Page 46 of Between the Ropes

A steel chair.

Lester’s fingers brush it, and before I can react—

CRACK!

The pain detonates against the side of my skull, white-hot and blinding. My ears ring, my visionblurs. The mat rushes up to meet me, and I barely register the deafening boos from the crowd.

I blink through the blood trickling down my face, head spinning.

Lester stands above me, the steel chair clutched in his hands, his chest heaving.

And the ref?He missed the whole damn thing.

The match is over.

The bell rings again.

Lester’s arm is raised.

Ilost.

I push up to my knees, breathing hard, the metallic taste of blood thick in my mouth. The moment I make it to my feet, the ref tries to steady me, but I shove him off, shaking my head. I don’t needhelp. I just need to get the hell out of here before I do something I can’t take back.

I step through the ropes, stumbling slightly as I make my way up the ramp. The chants of my name haven’t stopped, but they sounddistant. All I hear is thepoundingin my skull, theragein my veins.

I barely make it backstage before I seehim.

The boss stands with his arms crossed; his expression unreadable—but I know what’s coming.

“You seemeddistractedout there,” he says, his voice clipped. “That wasn’t you, Ryan.”

I grit my teeth, biting back the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue.

Distracted? He hit me with a fucking chair.

Iwasn’tdistracted. I waspissed. Iampissed.

“You need to get your head together before Sunday,” he continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You can’t afford to be off your game.Not now.”

His words cut deeper than they should.

I clench my fists at my sides, blood still dripping down my face, my head pounding, angerboilingunder my skin.

“Yeah,” I mutter, pushing past him. “I got it.”

But his words linger in the back of my mind, gnawing at me as I head to the locker room, my vision blurred with red. Distracted. Was I distracted? No. I’m not the type to lose focus. I don’t get distracted. I’m always on my game, always ready, always pushing harder than anyone else.

But the more I try to push it aside, the more it sticks.

Was I distracted?

I slam my locker room door shut, my bloodied reflection staring back at me in the mirror. I run a towel over my face, trying to clear the blood and the doubt that’s creeping in. The panic starts to rise in my chest, and for a second, I wonder if he’s right.

I think about everything that’s happened recently. Natalie. The way she’s gotten under my skin, the way I can’t stop thinking about her, about us. The way I lose myself every time I’m with her.

I hate the thought, but it hits me hard—maybe I am distracted. Maybe Natalie’s become a distraction, making me lose focus on the one thing I’ve always been so damn good at. Wrestling.

My chest tightens as the panic builds, but I push it down.

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