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Ronan burst through the door. Camie and I smile and chorus. “That’s us! The devilish duo!”
Ronan grabs a chair and sits backward on it. “Seriously, though. Congrats on a great fight. You two earned it.”
Ronan’s expression looks so sincere and his gaze lingers on me. I lower my head and feign brushing my hair. My cheeks are hot. I can’t let him see.
“Hey, hey, no blushing tonight, Disastra.” Ronan gently lifts my chin, and he smiles like a proud man at his own creation. The look in his eyes just about takes my breath away.
To hide it, I laugh, get up, and grab a water bottle. I’m feeling too much heat, inside and out.
“Thanks, Ronan. Coming from you that means a lot,” offers Camie. “You saw how we goofed up right ‘til the fourth bell, though, right?”
Ronan cocks his head. “I wasn’t going to mention that bit, but yeah. I did.” He chuckles. “Hey, every new team has growing pains, right? You two gelled, figured it out, and came back for the win. What new team does that on the first event? That’s huge.”
I return to my chair, silently nodding. Suddenly, I feel proud. For me, for Camie, for us both. “You’re right. Who clicks with their partner that fast? Even after two weeks of practice.”
Camie grabs my arm. “All we needed was to get over the butterflies, and bam, we landed in that ring like a bomb.”
I side-hug her. “We exploded. Didn’t we? Man, it was so cool finally being Disastra. It’s like I was made to be mean in the ring.”
“Disastra is your thing now, Chey. You rock it, and it fulfills you. You must see that by now. Did you get a load of the cheering? And the bleacher pounding? That doesn’t occur often. Not even with the male tag teams. The thunder juiced me up. That’s when I knew you two hit all on eight.”
Ronan’s eyes spark. The electricity from the orc jumps to me, and I feel it. I swear I do. Ronan is all energy. Strength. Power. Such power. His excitement soaks into my body like reverberations from an exploded bomb. For a moment, I feel dizzy, or deliriously happy. I don’t fight it. I luxuriate in it.
From that moment on, the rest of the night is a blur of shaking hands and photo ops and conversations in the green room. Camie and I both lap it up. We even cheat and have sips of champagne, which is definitely not on our fighter’s diet.
To celebrate Disastra feels so good. It feels freeing. Like I’m my own person for once. Pains of sadness and regret quietly ebb and flow inside me, but I shake them off. And I smile. Boy, do I smile.
All the work. All the ring time. All the bruises and mat falls. All the aches, pains, and the fear of failing. It’s all been worth it. If to be Disastra, only Disastra, for one successful night.
I exhale. For the first time since Mom died, I exhale.
But the ease of doing so hurts my heart.
CHAPTER 12
Ronan
The girls’ first show went well in the end, but I know we’re going to have to keep the momentum going. So I’m going to take them with me to check out another venue where we might be able to add some matches. An unassuming joint that would work for all three of us. One we could use to test the waters in our new brands.
“You gals ready? Let’s hit it.”
“Coming,” Camie and Chey chorus.
Chey and Camie are dressed in warm-up suits, ball caps, and oversized sunglasses. I get the look. They don’t want to be recognized. I gulp down my urge to laugh. Instead of fighting the system, I join it, and throw on my shades, too. Autograph hounds are the last thing any of us need right now.
“Where are we off to?” Chey jumps in the front seat.
I smirk. “Better I show you than tell you.”
In the rearview mirror, I see Camie screw up her face. She’s right not to trust me. I smile back.
The girls stay quiet as I drive them into the seedier part of town. I feel them both tense up as soon as the wheels cross the railroad tracks.
“Take a chill pill. I’m not leading us into the fiery gates of Hell.”
Camie in the backseat and Chey in the front both flash me bug-eyed stares.
After a couple of lefts and a right, we travel deeply into Briarwood’s industrial park where machine shops, car chop shops, and biker gang hideouts populate the back streets. Nestled at the end of Church Road — named after a mob-connected and wholly agnostic councilman — is the Bang-ga-lang, one of the oldest wrestling venues in the state. It’s owned and operated by Bob Galang, a former heavyweight in the industry, who had just about won every silver buckle championship that was worth winning.
