She told Arlene that Ella is here, that all the security guards need to know her name, need to let her through. There is nothing more important to her in the whole world, and because Arlene has been with her through this journey, she understands that.
Her heart held in Arlene’s hands, Chelsea stands at the door beside a masked, silent TJ, waiting for the cheers to stop. They don’t. The hall is full, packed to the gills. The incident with the Violence at the last match didn’t deter a single person. The lights go out, and they keep cheering. They’re…really into it. Whether they’re pro wrestling fans trying to scratch their itch or something new, well, it doesn’t matter. They’re here, they paid for seats, and they’re already wearing shirts they bought at Harlan’s merch booth. Even though she can see only a tiny sliver of the crowd, Chelsea can already see her face on a woman’s boxy black T-shirt. She needs to talk to Harlan about women’s sizing and the importance of a slimmer fit.
It’s funny how little thoughts like that float past when the stakes are so much bigger.
The lights come on, shining on the ring where Harlan stands in another softly gleaming silver suit, his tie the color of wet blood. He holds the mic, wired for old times’ sake, and announces the match.
“During our last event, if you saw it online…” He pauses, grins out at the crowd. “Who’s seen it?”
The crowd roars back, the walls seeming to bend in response to their power.
“Good, good. Glad to hear it.” Harlan gives the tiniest nod. “Then you know what Florida Woman did to Steve Nissen. We got any Club Nissen members out there tonight?” Portions of the crowd roar back, and there’s a brief chant of Steve-n Steve-n Steve-n, but then Harlan flaps a hand at them, rings winking on his fingers. “Yeah, well, sorry to say, your boy lost. Are you here tonight hoping to see retribution against Florida Woman?”
Chelsea startles at the crowd’s responses, half booing, half cheering. These people…feel things. About her. Their hearts are beating together, the air is full of their cries. They care.
To her, what she does is, well, silly.
But to them, it’s real.
She’s not just a mom wearing too much makeup and skimpy jean shorts, rolling around on a mat.
She’s Florida Woman.
And whether they love her or hate her, these people feel deeply.
It’s a revelation.
She never understood what people got out of pro wrestling, but now she does.
The understanding sinks into her bones, and her hip pops out. Her mouth quirks. Her eyes light up. It takes over her, possesses her.
No matter what Chelsea Martin wants right now, Florida Woman just wants to party and mop the floor with blood.
“So I’d like to introduce the man who wants to take her down, The Killer Cuban!”
Spotlights flick to the empty space just outside their door. TJ winks at her mischievously through his luchador mask, jumps up and down in place a few times, and slaps his own face before stepping out into the puddle of blinding light, raising his arms and roaring behind the mask. Chelsea is grateful she doesn’t have to wear something like that—anything that feels remotely like strangling or choking makes her nearly have a panic attack, these days.
The crowd howls, but not as much as they did before. TJ stalks down the aisle, lunging and growling at fans and shaking his upraised fists. He’s a good actor, Chelsea’ll give him that—and Arlene and Chris are wonderful at bringing out whatever latent melodrama someone might be holding tight in their chest. TJ reaches the ring and climbs up to the top rope, doing a front flip to land on his feet beside Harlan.
“So, how do you feel about Florida Woman?” Harlan asks him, holding out the microphone.
But of course The Killer Cuban doesn’t speak. He reaches into his waistband, pulls out a glossy photo of Chelsea—that’s so weird! Where did they get that?—and rips it in half again and again before throwing confetti on the crowd. They lunge for it like dogs fighting for scraps of kibble.
This event, this match…it’s become so much more than it was last time.
For a moment, Chelsea believes it herself, that this masked man wants to tear her in half.
But no.
It’s just TJ.
TJ, the straight-edge guru martial artist.
He won’t hurt her.
That’s his job—to look like he’s hurting her without leaving so much as a bruise.
It’s the opposite of her former life.
As Harlan asks TJ another question, Arlene’s cool, dry hand lands on Chelsea’s wrist. “Your daughter texted. She’ll be here tonight. Do you want me to—”
Forget the show, the theatrics, the fight. Chelsea’s entire body is alive and shaking now.
“Just get her in. Keep her safe. Please.”
Arlene nods, smiling warmly, her hand still on Chelsea’s wrist. She squeezes lightly. “I will. We’ll keep her back here. She’ll be proud.”
“Thank—” Chelsea begins.
But down by the ring, Harlan has no idea of the very real drama playing out in Chelsea’s life behind the curtains, so he has no compunction about interrupting. He wouldn’t anyway, she’s fairly certain. He might be a caring person, but this is his dream, his life, and he wouldn’t put it on hold for a text message.
“And now, fighting The Killer Cuban, may I present your hometown heroine, or at least object lesson: Florida Woman!”
Arlene gives her a strong nod and pulls her hand away, and Chelsea steps fully into the open doorway, into the blinding hot white of the spotlights. Her body is made of energy, a lightning bolt, a live wire, and she feels it in every pore, sizzling in every muscle, igniting every bone. Her stance is animal, her hands red-lacquered claws as she throws back her head and howls.
The crowd goes berserk. She rides it like a wave—the screams, the garbled words, the low, hooting boos. Love, hate, it’s all the same, and it’s better than indifference.
That’s what these people need, in the age of the Violence, after Covid, after keeping their distance from one another and what they love and what they want for so long: They need to care, to feel, to have any emotion burning when they thought they’d given up or lost too much to ever feel again. After so much trauma, this is part of their healing—going back to that dark cave before humans were humans, when they were just animals united, jeering at the moon.