- Event: Refueled XVIII
Tuesday, May 19
Tampa, FL
Morning
Since early March, and her failure at Refueled 20 and March to Glory, Lindsay’s trips back home to Tampa have become fewer and farther between. Such is her life as a professional wrestler: the road calls, and the Queen answers, even though she resisted the temptation for as long as she could, back when the business did her wrong in the mid-2010s and she needed time to heal from those wounds.
Now that Dan Ryan has set up a mostly-permanent residence in the Chicago suburbs, Lindsay’s found herself spending more and more time in the Second City, returning only a few times a month to teach a couple advanced classes and some private lessons at DP’s Tampa location, as well as making the rounds at the Boston and San Diego locations as has been her custom. Ami and Kaz are beginning to make their own lives in New England; the twins will always have a place wherever she is, but their need to “return home” outside of holidays and school vacations is becoming less and less. Their metamorphosis into full-blown adults is nearly complete, and the Queen couldn’t be more proud of them.
Today, on a hot and rainy Tuesday, Lindsay downs a protein shake and checks her email on her phone while HOTv serves as background noise. No training on the docket today, just a quarterly meeting with two members of her business team. She actually looks forward to face-to-face gatherings; it would probably be easier to meet via tele or video conference, but Lindsay has the means and the money to travel, and she doesn’t mind doing so. Save the phone and video calls for when it’s necessary; if she’s in town, and everyone’s up for it, they can meet in person.
The sound from the kitchen television is a mish-mosh of jumbled-up words when you don’t pay it any mind, but eventually a snappy line pierces her ear drum.
”Hey, I can’t say I’d fare any better carrying the corpse of Lindsay Troy around myself.”
Lindsay immediately stops typing and looks up, slowly, at the TV.
Murray.
Of course.
Always the needler, he’s kept her name in his mouth since he got here. He’s dropped her on his head twice, and Dan’s the one with the chance for retribution this week.
”I know that steps like this are where upward trajectories hit brick walls. Unquestionably, meeting a Dan Ryan unhindered by Lindsay Troy’s dead weight is the biggest test I have faced on Lee Best’s turf.”
Piece of shit she thinks to herself.
And then, but what if he’s right?
She’s taken two pinfalls that she shouldn’t have taken, and she’s riding a three match losing streak.
Lindsay Troy doesn’t lose three matches in a row.
Except when she does.
It’s unprecedented. An anomaly. It’s said that you haven’t arrived in HOW until you’ve lost to Max Kael, that it’s a rite of passage. But losing to all of 24K in a two match span?
The Queen is better than that.
Three matches do not define her.
The alarm on her phone beeps; this will need to be solved another time. Lindsay walks to the sink, dumps the remaining food down the garbage disposal and flips the switch to run it. Rinses the bowl and spoon in the sink and puts it in the dishwasher, then grabs her keys, bag, and phone and walks out to the garage. Moments later, her white SUV speeds away, a blue and white FOR SALE sign swinging in the rain-soaked wind.
Two Hours Later
Downtown Tampa
The Darcy Corporation Offices
“Actually, despite the current state of the economy, you’re in a really good place right now. Enrollments at the gyms are up, with Boston seeing the biggest uptick at a 35% increase last quarter. San Diego’s looking at a 25% increase so far this quarter, and Tampa’s at about 20%.”
Lindsay turns away from one of the spotless floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hillsborough River and gazes at Ashleigh Barnes, her accountant for the last five years, who sits by a coffee table next to Clay Darcy, her lawyer and agent. The Howard University graduate took over her books after her last accountant retired to Switzerland and a life of skiing. Anyone else may have been intimidated by the task of working with someone as indomitable as Lindsay Troy, but Ashleigh proved herself up to the task quickly and early and has been nothing short of a straight-shooting godsend.
Being a straight-shooter herself, Ashleigh is exactly what Lindsay expects – and appreciates – on her business team.
“Well that’s good,” Clay remarks. He tosses a baseball lazily into the air, catches it, then tosses it up again. “Keep the kids coming.”
“Hm,” is all Lindsay says, as she returns her eyes to the window.
“What, that’s not a good thing?”
“No, it is,” she answers Clay. “Of course it is.”
“Okay then.” He remains easy-going; this over-thinking, or non-committal, or whatever response it is, is usual fare from his client and best friend. “Moving on. What’s next on the docket? Sponsorships, new business ventures, or my personal favorite: brand expansion.”
“Oh no,” Ashleigh laughs. “Is someone new knocking on the door?”
“Someone’s always knocking on the door. She,” Clay points to Lindsay’s back, “almost always pooh-poohs them.”
“How about we discuss none of the above.” Finally, the Queen moves away from the window and plops down on the loveseat across from Clay. She tries to get comfortable but the look on her face suggests the complete opposite.
“A mystery category! I like it.” Ashleigh leans forward. “Don’t keep us in suspense, I can’t take it.”
“What if,” Lindsay begins, flicking her eyes between them, “I were to hang it all up now. Or in a couple months. Focus more on the gyms, or get into something else. What do my options look like? My finances?”
The baseball hits Clay’s palm, skirts across the glass tabletop, and rolls underneath his desk.
“Excuse me, what?” he splutters.
Ashleigh says nothing; her mouth drops open, just a little.
“Where the hell is this coming from?” Clay runs his fingers through his hair, disbelief washing over his face. A riptide threatens to pull him under. “Lindsay. You cannot be serious.”
“It’s a thought that’s crossed my mind recently.”
“Recently when?”
“This morning.”
