Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. Any and all original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Hey, guys! This story is a revamp of the original story. It is the same basic plot, but I've given it a new name and decided to present the idea in a different way. I hope that you will enjoy it, but feel free to be honest if you don't. Thanks, to any of you who decide to read this. Your support means a lot!
A condensed, rectangular phone, 112 grams worth, sank into a self-made puncture in the snow. Boxed in by a pair of skis, the cellular device displayed the latest picture message with pride, taunting Chris from its wedge in the snow and puffing out its proverbial chest while showcasing state-of-the-art Retina display. He was unimpressed. His emotional collapse began with a single stab in the snow, the butt of his ski pole the rightful offender, as he blemished the creamy white blanket with one thrash after another. He bared his teeth and blinked the sweat droplets out of his eyes, spearing everything in sight, including his phone.
The initial crack started small, but he watched it spread across the face of his phone with the stealth of a brush fire — that wicked, malevolent cell phone, coming into his life and crushing him. The fracture on the screen fell far short to the one disfiguring his hammering heart, so he took his rage out on it again, blow after crushing blow, until a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind and took him to the ground. His ears had shut themselves off to all words, so every question his bandmate Rich Ward hurled at him went ignored, and he sank into fallen precipitation and gave away what remained of his power. He relinquished his livelihood to a cell phone.
Taos Ski Valley would be burned into his memory for life. It was the resort wherein his life as he knew it fell apart. New Mexico, land of enchantment that it claimed ownership of, was a life ruiner, and all Chris wanted was to flee the state and never return. Yet, as he fed himself those lies, he heard a tiny voice in the back of his mind, reminding him that neither the phone, nor the state he was vacationing in, was at fault. It was her; Stephanie was the main culprit. Skiers of all ages and sizes zipped past him, some headed for the small line forming at the start of the nearby ski lift, while others dodged trees and went flying down the face of the mountain for fun.
"What's this all about?" Rich asked.
Chris jumped, startled, because he heard the words. His ears had turned themselves back on without warning, ready to listen to reason, and his head turned toward Rich, but not without extreme effort. His neck clicked a quarter of an inch once, twice, and a third time, until he was facing his friend head-on. He held a wide-eyed stare for a few seconds, until the bitter wind shrank his gaze down to size, eyelids swooping in to protect from the sting of cold. When he teared up, he didn't know whether it was a product of the brisk chill settling in on them, or whether Stephanie had finally broken him, once and for all.
"It's her," was all Chris could manage, pointing a few feet in front of his body. "This is it. She's fucked me over for the last time."
"Who has?" Rich asked.
When he didn't get an answer, he sought after it himself, edging forward, hand over hand, and retrieving Chris's phone. He had done a number on the screen, but the damage wasn't so great that Rich couldn't decipher the image displayed. The shot was a candid, snapped from the side and clearly without Stephanie's knowledge or consent, while she took a drink from a thermos container. Her right hand was wrapped tightly around the thermos, while her left rested on her stomach — a suspiciously larger stomach than the one she had six months before, when she had broken up abruptly with Chris.
She was a piece of work, that Stephanie McMahon.
"I don't see what's so bad," Rich shrugged. Chris's eyes narrowed to slits, and he snatched the phone back.
"You don't see what's so bad?" Chris snarled. "Look at her stomach! She's obviously fucking pregnant, and if she's this big now, chances are good that she knew she was pregnant before she broke up with me. She's carrying my child, but she left me and didn't even bother telling me about the baby? I'm about to have a kid, and she didn't want me to know! The only reason I know now is because Cena sent a text to ask me about her baby. I asked what the hell he was talking about, and he sent me this picture."
"Maybe she didn't want to scare you off," Rich suggested, shrugging when Chris rolled his eyes. "What? I'm thinking she might have inferred you weren't exactly parent-ready, so she wanted to save you the trouble by raising the baby herself."
"And you think that's any better?" Chris asked, holding the phone up and showing Rich the picture again. He leaned forward, eyes squinted, as he studied it for a second time. "She doesn't have a right to keep me from my own child, no matter how ready, or unready, she thinks I am as a parent. That's not her call to make and, for the record, I want my kid. I can't believe she would assume I wouldn't want to be there, but I'm taking her ass to court. This is bullshit."
"Slow your roll there, dude," Rich said, undoing the straps of his skis to escape their restrictions. Chris did the same to his own, thinking it a good idea. He was done skiing for the day, his vacation no longer a vacation at all. "You don't need to do anything until you talk to her," he instructed. Chris opened his mouth to argue that point, but Rich placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "I know what you're going to say, because you told me she doesn't accept your calls and has avoided you since the break-up, but part of it is the way you act."
"Oh, so this is all my fault?"
"I'm not saying that, but you could be better with her. You go out and get hammered every night, then proceed to drunk-dial her, and she's probably sick of it, man," Rich pointed out. "If anything, your drinking and partying is why she wants the kid away from you. Do I think she has a right to keep you from your kid? No. But I can see why she would have felt like this was the best option."
