Synopsis: Phil Brooks, aka Punk, a rising star in the UFC, is well known as a hot tempered bad boy with a degenerate image. John Cena, former 10 time WWE Champion, a man entering the closing chapter of his career, has a reputation as a kid friendly do gooder. When John attends a UFC show at the invitation of an old friend, the two meet and sparks predictably fly, but the they end up discovering that they share more common ground than they ever would have thought. The relationship they form ends up changing both of their lives forever.
Notes: I started this back in July. It was originally supposed to be a prompt for a short one shot from JacAlley, but it quickly ate my brain, and then hers. I have a couple chapters finished, and it's anyone's guess whether I will finish more, but here it is, in all its glory. JacAlley is probably responsible for 40% of the plot and 75% of the motivation behind this.
Chapter 1: The Champ Is Here
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Anaheim, California
The Honda Center
Even through the cinderblock walls of the arena, Punk could hear the noise of the crowd. It had quieted down in the lull between the finish of one fight and the start of the next. He was up next; they would be calling for him soon. He already had his team in his ear, pumping him up, repeating strategy like a litany, giving him all the last minute advice they could. The words slid off him like water. His vision was narrowed to a pinpoint, already looking forward to the cage and the man that would be waiting for him inside.
Finally, the call came. He stood up from the chair he'd been sitting on, elbows on his knees, forehead pressed to his gloved hands in a prayer position, and shook himself out, bounced on his feet heels a few times. He exited first. He looked to the left and saw Chael Sonnen leaning against a wall just down the hall. He stared at the man for a long second, then noticed that the camera thatbefore noticing a camera was already trained on him. Chael winked in his direction; Punk as he turned to the right and started the long walk out into the arena. His team followed behind him as the cameraman walked backwards in front of him, and between them he made his way through the warren of hallways that would spit him out amongst the crowd roaring his name. He heard Rener's voice in his ear the entire time, drowning under the growing buzz. He paused at the entranceway, taking one last breath. He could hear the strains of his music over cheers and screams. He turned towards his trainer, and Rener wrapped his arms around Punk and leaned in close. "You're a killer. Remember that."
This was the important advice. This was the advice he was meant to hear, above all the words that had been said to him today. He nodded even as he pulled away. He could feel the production assistants hovering around them, getting antsy as he used up valuable pay-per-view time. With a grin and a wink to the camera, he mimed punching Rener in the face and mouthed "Pow" for the people watching at home, then continued his walk. People shouted his name, people reached out and tried to touch him, but he was focused on the clearing in the middle of the throng. The octagonal cage, lit up by bright spotlights, a beacon in the dark. He didn't notice anything else.
His opponent, Yushin Okami, currently ranked at number 9 in the world in the middleweight division, had entered first. He was already in the Octagon, and was already in there, pacing, trying to keep his adrenaline up and his nerves down. Punk glanced at him once, then turned away, focused on taking off his walkout gear. He kicked off his flip flops and his warm ups, , pulled his sponsor shirt off awkwardly with his wrapped and gloved hands and shoved it into someone's waiting hands.
Down to just his shorts, he turned to Rener and hugged him Rener one last time, then threw in the rest of his team for good measure. The demands of tradition satisfied, he turned to the cutman. He had Stitch working for him now, because his skin split easily, and because Rener believed he needed the best. He'd done with less so often in his life, he wasn't sure how to process the notion, but now was not the time or place.
He stepped onto the Bud Lite logo and closed his eyes as Vaseline was smeared over his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. Then there were more hands on him as the official came to check his mouth guard, his gloves, his cup, and he was home free. He took the steps into the cage slowly, deliberately. I am being locked in here by choice, he said. Nobody can cage me. The rhetorical flourishes almost mattered more, in the end. Ability and technique won fights. Stories sold them.
As he waited for the announcers he couldn't hear to run down his stats for the television audience, Punk let his eyes wander over the cageside seats. He knew Eve was in the crowd tonight, and there was always something special about that for him. He didn't believe in luck, but he did harbor romantic notions about her as his patron lady.
