and ice his injuries, but he doesn’t want to stay in this arena for even a second longer than necessary. He’ll live through the night and seek medical attention tomorrow.
He’s no longer a world champion: he can afford to be a little stupid. All the expectations are low, now.
Adam is outside his locker room, guarding his door, making sure no one would come in to check up on Max. His friend follows him outside wordlessly.
Max’s car is safe territory. The familiar scent of leather and sweat feels like home, in sharp contrast to the polished outside of the expensive car. Perhaps it’s not the only shiny thing that’s been bruised and exhausted on the inside.
“Hey Max,” Adam says in the silence of the parking lot. “You okay, man?”
It’s finally enough to get Max to break. He falls face forward onto the steering wheel and lets out a sob.
“There, there.” Adam pats Max’s shoulder, and Max is horrified to realize he finds the awkward gesture comforting. Perhaps that’s what allows him to spill.
“I’ve never felt this way before,” Max says through his cries. “I had everything, Adam. Now I have nothing. I don’t know how to handle it.”
“We’ll figure it out, brochacho,” Adam tells him, giving Max a funny feeling in his stomach. “Hey, let’s get something to eat, alright? We’ll take your mind off things for a bit.”
Max drives for a while until the neon lights of a small, cozy-looking restaurant catches Adam’s eye. It’s not the type of place Max would have expected to be open this late. But inside, the atmosphere is bubbling and lively. The scent of good food and the background noise of cheery patrons is comforting to Max in its mundanity. Nobody here cares that he lost the World Championship: they don’t even know his name.
Perhaps Max needs to relearn how to be normal, for a bit.
Adam’s eyes rake over the menu hungrily. “Hey, they have spicy wings!”
Hmm. Fine. That perks Max up a little. They’ve got good memories with spicy wings.
Adam orders three sets of wings, building up in heat level up to the spiciest they have. He does so with a charming smile to the waitress, in that way only Adam Cole can pull off. Max can’t bring himself to get competitive. He just stares off into the distance and has Adam order for him.
Adam breaks the silence that follows. “Max, you know. I’ve been a champion before. Championships come and go. You’re still an incredible wrestler. This is just a setback, you’ll bounce back stronger.”
Max smiles uncomfortably and stays quiet. He’s not so sure of that.
The food comes out, and finally, finally Max feels that spark of competition again. The first and mildest set of wings goes down easy for the both of them. But the second set sends Max into a coughing fit. Adam, meanwhile, smirks in that horribly self-satisfied way of his while he chugs his drink. Max won’t give up that easily and tackles the last and spiciest wings.
“Shit, fuck, oh my fucking God, fucking hell that’s hot—” Max swears up a storm, sending Adam doubling over into laughter. Then, Adam takes a bite, and he shakes one arm uncontrollably while slamming the other into the table repeatedly. Their over the top reactions are drawing attention from other diner patrons, but everybody seems good-natured and no one seems to mind.
“You can do it!” a stranger shouts at Adam, cheering him on. “Show that chicken wing who’s boss!”
It’s so silly. From cheers in an arena filled with 10.000 people to cheers in a small Long Island diner. Truly the most magical place in the world.
One silver lining: the burning pain in Max’s mouth distracts him from the dull ache in his limbs and the sting in his chest where his heart’s supposed to be. It distracts him from the lack of weight around his waist.
When they make their way back out to his car, there’s also no heaviness of despair anymore. His waist feels light but so does his head. There’s something like… gratitude.
They stand in the dim glow of the streetlights. Max looks at Adam, a genuine smile playing on his lips.
“Thank you, brochacho,” he tells his best friend. “I needed this.”
“Anytime, Max,” Adam grins back. “We’re in this together, championship or no championship.”