“Oh.” Clay throws his hands up, as if this makes complete sense to him. It doesn’t, of course. “So you really haven’t thought about it. Or talked it over with Tyler or the kids.”
A subtle movement of Lindsay’s eyelids gives Clay instant pause; a dangerous squint that tells him he needs to watch his tongue before she cuts it out of his mouth. “Ashleigh?” she asks, nicely, because the look is meant for Clay and Clay alone. “Could you give us the room for a moment?”
“Sure.” Ashleigh’s thankful to escape the mounting tension. It’s never like this between them, ever. “I’ll go grab us some coffee.”
Once she shuts the door behind her and is out of earshot, Clay starts right in. “Lindsay what the fuck? This is absolutely not like you to one, be impulsive, and two, to not talk this over with your family first.”
Silence.
“Oh, what, you’re not going to answer me now? Are you goddamn serious? This is your career. Your livelihood, for almost 25 years. You just came back a year ago and, what, now you’re done? Out of the blue? With no discussion?”
“TyandIaren’ttogether.”
She says it so softly, Clay doesn’t catch it at first.
“Wait. Say that again.”
“…Ty and I aren’t together.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. Lindsay puts her head in her hands. Runs her fingers down her face, then steeples them over her mouth. She looks at him, trying to keep her emotions in check. She’s never been one to cry but this…
…this is hard.
“What?” Clay finally says. “Why? When?”
“I don’t want to get into it,” Lindsay says. “Not right now. We’re taking a break. We might be done.”
“Okay, I get that. I respect that,” he says, reassuringly. “But this is not the time to walk away from wrestling. If anything, you’ll need this to focus on. And without even looking at your finances, off the top of my head you’ve kept things separate as far as I can remember. You should absolutely keep at this. Is there something else going on.”
“No. Well….” Lindsay trails off, thinking back to Andy Murray’s television spot. How she’s riding this losing streak. How it’s getting under her skin. How it’s exactly what everyone’s wanting. “No. Nothing I can’t work through.”
“Good. Goddammit Lindz. Whatever it is that happened, I am sorry. And whenever you’re ready to tell me, I’ll be here to listen.”
“Not going to say ‘I told you so?’”
“Not yet. But you know it’s probably coming.”
“Yeah,” she chuckles. “It probably is. But go gentle on me, will you? I’m only human, you know.”
Thursday, May 21
Chicago, IL
SixTime Academy
“Oh, Hollywood…”
A sigh.
“…this is about to be a very, very bad time for you.”
The pitying voice of the Queen of the Ring trickles through the blackness, as the inky gloom filters away and she comes into view. Lindsay sits on the edge of SixTime Academy’s ring, one leg propped up and one arm draped lazily over her knee. She doesn’t regard whatever camera’s there, instead looking off into the distance, a contemplative look on her face.
“At the rate you’re jumping on old bandwagons, Brian, I assume you’re headed for the next gold rush on the eMpire Express.
“Where HAVE you been training, anyway? I have so many questions. There’s no such thing as FiveTime Academy; not anymore. And even when there was, Mike tells me there was no trainer employed there named Alan Ventura. And yet, here you are, gleefully giving away your money to a man who likely conducts his camps behind a 7-11 using a discarded copyright and making promises that someday, you might main event a ladies brunch at the local VFW.
“You’re quite the enigma. A man named Hollywood who doesn’t do movies, who trains at an Academy that no longer exists, under a trainer who never worked there. Actually, come to think of it, all of that is actually the most Brian thing that you could possibly do. You are the Hydrox of people, begging us all to call you an Oreo. You are the T-shirt broke moms buy for their kids because they can’t afford GoD merch. What’s next for you, after this match goes horribly sideways? Will you be hawking bootleg candy at the first summertime street fest? Will you set up a booth on Clark Street selling Skattles and telling people to EAT RAINBOWS, I AM A BUSINESSMAN AND I DO BUSINESS?”
“Everyone’s got to make a living, I guess. Everyone’s just trying to figure out their way. Even me.
“A couple weeks ago, I was doing this touchy-feely bullshit, talking about getting myself back on track after a few losses in a row and not letting a couple of mouthy little fucks make a mockery of me. That got me absolutely nowhere.
“As it turns out, ‘working through your feelings’ through words and not action ain’t for me.
“So now, this week, I have to kick the everloving fuck out of you, because Mike Best had to shoot his shot on live TV and say he was drafting the Group of Death to his War Games team. And because Lee Best wants to see if irony can actually kill a man, here you are, standing in my way.
“The man who knocked me out of the World Title Tournament last year.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten.
“Don’t think Lee didn’t know exactly what he was doing by setting me up against the first guy to give me a loss in HOW, at the height of me questioning myself and my abilities.
“You might be the wrestling equivalent of Wonder Bread: painfully white, bland as fuck, and the thing everyone eats for lunch, but you’re the one who’s gonna decide if I’m a net-positive or a net-negative for the year. You’re the one who’s gonna decide if I get to ride with Mike, Cecilworth, and Dan into War Games, or if I’ll be sitting on the sidelines with Scott Stevens and Red and Ted.
“Scott Stevens, who sets the bar so low, we have to rename it to ‘setting the speedbump.’
“I know you’re gonna be gunning for me, Brian. You’ve got a whole lotta anger because of what Hughie Freeman did to Alan last week, and then Darin Matthews went and rubbed salt in the wound. You’ll want redemption for all of that, I’m sure, and then you’ll go and remind us what your finisher’s called because chances are we’re not gonna see it on TV.
“Look on the bright side, though. At least this year, you’ll have a good excuse for being passed over for War Games.”