He spotted her easily. She was sitting in the front row, just to the side of his corner. Her bronze skin glowed in the low light and her hair fell in luxurious soft curls, but it was her smile that drew your eyes to her. Their eyes met across the short distance, and she bestowed that smile on him. He mocked a courtly bow at her. She inclined her head in response. As she did it, he caught a brief motion of her hand to the seat next to her; it was then that and he noticed that she had someone with her.
Punk frowned. Sitting next to Eve was a tall, almost generic looking guy in jeans and a dark colored shirt with a buzzed head and an easy look about him. Eve was leaning in his direction, talking comfortably, like they'd known each other for a whilethey knew each other well. Punk knew he should recognize that face, but it took him a second to place it, and then he did. He slammed his hands against the cage and it shookthe fencing shook and rattled under the pressure.
Eve didn't look up at himreact, but John Cena did, confusion marring his genial features. As if he thought that he belonged here, in this world. As if he thought he belonged next to Eve. For a moment, Punk forgot that he was about to fight. All he wanted to do was go out there and—
"Hey," Rener called to him sharply.
Punk broke his stare down and stalked back to his sponsor banner. Rener was holding out a bottle of water at him. He wasn't thirsty, but he took it out of habit and poured some past his mouth guard before handing the bottle back. The last thing he wanted was an argument about staying hydrated.
When he turned around, Bruce Buffer was entering the cage to start the introductions. As he stepped to the center of the cage, Punk tried to hide how badly he'd been shaken out of his cold, prefight focus.
"In the red corner, Yushin 'Thunder' Okami, fighting out of Kanagawa, Japan," he heard vaguely. He struggled not to look back at his own corner, at John Cena, WWE Superstar, sitting outside, watching him. "In the blue corner, Phil 'Punk' Brooks, fighting out of Torrance, California, by way of Chicago, Illinois." On cue, he raised his arm for the camera.
The referee, Herb Dean, came out and reminded them of the rules, recited the lines he'd probably said a thousand times or more. He and Okami touched gloves, and the fight was on.
Start slow, he thought. Feel him out, find your range. Complete and utter bullshit. He ran straight at Okami, head ducked low, and shot for a takedown. Okami stuffed it, stayed on his feet long enough to get his back against the cage. Fuck. But they separated clean, danced around each other. Stood and traded blows. Combinations of punches and kicks that came and went in flurries. Time was slipping off the clock like it was nothing.
He held his arms straight out, slightly lowered, silently begging Okami to come for him. When he did, Punk spun around at the last second, threw a back elbow; it landed perfectly, and fuck, did it feel amazing. Okami staggered, and backed up against the cage as Punk he surged forward.
They struggled for position and he was down on his back before he knew what was happening. He got Okami in his full guard, and they grappled, grabbing at arms, legs, occasionally throwing punches. He could hear his corner screaming advice, telling him which way to move. Telling him he needed to try harder, but if it felt good to score a big hit, it didn't feel terrible to be hit, either.
Then the horn blew to signal the end of the round, and Herb Dean was there, making sure they separated cleanly. Punk rolled out of the hold and stood. More than anything, he was dying to see what Cena thought of him now, but Rener was in the cage, pulling him into his corner, making sure he faced into the Octagon.
Rener crouched by his side silently as his other cornermen sat him down on the stool, patted his face dry, iced the back of his neck, poured water into his mouth. The minute went by in a heartbeat.
As he was standing up, Rener grabbed his arm. "That hit was one in a lifetime, you know that. A lifetime, Punk. Don't try that shit again."
He knew Rener was right. He knew it. But he walked back to the center of the Octagon without answering, and when Rener had to leave the cage or risk disqualification, he felt the petty sense of having won something.
The second round went by in a blur. They stood up for the first couple minutes, circling around each other, Okami in the center of the Octagon, Punk on the outside. Punk found himself dropping his arms, trying to wait longer and longer before defending, just to make things interesting. Make Okami think he was tired, sucker him in, that was the rationale, never mind the fact that he was tempting a knockout.