"Thanks, traitor," Chris said, flipping Rich off with a gloved hand and pushing himself onto his feet, leaving hand marks and his body outline behind. He heard Rich calling after him, directing him to grab his ski supplies, but Chris no longer cared. Nothing mattered except getting to Stephanie and his unborn child.
Such a task would prove itself much easier said than done.
Chris was on the first flight to Baltimore, Maryland that he could find, checking online for information as to where Raw would be held in two days time. He shacked up in his hotel room, alternating between sleeping, drinking from the mini bar, and raging over Stephanie's complete lack of attention. He placed call after daunting call, only after purchasing a brand-new phone, of course, and she ignored them all, and apparently the messages he left for her as well. For the first time in days, there was hope in his heart when Monday morning arrived, and he sat up in bed with a smile on his face, stretching his arms high above his head.
He allowed himself a chance to freshen up after visiting the hotel gym, burning off calories and blowing off steam, all at once. Chris considered stopping off to purchase flowers or to select a new piece of jewelry for Stephanie, but if he was to win her back, it would happen based on her love for him, and nothing else. Besides, whether she took him back or not, he wasn't taking no for an answer, where it concerned the life of his future son or daughter. Chris was a lot of things, but he was no absentee father. His stomach rolled with nervous energy, and when early afternoon befell, he made the vaguely familiar drive to the Baltimore Arena, parking in a taped off section that was non-accessible to the fans.
His car keys jingled in his hand, shoes slapping the unforgiving pavement, and he strolled up to the all-business security guard manning the entrance door to the backstage area. Chris, thinking he was easily recognizable, attempted to step around him, but the guard pushed his clipboard into Chris's chest, holding him in place as he barked out, "Name?"
"Uh...I'm Chris Jericho," he said, rolling his eyes behind the shield of his sunglasses.
Some people could be so clueless. He blew a bubble with his gum, but the guard remained impassive, scanning the list attached to his clipboard. He wore a jacket, but Chris could see the outline of his build, and he was a definite gym rat. Probably nothing more than a failed athlete who had to exhibit his rage over not making it in his chosen career path by taking it out on real athletes, like Chris. The guard sniffed, lowering his hand and shaking his head.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you're not on the list," he said, coolly as a sip of fresh water on a hot summer's day. The guard went back to staring straight ahead, left hand curled loosely around his right wrist, but Chris wasn't having it. Of all the obstacles that might keep him from Stephanie, a cheap rent-a-cop wasn't one of them.
"Listen, I'll give you a bit of a pass, because you're probably new at this, but I'm the Chris Jericho," he shot back, pulling his sunglasses off and hanging them from the center of his shirt. "You know, the first ever undisputed champion, who pinned The Rock and Stone Cold all in one night? That ringing any bells inside your head?" he taunted, chomping on his gum more animatedly.
"I know very well who you are, and I'm not new," the man said, breaking out of his tough exterior long enough to actually smile, but only a tad. "I'm following strict orders from the McMahon family to not allow anyone backstage who isn't on the list. The only exceptions are those in attendance who possess backstage passes. Do you have a pass?"
"What?" Chris asked, turning his head and hocking a loogie onto the asphalt. His eyes flashed, meeting the guard's intense gaze. "I'm Chris fucking Jericho. I don't need a goddamn backstage pass, so if you know who I am like you say you do, then take your head out of your ass and let me through."
"I'm sorry," he apologized, "but I'm under strict orders not to do that. I could very well lose my job."
Chris jerked his thumb backward, "I just passed a Burger King on the way here that had a sign in the front window saying they were hiring. I'm sure you can get on there as a burger-flipper, if this wannabee cop job doesn't pan out for you, kid."
The guard took a menacing step forward, mouth settling into a hard line as he clenched his jaw. Chris smiled, a satisfied smirk that he had gotten under the skin of the man. He was whittling away at the guard's resolve, one single step at a time. "I'm not a kid. I'm a former marine, with two tours in Iraq under my belt. Any more questions?"
"Oh," Chris said, at a loss for words. He dropped his shoulders, scratching the back of his head. "I...I'm sorry, man, I didn't know. I guess, uh, thanks for your service, even though my saying that now probably doesn't mean much."
He nodded, accepting Chris's apology. "It's no big deal."
"If you can't let me in here, can you get the person I came for to come out and talk to me?"
"Like who?"
"I need Steph," Chris said.
"Steph, who?"
"McMahon."
"I don't know that she's going to agree to this. Her family's been extra protective of her lately and doesn't really let her go anywhere alone, but she's already inside, so I'll see what I can do," he said, reaching a hand out toward Chris. "I'm Andrew."
"It's great to meet you, Andrew," Chris nodded, shaking his hand. "Thanks for your help with this."
