And then Arlene posted a program of the matches they’d be performing on opening night. Those who had taken their criticism to heart made the list. Those who blew off their notes or didn’t give their all didn’t feature and were listed as cleanup duty. Lisa cried, seeing her name on the bottom like that, but sharp looks exchanged around confirmed that this was the right choice. Harlan had seen who was really trying and who wasn’t, and he’d drawn accurate conclusions.
That left Chelsea somewhere in the middle. The opening act was one bound to capture imaginations: Maryellen versus Matt. The tiny, steel-haired Valkyrie facing off with the tall, skeletal goth maybe a third of her age. Small woman, large man. Old and young. The Violence Fighting Ring is going to start with a bang and, hopefully, a shock. Maryellen is going to win.
That’s another thing: Much like pro wrestling, they all know who will win each round. There’s room for improvisation in each bout, but major moments are hammered down. Everyone knows their job and will perform it. No one will go rogue, and if they do, they’ll end up back on the street without a job. And if they have any problems or questions, Chris or Arlene will be waiting by the ring, ready to handle any physical or emotional issues. Sienna is stationed in the greenroom, ready with makeup and hairspray, needle and thread and safety pins, to keep everyone looking fabulous.
“C’mon, everybody!” Arlene calls, and the room goes quiet. She glances at the laptop set up to show the ring. There’s no sound, and it doesn’t show the stands, so there’s no way to know if they have a crowd or not. With one last attempt to separate her eyelashes, Chelsea abandons the mirror and with her compatriots forms a circle around Arlene. It’s instinct now, and the energy is warm and excited. She feels like a horse about to run a race, all legs and nerves and the need to buck.
“I just want to say what a joy it’s been, working with you,” Arlene says, giving each person in the circle that knowing, genuine smile that always makes warmth bloom in Chelsea’s chest like praise from a beloved teacher. “You’re ready for this, and the crowd is ready for you. Oh, and Harlan—”
“You talkin’ ’bout me?”
Harlan strides into the room in a well-fitting silver suit with a shimmering violet tie. He’s wearing makeup and has his hair blown out and carefully pulled back to show the angles of his face. Charisma rolls off him like cologne, and every one of his fighters turns to follow him like a sunflower chasing the sun. It isn’t lust, the way Chelsea is drawn to him, and it isn’t just her—she’s given this some thought, because she isn’t accustomed to reacting to men like this. It’s been years since she’s had any feelings about men, she’s realized, whether that’s because David walled her off or she walled herself off. With Harlan, it’s just who he is, like the Greek gods chose him and dipped him in some river that made him bigger, prettier, and more alive than anyone else. It’s not anything sexual, she just wants to be near him, and she isn’t alone. Everyone here, men and women alike, is drawn to him, fascinated by him. Even Arlene seems to glow in his presence.
“I was just relaying your message,” she says.
Harlan inclines his head in thanks. “Well, I figured I could do that myself.”
Now he turns to meet each pair of eyes, and when it’s Chelsea’s turn, it’s like he’s pouring strength into her. Her mouth goes to a determined frown, her shoulders jerk back, and she’s no longer tugging at the short hem of her jean shorts or plucking at the tight strap of her padded sports bra. She feels a foot taller and ready for anything, a lightning rod waiting to be struck. It’s only the briefest moment, and then his eyes slide to Amy beside her, but Chelsea doesn’t feel diminished by the loss of his gaze. It shines on in her like fire, leaving warmth in its wake.
This is why movie stars are movie stars, she thinks.
What he has is a gift.
Harlan finishes his circle and puts his hands behind his back. When he speaks, his accent is honeyed, southern, studied, strong, his voice projected and striking her right in the heart.
“I want y’all to know that I’ve dreamed of this moment for years. All the time I was getting beat up in the ring, I felt like there was something more out there, something that I was meant to do. When I killed my tendon and was out of the game for a year, I spent my time daydreaming and writing out business plans, and that included this one idea that wrestlers didn’t all have to be big guys with long, greasy hair.” He fondly touches the lush locks lying over his shoulder. “Heroes can be regular folks. Surprising combinations. Equality.” He flaps a hand at them. “And now y’all are here, living that dream.”
“Hell, yeah,” someone mutters, and Harlan nods acknowledgment.
“It’s been a hard year.” His voice catches on the last word, and he looks away, blinking mascaraed lashes. “But we’ve risen together as phoenixes. So go out there tonight. Do your job. Have fun. We’ll party, afterward. And tomorrow morning, you’ll wake up superstars.”
Chelsea’s hands are clapping before she’s even registered the action; everyone is clapping. Harlan gives his little salute and saunters off to their applause. She’d follow Harlan into battle; hell, maybe she is following him into some sort of conflict. No one has any way to know how tonight’s going to go. There’s been some discussion that what Harlan’s doing here is illegal, that having an event this crowded is like asking for a lawsuit, and that the performers aren’t legally employed. Chelsea’s never filled out a tax form, never offered her Social Security number. Thus far, she’s been paid in cash—that one time—and room and board and glad for it. No one has mentioned what happens if the police or feds show up. And they’re not even in a theater or stadium, like real wrestling would be.
They’re in an old warehouse out in the middle of nowhere.
Chelsea doesn’t even know how Harlan gets the word out, how he’s promoting what they’re doing. When she borrows Amy’s phone to search for the Violence Fighting Ring, all she sees are whispers, questions, assumptions. At the beginning, at least, it’s going to involve a lot of secrecy.
She hasn’t asked him. No one has.
They need these jobs more than they need the cold, hard truth.
They need…this.
Everything about it.
Somewhere to be, a purpose, the promise of hope, three square meals a day and a safe place to shower and sleep. They need one another. It reminds her of watching Tiger King, back during the first pandemic, when Covid had everyone getting used to staying home, noting that every one of the workers on the show was someone who had nowhere else to go. They were all drawn in by the big cats and stuck with no money, living in a trailer because they had nothing else in their life.