Then, Okami took the bait. Punk was nearly at the cage, dragging as he circled, and Okami came forwardin. Punk He shot forward, grabbed his opponent's legswent for the double. Okami had no defense and he Punk got into mount immediately. He landed a left and a right, then pulled back, let Okami up. More takedowns, more points, he reasoned with himself. It had nothing to do with the rush. They circled and circled more and traded blows, but Punk never got another takedown opportunity.
The horn sounded, signaling the end of the round. In no time, he was being corralled back into his corner. The ritual was repeated all over again. A bag of ice was pressed to the back of his neck, and the cold steel of an Enswell was being pressed to the swelling under his eye. He wasn't sure how many hits he'd taken, but he knew he wasn't going to be pretty, come morning. By this point, he'd forgotten Cena even existed. Nothing existed, except for the fight.
"Would it kill you to keep your hands up?" Rener hissed at him, keeping his voice low.
Punk waved away the cutman and opened his eyes to stare at his trainer. "You wanna fight for metake my place?" he asked.
Rener growled in frustration. "Oh, maybe I will, because I actually want us to win this fight."
"I'll win, don't worry," Punk said, standing up from the stool. The bag of ice that his trainer had been holding to his back slipped and landed on the floor.
"You better fucking finish him, or you won't win," Rener responded as he gathered his things and prepared to leave the cage.
They He and Okami touched gloves to start the third and final round. Punk had to hand it to Rener; he knew him better than almost anyone. He knew what it took to properly motivate him. He went for the immediate takedown again. It hadn't worked the first time, but by now, Okami was starting to get tired, no matter what the analysts spouted about his takedown defense percentage.
Rener had been right. He was a killer. He scored the takedown, concentrated on control, transitioned into the mount, concentrated went for onthe ground and pound. Everything seemed slow, yet when he looked up at the clock, time seemed to be slipping through his fingers, pressing on him. A minute had passed, then two. Then, then he got sloppy. He was tired, or he'd been hit too many times, or he just didn't care enough about what was going on inside the cage.
Okami twisted under him, managed to flip them over, and Punk was on his back again. He scrambled frantically to get into full guard as precious seconds slipped away. As he maneuvered his limbs, he thought frantically back to the second round, the hits he'd taken, the advantages he hadn't pressed, and he knew with a cold clarity that Rener had been right about that too, that he would not win this fight if he didn't do something.
Then, Okami made a crucial mistake. Tired aAfter nearly three rounds of fighting, he was tired too, and for an instant, he dropped his hand to the mat to support his weight. Punk took advantage of that momentary slip, grabbed his wrist and transitioned smoothly into the kimura lock. His muscles were burning, but he pulled it in tight, gave it all his muscle as Okami tried to roll his way out of it. He held on as if his life depended on it. He could not lose this fight.
He didn't even hear the horn blow. One second, he was cranking the arm, and then next, the ref was grabbing at his back, trying to pull him away. His first instinct was to fight, but then reason reasserted itself and his training kicked in. He let go immediately, and at that moment, it began to sink in that he had won. He stood up in a daze.
People rushed into the cage, trainers and officials crowding around Okami to make sure he was okay. Punk backed up a few steps to give them room, but otherwise stayed where he was. Photographers, cameramen, journalists, milled around while they waited for the recaps to finish and the official decision to be read out. There wasn't the sense of suspense that there was when it a fight went to the judges' scorecards, just a sense of finality, of wanting to get on to the more interesting part.
At some point, Rener came in and handed him his shirt. Punk would rather have left it off, but struggled to lift it over his head anyway. Gotta give the sponsors their money's worth, after all. Get that shit out there, pay some bills. Stitch poked and prodded at his face and someone iced his neck again.
Okami came to the center of the Octagon, holding his arm gingerly. He bowed to Punk in acknowledgement, and Punk bowed back. Then Herb Dean was standing in between them and Bruce Buffer was lurking behind, reading off a card. Punk got his hand raised, but everyone already knewthat was just a formality. He turned to Okami to speak to him, but he was corralled by Joe Rogan for his post-fight interview.
