The boos slowly began to morph.
A scattered smattering of applause gradually picked up rhythm and volume. The fans had spent their outrage on the man who had just limped away, and now their attention returned back to the center of the ring. They recognized what they had just witnessed.
There wasn’t a clean finish, and it certainly wasn’t the triumphant climax they had paid to see, but they had watched a man put his body and his newly cleared neck on the line in grueling warfare.
Ray Jr remained on his knees. The sharp pain in his groin radiated up into his stomach, compounding the intense, burning ache in his ribs. The referee knelt beside him, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder, asking if he needed the medical team to return.
Ray shook his head. He didn’t want the medics or a pitiful stretcher.
He planted his hands on the mat, his fingers gripping the white fabric, and forced one boot under himself. The crowd’s applause swelled as he pushed up to a vertical base. He swayed for a few seconds, his equilibrium almost completely destroyed, but he found his balance.
He stood tall in the center of the ring.
The roar rained over him. The fans were chanting his name again, a steady validation of the hell he had just endured. Ray looked out at the sea of faces, the bright flashes of cameras, the raised signs. He offered a slow nod of acknowledgment. There was nothing to celebrate. He had been toyed with, physically and emotionally, by the one person he had to stop seeing as his brother.
He turned toward the ropes. The referee held the middle rope open for him, a small sign of respect from the official who had lost control of the match long before the bell actually rang.
Ray stepped through, his boots landing heavily on the ring apron, and then dropped down to the padded floor of the ringside.
The walk up the steel ramp felt like a trek up a mountain. With the adrenaline finally beginning to evaporate from his bloodstream, the true physical toll of the match made itself known. His ribs still screamed with every inhalation. The impact of Billy’s knees during the countered frog splash had likely bruised the bone, if not cracked something. His neck, the very joint that had kept him sidelined and strapped for a while, throbbed persistently.
He placed one hand against his ribcage, applying pressure to stabilize his torso, and kept his eyes fixed at the top of the stage.
Fans leaned over the steel barricades, reaching out to pat his shoulders or slap his back. He flinched slightly at the contact but kept moving, offering a few muted fist bumps. He didn’t want to linger. The bright arena lights were beginning to feel too harsh now, exposing the vulnerability which was exhaustion that he was desperately trying to hide.
He reached the top of the ramp. He paused for just a second, turning back to look at the massive stadium one last time. The ring looked incredibly small from this distance, an island of canvas surrounded by thousands of people. He turned away and pushed through.
The temperature dropped significantly backstage, the air conditioning blasting onto his sweat-soaked skin, causing an involuntary shiver to run down his spine.
He took two heavy steps and stopped, leaning his back against a stack of metal cases. He closed his eyes, pulling the mask off his head. Always wearing his mask, even backstage, didn’t hold much significance to him...after all, a mere look up of his first ever match online would reveal what he looked like without a mask.
The cool air hit his damp hair and flushed face. He wiped a hand across his mouth, checking for blood, finding only sweat and the gritty residue of the canvas.
"Jey!"
He opened his eyes and turned his head, wincing slightly as the muscles in his neck pulled.
Bambietta was sprinting toward him, dodging a pair of production assistants carrying a coil of heavy black cabling. She was wearing a simple dark sweater and jeans, her hair in its usual messy ponytail. She didn’t slow down as she approached. She crashed into him, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her face into his chest.
Ray let out a sharp hiss as the impact jarred his ribs, but he didn’t push her away. He wrapped his free arm around her waist, burying his face in her hair.
She whispered fiercely against his chest, her voice shaking. "You’re a stubborn, reckless idiot."
"I know," he murmured, closing his eyes again, letting her warmth ground him. "I know."
She pulled back just enough to look at his face. Her hands moved frantically over him, checking his shoulders and finally resting her palms gently against the sides of his neck. She was searching for the damage she had been terrified to see happen again.
"Your neck," she demanded, her eyes scanning him. "Tell me the truth right now. Does it feel like it did before?"
"It’s just a bit stiff, Bam," he promised, his voice raspy from exertion. "It isn’t the spine area. I think it’s just muscle fatigue. I swear."
She let out a shaky breath, dropping her hands to his chest. "I watched him put you in that crossface, the way he wrenched your head back. I swear to god, Jey, I was about to come out there."
"I got to the ropes before any serious damage was done," he reminded her with a weak smile.
"Barely," she shot back, the anger returning to her tone. She looked down at his torso, noting the way he was leaning to his side. A massive purple bruise was already beginning to bloom across his left side, a direct map of where he had crashed into Billy’s raised knee.
Bambietta winced. "We need to get ice on that immediately. The medical staff is probably dealing with... him, but I can find someone to help us with it."
"I’m fine for the time being," Jey said, catching her hand and giving it a gentle, assuring squeeze. "Just let me catch my breath."
He looked past her shoulder, down the wide concrete corridor.
Sitting a few yards away, was Linda.