Page 9 of Heartbreaker
The problem is that I can’t seem to find a problem. The longer I search for a reason not to do this, not to join EWE, the more I find reasons to say yes. The only thing left to do is pull the trigger.
“Is this what you want to do?” Papá asks.
Mamá refuses to meet my stare when I look between them. She’s hurt, and I think it has more to do with the fact that starting this new career means moving across the country and less to do with the college thing. If I do this, I’ll be the first person in our family to “officially” leave the nest. I won’t be a quick two-hour drive anymore; it will be more like twenty. All four of my brothers still live at home. Crew and Nash occupy the guest house within walking distance of our childhood home, and the twins have two more years before they go to college. The thought of being so far away from them scares me, but not enough to say no.
My index finger scratches along the surface of the island, eyes glued to the Corian countertop. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to want this. It was only supposed to prove my brothers wrong. I sigh. “It was supposed to be a joke.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes. This is what I want to do,” I say, finally lifting my gaze.
The guest house is the opposite of what you’d expect from two bachelors, especially when those two bachelors are my older brothers. It’s clean, tidy, and the air carries a warm, woody scent with a hint of floral. However, the furniture is exactly what you’d expect. “’Cats seem to be doing okay this year,” Crew says, handing me a beer before he plops down into the dark chocolate leather recliner beside the matching couch.
Papá built the guest house a long time ago for when the rest of the family came to visit. It eventually became our hangout spot until I begged my parents to let me move my room out here during my sophomore year of high school. Crew moved in not long after I went to Thornebrooke, and Nash joined him when his apartment lease ended last year. Yesterday, though, I overheard Papá talking with Mamá about giving my oldest brother some land to build on. If that happens, they’d be one step closer to officially becoming empty nesters. I’m not sure my mother is quite ready for that, though.
“Might even make it to the Super Bowl.”
Oh, goody.
Don’t get me wrong, it would be amazing to be part of a championship team, but that means I’ll have to stick around for two more months after the regular season, and I was looking forward to having some time off before heading to Tampa. He’s not wrong, though. The Wildcats have had an incredible season, and with only two games left in the regular season, it’s become glaringly obvious that we are headed for the playoffs.
“You don’t look too happy about that, SJ,” Nash says over his shoulder, using the nickname reserved only for my brothers, and occasionally Mamá. A combination of my first and middle names: Savannah Josefine. He’s been flipping through television stations to find something to watch for the last twenty minutes, and if he doesn’t find something in the next five, I’m turning it off.
“I’m notnothappy about it.”
“But?” Crew pushes, sipping his beer.
“I’m just ready for a change.”
“Well, you’re about to get the change of a lifetime.”
“Hey, look!” Nash finally stops on a channel, and my annoyance only grows. He’s pickedMonday Night Rage—Elite Wrestling Entertainment’s weekly Monday night spectacle. Before I can protest, he says, “You should probably start watching these, y’know? Get used to it because this is about to become your life.”
“What she needs to watch is the old stuff, back whenJulietandHollywere still around,” Crew says, igniting the conversation further. They start naming off a slew of different characters. Some sound familiar, and others I’ve never heard of in my life. The more they talk, the more I realize Nash isn’t wrong…I should be watching. It’s no different than a football player watching tapes to see how they can improve or study their opponent. I haven’t watched EWE in years, at least a decade, which means it might be a good idea to start.
A woman appears on the screen carrying an oversized white belt with an intricate design made from gold, jewels, and pink accents, with the EWE logo front and center. She must be the champion. Beneath her image, the nameMoxieappears on the screen. Her clothes are a mixture of black and neon colors with a leather jacket over her shoulders; the whole ensemble has a preppy-punk vibe. She’s talking to the backstage interviewer about her upcoming match against someone namedLuna Haze—that name sounds familiar, unlikeMoxie. I think this is what they call a “promo,” something meant to help build the tension and momentum leading up to the big match.
Moxielaughs when the interviewer asks if she’s worried. She oozes confidence, leaning into the other woman, and I half expect the interviewer, whose name I didn’t catch, to take a step back, but she holds her ground, poised and graceful. She barely even flinches when the wrestler gets in her face. “What is there to be worried about?Luna Haze is a washed-up has-been trying to stay relevant when she needs to go back to the old folks’ home before she gets herself hurt.” The champion scoffs, walking away from the interview without another word. The camera pans to follow her strut down the hallway before fading to the show’s commentators sitting at a ringside desk.
“She’s hot,” Nash says, and I realize my brothers have halted their conversation. “You think you can introduce me to her when you get there?”
“First off, she probably has a boyfriend,” I say, twisting the top off my beer. “Secondly, he’s probably a wrestler who could most definitely beat your ass.”
“Hey! I could take one of them.”
“Now that’s something I’d pay to see,” Crew says, and I can’t help but laugh when Nash throws the remote at his head. The remote flies over the back of the chair when Crew ducks just in time, and while he could easily respond with an old-fashioned raise of his middle finger, my oldest brother decides that’s not enough. Just like when we were kids, they lock up in the middle of the floor, and Crew overpowers Nash within seconds. He puts Nash into a submission hold that, from my spot on the couch, looks extremely uncomfortable. Their legs are a tangled mess, with Nash on his stomach as Crew squats down to practically sit on Nash’s back. “Ask him, ref!”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” With an exasperated sigh, I slink down to the floor to act as referee. As much as I want to hate being pulled into their antics, I can’t. This kind of thing excited me when I was little. I loved being included in anything my older brothers did. But as the years passed, I found myself more interested in things like cheerleading, going to the mall, dance, and just being a teenage girl, and the idea of professional wrestling seemed…juvenile. I don’t know if that’s the right word, but it’s the first that always came to mind. Now look at me, eating my words because in less than three months, I will be walking into my first day of training as a professional wrestler. “What do you say, Nash?”
“No!” He shakes his head furiously despite the clear pain written across his face.
Crew adjusts the grip on our brother’s legs, keeping them locked together, and sits back further. He glances over his shoulder to taunt Nash. “Come on, man. Don’t try to be the hero.”
This is how it’s always been. Nash rarely gets the upper hand or wins, but he always puts up a good fight. And per usual, he refuses to tap until he just can’t take it anymore, or until Mamá comes in and tells them to knock it off before they break something—themselves or one of her decorations. Despite how rough they can get with each other, there’s only been one trip to the hospital that I can recall. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say there was a roof and a table involved.
I start to ask Nash whether he concedes, but he beats me to it, slapping the palm of his hand on the floor numerous times. “That’s it, he taps! Break the hold.”
Crew untangles their legs, stepping out of the hold like it was nothing. He takes a long drink of his beer before he glances over at me. “Well, if nothing else, you’ll make a good referee.”