"Congratulations on your win, Punk," Joe said, as he would have said to anyone who'd won that night.
"Thanks," Punk answered automatically. He had to struggle not to shrug Joe's arm off his back.
"Before this fight, a lot of people were saying you wouldn't be able to stand toe to toe with an elite level fighter like Yushin Okami, and yet you just handed him his first ever submission loss. What do you say to those people?"
Oh, his critics. His 'fans', they liked to call themselves. Punk wiped sweat out of his eyes and his fingers came away sticky with Vaseline. "All the respect in the world to Okami, he's a great fighter and he comes from a proud tradition, but far too many people have been underestimating me for far too long."
Joe nodded understandingly. "What do you think was the decisive component in your victory?"
By some chance, Punk was looking across the cage at his corner. Right where John Cena was sitting. The seat next to him was empty. Eve was probably already standing off to the side of the cage already, waiting to congratulate him when he finished with this shit.
Cena was looking down at his phone. Like it was the main fucking event, not what was going down in the cage. He couldn't comprehend why Rener would let someone with so little respect step anywhere near this cage.
"I always perform better in front of an audience, Joe," he said into the mic. "And do you know who's right here in Anaheim tonight? The Champ is here! Hi, John!" He waved manically in the direction of John Cena like a small child. He could see the confusion in Joe Rogan's eyes, but oh, was Cena looking at him now. "That's WWE Superstar John Cena," he said. "I've always wanted to meet him," he added in a stage whisper, shielding the microphone with his hand, as if it were a secret between them two.
Rener grabbed him by the arm before he could say anything else and pulled him towards the cage door. He could hear Rogan signing off the interview, but that was just background noise now. "What is wrong with you?" Rener hissed as they cleared the range of any audio equipment. Punk let himself be dragged out of the cage and just laughed as a camera tracked him the whole way.
Rener let go of him when they were clear of the door. As he had predicted, Eve was standing there. She smiled and shook her head when she saw him. She was wearing the gold hoop earrings he'd bought her on her last birthday and they shone in the lights as she moved. Punk straightened himself up automatically.
"Congratulations, Phil," she said softly.
He wasn't sure what made him do it. Everyone was watching. Rener was mad enough at him already. He wasn't sure how Dana would feel about what he'd just said. But he'd won. He'd won the fight that nobody thought he could. He pulled her in by the hips, wrapped his arms around her waist, and planted a kiss on her lips.
"You're beautiful, darling," he whispered into her hair as he let her go. Her smile turned uncertain as he turned and headed straight to the locker room without looking back.
Rener caught up to him midway between the arena and his locker room. The rest of the guys had done what they'd correctly assumed he wanted and left him the hell alone. But not Rener.
"Hey. Hey!" Rener said sharply, grabbing his arm. He was getting so fucking sick of being grabbed tonight. "What was that out there?"
"You didn't hear?' Punk asked sharply. "I'm fucking your fiancé."
"You know that's not what I mean," Rener answered. "John Cena."
"You tell me, you invited him," Punk countered, bristling with resentment.
"Eve invited him. You know, the woman you're supposed to be in love with."
Punk immediately felt guilty. Of course he knew that Eve was in WWE. He knew that she worked with John Cena. He knew that as much as she was a fan of MMA, she didn't like being alone at these events, and that her coworkers were in town this week. But couldn't she have brought Daniel Bryan? Or at least Brie Bella?
"Sorry," Punk mumbled under his breath. Rener reached out— "And don't grab my arm again, it fucking hurts."
"Shit, are you okay?" Rener asked, instantly the picture of concern. Punk backed up against the wall and looked down at his bare feet. He'd lost his fucking flip flops, again. He'd have to go to Walgreens and buy more. "Hey, listen to me. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Not a scratch, see?" He spread his arms, palms up.
Rener studied him closely. Punk could tell he wanted to say something, but Punk he just gave him a hard stare, and he Rener sighed and backed down. Punk knew it was only for the moment, though. With Rener, you could delay, but you couldn't escape. That was one of the reasons they'd always gotten along so well, as ironic as was at times.
