Page 62 of Between the Ropes

I don’t respond. Instead, I yank my gear bag out of my locker, the sound of the zipper tearing through the tense silence.

I’m pacing backstage, trying to shake off the restless energy coiled in my muscles, when Brian finally tracks me down.

“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” he says, his tone clipped.

“Didn’t feel like talking to you yet,” I shoot back without looking at him.

Brian sighs, crossing his arms. “Look, I made the call I needed to make. For the storyline to progress. You’ll get another shot, but for right now, this had to happen.”

I spin around, my eyes blazing. “And you didn’t think I deserved to know beforehand? You thought shot after shot with brass knuckles was the best way to go? After the fucking chair shot the other night?”

“You would’ve fought me on it tooth and nail.”

“Damn right, I would’ve! I’ve worked my ass off, done everything you asked, and you couldn’t even be straight with me. You got in my head. Made me feel like I was losing my edge. Was that a part of your game too?” I spit, the anger leaching from me.

Brian steps closer, his voice steady but firm. “You’ll get another title shot, Ryan. Trust the process.”

I slam my locker shut with a loud bang, the sound echoing through the room. “Trust is earned, Brian. And right now, you’rerunning on empty.” Without another word, I shove past him, heading toward the ring.

The arena is electric, the air thick with anticipation. The moment my music hits, the crowd erupts, but I barely hear them. All I hear is the pounding in my chest, the roar in my head. Three nights. Three nights of stewing in this fury, of replaying every second of that match, of feeling the sting of brass against bone. I’m done waiting.

I step onto the stage, my body rigid with tension, my jaw locked so tight it aches. The arena lights flash overhead, but all I see is the ring, my battlefield. My steps are measured, deliberate, each one fueled by raw aggression. My ribs throb with every breath, my face still carries the marks of war, but I don’t care. Pain doesn’t matter. Not right now.

I storm down the ramp, ignoring the hands reaching out from the crowd, ignoring everything but the fire burning in my chest. My fists clench at my sides as I hit the ring, sliding under the ropes and immediately pushing to my feet. The ring—it’s the only place where this rage belongs. The only place where I candosomething about it.

I snatch the mic from the announcer’s hand, my grip white-knuckled, my voice slicing through the chaos.

“Saturday should’ve been my night.”

The crowd explodes again—some cheering, some booing, but I don’t wait for them to settle.

“I should be standing here as your new UXW Heavyweight Champion. But instead, Kyle needed brass knuckles to keepme down. He couldn’t beat me one-on-one. No, he needed a weapon.”

The reaction is deafening, a mix of outrage and support, but I don’t let it slow me down. I pace the ring like a caged animal, my chest rising and falling with controlled fury.

I grip the mic tighter, my voice dripping with venom.

“Kyle, get your ass out here.”

No more talking. No more waiting. This ends tonight.

The lights dim, and Kyle’s ominous entrance music fills the arena, a loud shriek erupting through the arena before the booming bass. Smoke billows around the stage as he steps out, green lights moving across the sea of fans, the championship belt is slung arrogantly over his shoulder. He walks slowly, deliberately, like he owns the place. The crowd loses their minds, the energy in the arena electric. What do they see in this guy other than a flashy entrance?

Kyle climbs into the ring, staring me down as he raises the belt high above his head. He grabs a mic, his smirk widening. “You’ll never be champion, Ryan. You don’t have what it takes.”

My eyes narrow, my grip tightening on the mic. “Funny. That’s not what you were saying when you were picking your teeth up off the mat last night.”

The crowd pops, and Kyle’s smirk falters.

“You can run your mouth all you want,” I continue, stepping closer until we’re chest to chest. “But deep down, you know the truth. Without those brass knuckles, you wouldn’t have walked out of here with that belt.”

Kyle’s eyes darken, and he shoves me back slightly with his shoulder. “You’ll never get the chance to find out.”

That’s it. My fist flies before I even realize what I’m doing, connecting squarely with Kyle’s jaw. The mic drops with a thud as he stumbles back, but he recovers quickly, charging at me.

The next few minutes are chaos. We’re throwing punches, grappling, slamming each other into the ropes. Security floods the ring, at least ten of them, trying to pry us apart. It takes everything they’ve got, but they finally manage to drag us to opposite corners.

The crowd is on their feet, chanting, screaming, feeding off the energy.

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