Page 12 of Between the Ropes

“It’s good,” I say, though the stiffness from the flight has been nagging at me since we landed. “But it’s been a little tight today.”

“Let’s take a look.” Stephen gestures for me to follow him to the table.

He goes through the usual checks—touching my toes, flexing my foot, the routine stuff. He has me lay down, his hands expertly examining my back. “Nothing too serious,” he says, pressing down on a sore spot. “But you could use some stretching. You know, you should really go next door and let Natalie give you a massage. She’s good.”

I shake my head before he can even finish the sentence. “I don’t have time for that. Maybe another time.”

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You’ve been moving like a rusty old man all day. I’ll radio her—”

“Not today.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don’t care. The last thing I need is to be anywhere near her right now. Especially after seeing her withhim. “I just need some rest. I’ll be fine for my match with Bell tonight.” The thought of her hands on me has me anxious, nerves exploding in my stomach.

Stephen gives me a long look but doesn’t push it. “Alright. Just be careful.”

I avoid her for the rest of the night. Not hard to do, given how much is going on backstage. I keep my focus on the match ahead, not on the blonde whose hands I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

By the time my music hits, the anger fades. The adrenaline takes over.

The entire arenaeruptsthe second my entrance song blasts through the speakers.

A wall of noise crashes into me, thousands of fans screaming my name, chanting for me. It’s deafening, the energy vibrating through the air, thick with anticipation. This is what I live for.

The heavy bass of my theme pounds through my chest as I step through the curtain, shoulders squared, head high. The moment I appear; the crowd fucking loses it.

My heart pounds. My veins flood with pure adrenaline. This is my world.

As I walk down the ramp, I slap a few hands, sign a couple of posters for kids in the front row. I make eye contact with fans wearing my merch—young kids who look at me like I’m larger than life. I take a second, just a beat, to acknowledge them. Because I remember being that kid. I remember what it felt like.

There’s nothing like this. Nothing. It’s a high that nothing else can touch.

Jason Bell is already in the ring, shaking out his arms, rolling his shoulders. We’ve got history. We trained together; we came up together. There’s mutual respect, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking it easy on him.

The bell rings, and we’re at it.

Fast. Brutal. Precise.

Jason’s a powerhouse, throwing heavy hands, but I know his weaknesses. We trade blows, back and forth, the match unfolding in a perfect rhythm. Every impact echoes through the arena. The crowd ishooked, hanging on every move, every near-fall.

Then I see my moment.

I counter a swing, catching him off guard, and drive him into the mat with a perfect Concrete Crusher. The crowd explodes, chanting my name, stomping their feet, the entire arena shaking.

I pace the ring, amping them up even more. They know what’s coming.

Jason stirs, pushing himself up, and that’s all I need. I grab him, hoisting him up—every muscle in my body tight, coiled, ready.

The Pierce Press.

A perfect execution.

The ref counts.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rings, the crowd fucking loses it.

“Here is your winner—RYAN PIERCE!”

I climb the turnbuckle, raising both arms high, soaking it in. The cheers, the chants, the energy pulsing through my veins like fire.

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