"Are you hungry?" Rener asked instead, starting to shift into mother hen mode.
"Fucking starving," he answered grudgingly. He hated being taken care of at the best of times, and he knew Rener was trying to sweet talk him out of his bad mood.
"Go cool down, get changed. I'll get you those sweet potato fries you like so much."
"And a diet Pepsi," Punk added.
"And the largest fucking diet Pepsi in existence. Any other requests, killer?" Punk could see Rener starting to grin. It was just sinking in with him that they'd really done it. They'd won, and they deserved to celebrate a bit. It had been a hard few months.
"Wild mushroom risotto," he said. Might as well go wild. They'd be ranked now. They had to be. "Whole grain pancakes. Bacon."
Rener just shook his head, and after backing away a few steps, turned and left.
Punk closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He had to learn not to do this shit to himself, to just enjoy the moment. Rener was right, he needed to get back to his locker room and go cool down. A shower and a change of clothes would make a world of difference. Then maybe he'd feel more like himself. More like he was accomplishing his dreams.
Then he opened his eyes and noticed the monitor flat screen in the hall, set up so that backstage personnel could monitor the progress of the event. Benson Henderson's face flashed across the screen as the main event video package finished up, and the camera started panning across the crowd. Punk stared in disbelief as the screen cut to a tight shot of John Cena. His name and occupation were scrolled across the bottom, and Punk was sure if the sound had been on, he would have heard the announcers discussing his call out of the man. Breaking it down for the average fan. It had been his fault, Punk knew, but it tweaked his anger. Even worse was the stilted, uncomfortable way Cena was looking away from the camera in his face. Like aw, shucks, he just wasn't used to that kind of attention.
He snagged a passing security guy. "Hey, you see that guy, John Cena?" he asked. The man nodded. "Do me a favor, go out there and get him, bring him back to my room. He's by the blue corner," he said, tapping the blue tape wrapped around his gloves. The guy just nodded again, he didn't even say anything, didn't ask who was asking and that made Punk feel better. He started walking again, starting to pick at the tape around his wrists.
When Punk got to his locker room, divested of his gloves, he closed the door behind him, and dropped himself into the nearest chair. He opened the bottle of water he'd snagged on the way back, label removed of course, and chugged half of it, then poured the other half over his head. The adrenaline from the fight was just starting to wear off, replacing itself with exhaustion. He knew he should get up, stretch himself out, take a shower, but he just wanted to sit.
After a few minutes, he almost forgot that John Cena was supposed to be answering his summons. A couple minutes more, and he figured that Cena just wasn't coming. It was annoying and a bit disappointing, but that was life, he figured. He'd shake himself out of this stupor, shower and change. Rener would come back, he'd eat, and life would continue.
Punk felt himself dozing off, and was half asleep when his door banged open. He sprang out of his chair instinctively, spinning towards the intruder with his hands up to fight. Then he sighed, feeling ridiculous.
"Where the fuck do you get off?" a fuming John Cena asked, circling around him. The easy look, the casual smile, from before were replaced by hard edged anger and contempt. Punk liked it a whole hell of a lot better. It felt more honest.
"Language, John-Boy," he reprimanded, rotating to keep Cena in his sights. "What would the mommies in the audience think if they heard you talk like that?"
"You don't even know me," Cena spat back, stepping towards him aggressively. "I don't know what your problem is. I didn't do anything to you."
Punk circled away from Cena easily; Cena had to turn to face him this time. "You came to my fight, sat in my corner. What is this, another stop on the promotional tour?"
"I was just sitting in the audience. Nobody even noticed I was here until youbrought it up. And I'm sure they didn't miss the fact that I was sitting in your corner. If that's the kind of publicity you want…"
Punk froze. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean," he said coldly.
"It's none of my business how you conduct your personal life," Cena said, all too earnest all of a sudden. "But that was disrespectful, what you did to a man who I'm told is supposed to be your friend."