"No problem," Andrew said, reaching for the portable radio attached to his hip and bringing it to his lips.
He stepped away, turning his back as he radioed in to ask whether Stephanie could be sent out. Chris hated himself for thinking it and for going through with it, but the sight of the unmanned door was truly too good to pass up. It was the only barrier keeping him away from Stephanie and holding him back from making a plea to her that could bring their little family back together, baby and all. Andrew took another step away, still distracted, and Chris made a run for it, tugging the door by the handle and running down the first hall he came into contact with.
Before the door hand a chance to clank shut, he heard a sharp curse and the scuttle of running feet. Not wanting Andrew to catch him and ruin the entire plan, he pumped his legs quicker, not bothering to go back for his sunglasses when they fell from his shirt and crashed to their untimely demise on the floor below. Multiple sets of eyes followed him as his speed attracted attention, Andrew calling out loudly near the door for him to stop. His responsibility to keep watch at the door outweighed his need to catch Chris, so he abandoned the chase, and Chris disappeared around a corner, dodging bodies left and right as he scanned the immediate area, looking only for one woman.
"Where's Stephanie?" he called out, stagehands frowning like he was a madman, but he was a man possessed by love, and he wouldn't quit until he found her. "Where's Stephanie? I need to see her now!"
With everyone remaining mum, Chris came to a stop at a line of postings on the wall, each of them with an arrow, which pointed in the direction where a key set of offices were located. His eyes traveled along the sheets, his chest puffing up and down with his hard-fought battle to catch his breath. Stephanie's name didn't appear anywhere on the list, which struck him as funny, since she was normally considered a go-to person at the shows, but she had only just returned to her duties after several months of time off, and she was likely slow to transition into her new role as Chief Brand Officer of the company. Then, the name McMahon jumped out at him, and though it wasn't the most desirable member of the family, it would have to do. Chris ran his hand over the typed-out information.
Vince McMahon's office: Conference Room B-4.
The arrow beside the text pointed in the direction he had already been headed, so Chris followed the path set out, forcing himself back into a jog, his legs and lungs burning. His body was begging for a break, but he wouldn't allow for one until he had Stephanie at an arm's length. While he dashed onward, Chris longed for the days when he had been in peak physical condition, most of that taken away because of his choice to partake in the party life when he went on tours with Fozzy, and even when he was only hanging out at home with his friends. His urges for a good time were turned up continuously at full-blast, and Chris wasn't entirely sure he remembered how to take it easy on himself or sit at home and simply enjoy the peace.
Another paper arrow beside Vince's name fell into Chris's vision when he made it to the end of the hallway and came upon a second note, letting him know he was still headed in the right direction. He slowed to a brisk walk, weaving in and out of nameless, faceless bodies as his surroundings blended into a massive blob. He ached for Stephanie, prayed for just one moment with her, and that was when he saw the door with Vince's nameplate. Chris turned the knob, not bothering to knock, and pushed his way inside. Her back was turned, but he recognized her right away, noticing her body was fuller from behind than it had been before, but that was only to be expected in the wake of a pregnancy.
"Stephanie!" he said, reaching out to her. No sooner had he slipped his hands over her hips than she pushed him away, rushing around Vince's desk and standing behind his seated form, as if she needed some sort of protection. Chris attempted to pacify the tension. "It's okay, Steph. I only came because I want to talk about you and...our baby," he said, eyes darting to her stomach, a definite bump showing itself from under the shelter of Stephanie's sweater. She slipped her hands over her stomach protectively.
"I can't talk right now," she said, tone brisk and dismissive. Vince shook his head, rising from his chair and tossing his pen down on the desk.
"I'm not getting trapped in the middle of this," he said, walking toward the door. Just before slipping away, he added, "You two work this out, and find a way to do it fast, because I'm sick of the back and forth. You either want to be together, or you don't."
The door slammed shut behind him, and Chris tried to approach Stephanie, but she began backing away, so he stopped. "I get that we're broken up, but that doesn't mean you can keep me from my child. I didn't even know you were pregnant until one of the guys sent a picture to me. Where the hell do you get off not telling me about my own child and not even bothering to answer my phone calls?"
Stephanie placed her palms down flat on Vince's desk, leaning forward as she stared Chris down and breathed so hard out of her nostrils that he couldn't help but picture a stamping bull, ready to charge. He held his hands out, palms upward, and shrugged, waiting for her to offer an answer he deemed a good enough reason to have kept him so desperately out of the loop. Surely, she would have an explanation that would be enough not to make him pull the final plug and go to court to seek a custody arrangement. She had an explanation, but little did Chris know that the second he heard it, he would wish he hadn't.
She narrowed her eyes and returned his shrug with a careless one of her own. "My baby is no business of yours."
"The hell they aren't," Chris scoffed. "Why wouldn't this be any of my business?"
"Because, Chris," she said, sighing. "It's not your baby."
His knees buckled, and he landed in a heap on the floor.