"John, we're looking at it as realistically as possible." Vince's McMahon's voice became a part of the background noise. White static filled John Cena's head. Sidelined? Benched? Temporary removal from duty? It didn't make sense any way he looked it. Here he was, sitting across the expanse of Vince's desk, being told his career was taking a serious detour. It just didn't add up. Sure, the shoulder wasn't a 100% just yet, but come on! Guys like him didn't stop just because of an injury.
"We're out of options." Vince pushed John's medical file toward him. "It's all in here. In black and white. That shoulder is never going to heal. You'll be a liability, to us and yourself."
Liability? What the fuck? Now he was a liability? Slowly John shook his head. Liability be damned. They were talking about his life here. Not just a job, but his LIFE.
"There's got to something else! Anything else! You can't give up on me now." John met Vince's eyes. He didn't like what he saw there. It was the same look he'd seen a million times. It was the look that said he was at the end of the road.
"Go home, John. Get some rest. We'll try to figure out where to go from here." Vince hated this part the most. He shook his head, letting John know it conversation was ending. He knew how much it sucked to be on the other side of the desk. He had been in John's shoes before. And it never got any easier.
John snorted and kept his opinion to himself. There was no way they were going to send him home like a wounded dog. "Go home? You've got to kidding me. You've got to give me....."
"Truthfully, I don't want to lose you. You're a part of this company, family. This is hard on all of us. But what else are we going to?" Vince leaned back in his chair, watching for John's reaction.
Injuries were like water nowadays. Just about every day somebody was being sent to medical. Each roster, from the rookies on up, were taking a hit. It was like Paul Levesque, better know to the world as Triple H, all over again. Vince had signed his walking papers almost a year ago, after a broken back ended his career. Vince had totally given up on Paul, too. Nobody had believed Paul would ever walk again. But his recovery had been nothing short of a miracle. Granted, Paul wasn't getting very far, very fast, but at least he was on his feet again.
John blinked slowly and turned back to Vince. "Send me to that therapist." John watched the confusion dance across Vince's brow. "You know, that therapist that helped Paul walk again."
Vince leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. He knew he was really just prolonging the inevitable. John knew the end of his career was at hand. The sonuvabitch was just too tough to go down. What was left to do? Sure as hell sending him to the therapist wasn't going to make him return to the ring. Maybe it could help him figure out where to go from here. Vince reached into his desk and pulled out a small, cream-colored business card. He leaned forward, the card held lightly between his fingers. "I hope like hell you know what you're doing."