Oh, the rumors. The last thing he'd wanted to do tonight was make them worse, and it was as bad as it got if even Cena was calling him out over it. He stepped forward, his blood warming up to a simmer.
"And you have nothing to worry about," Cena continued, standing his ground. "Absolutely nothing. I'm not interested in Eve. You made a fool out of yourself for nothing."
"That's fucking disrespectful," Punk told him. "She's not interested in you. You shouldn't even be mentioning her name."
Punk had advanced on Cena without even noticing that he was doing it. He was angry again, adrenaline spiking in his system. He felt like hurting someone. He felt like hurting John Cena. Wiping that arrogant look off his face.
"You should probably take a step back right now," Cena said. He had the gall to look amused.
Punk snorted. "You think I'm afraid of you? That fight out there? That was just a warm up, and you're just a play fighter for Vinny Mac."
"I have at least 50 pounds on you," John said, planting his hands on Punk's chest and pushing him. "Get real."
Punk took a step back, let his retreat absorb the momentum. Stand your ground, be too stiff, and you fell. Bend with the current, and you survived. "Is that the best you got?" he asked, a grin spreading across his face.
"You got better?"
He was moving before the words were even out of Cena's mouth, and what Cena had in power, he lost in speed and agility. Before Cena was able to get his guard up, Punk had given him a hard shove. He staggered back, swayed, then collapsed into a chair as the back of his knees hit the seat.
"Okay, I guess you got better," he mumbled, mostly to himself, Punk assumed.
They stared at each other for a few minutes, both catching their breaths. Punk couldn't quite believe it, but he actually felt a bit better. Mollified. Cena looked sheepish, and right now, that was enough.
Finally, Punk broke eye contact and walked over to his bag. He fished out his change of clothes and set them on the chair next to him. He'd decided to forget about showering for now. He just wasn't up for it. Back half turned to Cena, he pulled his shirt over his head and used it to towel off his face before tossing it aside.
"What are you doing?" Cena asked, his voice sounding high and slightly alarmed.
He loosened the drawstring of his white, nylon fight shorts, pushed them down over his hips, and let them fall to the ground before he turned Cena, who had risen from his the chair and was standing stock still, as if mesmerized. "What does it look like I'm doing?" he asked, annoyance biting at tone.
He was hot and he was sweaty, and he was getting undressed. He didn't see how that was something to argue about. But then he saw noticed the comical widening of Cena's eyes as he stepped out of his shorts and kicked them away, the bobbing of Cena's Adam's apple as he swallowed hard. And he got it. He got it.
You have nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing.
He felt like laughing. John Cena, clean cut, kid friendly, WWE Superstar. Attracted to him. That was so rich. And he acted like he was looking out for Eve's honor, for Rener's honor, when it was just jealousyhe was just jealous. Apparently, It seemed like John Cena was just as petty as the rest of humanity.
To test out his theory, Punk maintained eye contact with Cena as he bent and pulled his compression shorts down his legs slowly. Cena followed the movement of his hands intently. He held his arms rigidly at his sides and swallowed again. The notion, which should have been as ridiculous as it was entertaining, slowly became compelling.
"Just how many layers are you wearing?" Cena asked, staring at Punk's low rise black trunks. He bit his lip after he spoke, and his eyes widened, as if he wasn't sure how he'd let those words come out of his mouth.
And it was just… it was just fucking adorable. He found himself wanting to see how far Cena would go. He smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why don't you come over here and find out?"
"Wha—what?" Cena asked, as if he hadn't seen that one coming.
Punk shook his head. He should have known better than to think this it would be that easy. He felt disappointment percolate through his system, and that's when he realized something else. He was attracted to Cena. He wasn't quite sure how he'd missed it, even with all the highs and lows that a fight night produced.
He'd see Cena every now and then, when he'd catch the odd Monday Night Raw. Dressed in his ring gear; jorts that hung low at the waist, brightly colored t-shirts. But he'd never really focused on him, never noticed him as anything other than a symbol, a figurehead. But to have him here, looking like a man, not an overgrown child, in his jeans and navy v-neck. To have Cena so clearly into him, even though he was the last person Cena should be wanting.
