A picture worth 1000 words.
Pete Dunne could still hear his ears ringing. Fortunately his vision had stopped spinning. That shot to the back of the head was like something from a past life. It felt like years ago Roderick Strong had suggested teaming for the Dusty Tag Team Classic, and even longer when he said he respected him. No matter how many times he played the match over in his head did he understand why he'd decided to trust the man. He hardly trusted anyone, and this was why. Pete held the ice to the back of his head as he walked to the locker room. He kept his face blank and his head down, he didn't want an interview nor did he want his co-workers' pity.
He was sat in the locker room, still staring at his boots long after everyone else had left. His phone was buzzing off the hook from Twitter mentions, seemingly shaking the whole wall of lockers. He stood and took it from his locker, ready to throw it clear across the room, but his fingers accidently pressed the gallery app. A picture opened. A picture he hadn't seen in awhile, nearly a lifetime ago. It hit him in the gut a bit. Him, Trent, and Tyler stood on a wooden bridge beside a familiar brick wall. The grey foreboding sky, looking like it'd rain, but not letting free a droplet for hours. The soft green marshy grass in the background. It all felt like home. The three were in sports coats like a couple of peaky blinders, side by side. Man did he miss having back up.
He had a tan jacket in the picture, still wore it as a matter of fact, but it was worn out now. Kind of like him, no longer the brash foul mouthed teenager picking fights with guys across the midlands, trusty sledge hammer in hand. He's grown up a bit. As had the others. Trent's belly was filling out, he was less chatty, and Tyler, the youngest of them, was well on his way to becoming one of the best wrestlers of their generation, out on injury now, but gunning to jump back in. Pete wished they were here, not to help in the match, but to shoot the breeze after. But he'd more than burned that bridge in Blackpool. British Strong Style died when he let his ambitions get the better of him. None of them were new to cheating, but he'd attacked his best friend outside of a match, unprovoked. Had he just kept a level head, he'd never had broken that trust. And he wouldn't had reigniting Regal's rage, causing quite a roughing up by the older man. Maybe at one hundred percent he would have won; he did in Chicago.
Without thinking about the ramifications, he tweeted the picture out. There was no reason to expect a response from his former friends. Though if nothing else, it'd get them all talking about something other than his loss.
.