He reached down and to adjust his cup, which was starting to become uncomfortable. "Fuck," he heard Cena mutter. He saw Cena's hand twitch at his side, as if he wanted to do something similar.
"Come. Here," he repeated. "I'm not going to offer again."
Punk knew he was bluffing even as he said it. He needed this right now. Every second was making it more obvious how much he needed this. If he had to, he'd go over there and get Cena, but Cena didn't know that. And he'd much prefer it if Cena came to him.
After a few agonizing seconds, Cena approached Punk cautiously. He stopped inches away, their bodies just shy of touching. Punk held himself purposefully still, allowing Cena to make the move.
Cena reached out slowly, touched the waistband of Punk's underwear, fingered the Calvin Klein logo that wrapped around his left hip. Punk shivered as Cena's thumb dipped below the elastic, brushed his skin.
"That's not… off…" Punk said, stumbling over the words unexpectedly as Cena hooked the other side of his waistband with his left hand, pulled the material down slowly.
"Shit, you do have something on under there," Cena observed, sounding nervous and bemused, as Punk's jockstrap was revealed.
Punk put his hands over Cena's, pushed them, and his underwear, down. "Keep going," he said. Cena had to bend over slightly to push the cotton low enough on Punk's legs that it would fall free. Punk put his hands on Cena's shoulders to stabilize himself while he stepped out of the fabric. He considered pushing him Cena down to his knees, but Cena stood suddenly, and Punk was left with his hands practically around Cena's neck.
"Good enough for you?" Cena asked, stepping into Punk so their bodies were flush.
"That's. Yeah, that's fine," he answered. He had trouble concentrating on the words as Cena ran his hands up the back of his thighs, palmed his bare ass and squeezed.
Instinctively, he pushed his body into Cena's. He could feel Cena's erection press against his thigh through the rough denim of his jeans, but he couldn't get any friction with his cup still in place. He groaned in frustration, and looked up, about to tell Cena to let him go, but Cena took this as an opportunity and kissed him.
For a second, Punk had no idea what to do. He hadn't planned on this. But even though he hadn't, he found himself reacting to it, wrapping his arms around Cena's neck. Opening his mouth to Cena's. And he felt… It felt good, too fucking good.
Swearing under his breath, he pulled away, made a clean break of it. Cena stepped forward, an arm half outstretched. Punk held a hand up, and Cena mercifully stopped, despite the confusion on his face.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked after a minute.
Punk looked up. Where he was nearly naked, Cena was still fully dressed. His shirt was rumpled, damp in spots where sweat had still clung to Punk's skin. He thought he'd wanted him before. He thought he'd found him attractive before. What he felt now…
"No," he answered quickly. He reached down the front of his jock and pulled the cup out of its pouch and held it up. "This was starting to hurt." Cena swallowed hard again as Punk tossed it with the rest of his clothes
"Yeah, I can see how that would," Cena observed absently, his eyes on the narrow, plastic cup. Then he dragged his head eyes back to Punk, down to his groin, where his erection was now clearly visible through the pouch of his jockstrap. "That's it, right?" His tone was strangled.
Punk laughed. He couldn't help himself. It had been so long since he'd been in a situation like this, and he was starting to genuinely enjoy it. "Yeah, that's about it," he said, cupping his balls as if to demonstrate. He let his hand linger for a second longer than he needed to, stroking himself as he withdrew it.
"What about you?" he asked, moving back into Cena's personal space. "You wearing anything interesting under there?" He tugged on Cena's belt loop for emphasis.
"No. Just boxers," Cena answered.
"Let me see 'em anyway," he said with a feral grin.
Cena made a small, indistinct sound in the back of his throat, then pulled Punk in by the back of his neck and kissed him again. Punk didn't even have to think about it this time, he just responded.
As their tongues slid against each other's, Punk brought his hands to Cena's waistband, fumbled with the button and zipper for a second before getting it open. Without looking, he reached inside, found Cena had been telling the truth. There was just a thin layer of fabric between his hand and Cena's dick.
As he stroked Cena through his underwear, Cena gasped and broke the kiss. He sounded almost like he was choking for a second and Punk quickly checked the piercing retainer in his lower lip, just to reassure himself that it was still there.
"God, do that again, please," Cena said, his cheeks flushed and his breath short.
Punk shook his head. "Quid pro quo, Johnny. You're a little overdressed for this party." Cena just frowned at him. "It means—"
"I know what it means," Cena snapped churlishly. He pulled his shirt over his head and balled it up in his hands almost nervously, despite going shirtless being more or less an everyday occurrence for him.
If Cena looked muscular on television, he was downright chiseled in person. Even in the world of professional athletes, the man was built, and Punk couldn't help but admire it. Even oOn his best of days, he couldn't pull that off.
Punk took the shirt from Cena's hands and tossed it aside. He put his hands on Cena's chest, ran them over his pecs, down his goddamn perfect abs, stopped at the waistband of his boxers, which Punk now saw were blue and white plaid. Adorable.
He looked up at Cena as he slid his hand down farther, past the elastic, initiating skin to skin contact. He felt Cena's muscles contract in a full body shudder. He squeezed just a little, and Cena's eyes drifted shut, his light, nearly translucent eyelashes brushing against his cheeks, his jaw tightening.
"Good boy," he murmured into Cena's ear as he withdrew his hand. Cena's eyes shot open. He opened his mouth to protest. "Quid pro quo," Punk reminded him, patting him on the hip before taking a few steps back.
Cena nearly stumbled over himself trying to toe off his sneakers. Next came the ankle socks, and Punk took full advantage of the way Cena's open jeans exposed his ass as he bent over to peel those off. Fuck, he was looking forward to that. He folded his arms to keep from touching himself, because he wanted to see this all the way through.
Then Cena stood and pushed his jeans down his hips, shedding them and stepping towards Punk, now in justnaked except for his boxers and the dog tags hanging around his neck. Punk stared at the thick, muscular thighs that were usually covered by his ridiculous ring gear. Those could probably support a lot of weight, Punk found himself thinking. Could probably… No, he cut himself off.
Cena grabbed for him, tried to pull him in, but he didn't want to be kissed anymore right now. He shook his head slightly, and Cena stopped. "Over there," he said, jerking his chin at the wall.
Cena looked over at it cautiously. He blinked his eyes slowly, as if processing, and for a second Punk wondered if this would be where he lost him. If Cena wasn't prepared to go all the way after all. But then he turned and walked over to the place Punk had indicated.
Punk followed close behind him. He was so focused on what he was going to do to Cena that he wasn't paying full attention to the man himself. He wasn't prepared for the arms that wrapped around his waist, tried to pull him in. He could feel Cena at his back, the wall precariously close, and he did what he was trained to do in that situation. He grabbed Cena's wrist, spun out, twisted it behind his back as he took the superior position, pressed him face first into the wall.
Cena grunted as his body made contact with the wall, and Punk realized that he was doing. He let go of Cena's wrist abruptly. "Shit, did I hurt youwas that… Did I hurt you?" he asked.
Cena didn't answer immediately. He took a breath, then another. He didn't move from his position against the wall, just rested his forehead against the cinderblocks. "No, I'm fine," he said, after a minute. But he didn't sound fine.
This is an ugly side of you. And I don't like it.
Punk stepped in closer, pressed a kiss to the middle of Cena's spine, ran his hands down his sides lightly. When he got to Cena's boxers, he started to slide them down, but Cena put a hand over Punk's, stopped him. For a breathless second, Punk thought everything was over and he didn't know how to deal with that. "Quid pro quo," Cena said. "Only if you take yours off."
"Just stay there," he told Cena as he pulled away, took a couple steps back.
Aside from moving an inch back and planting his hands against the wall, Cena didn't move. Punk found his hands trembling a little as he pushed his jockstrap down, struggled with the straps a bit. He hadn't realized it was possible for him to be more into thiswant this more than he had, but he wasdid.
When he stood up, naked, he noticed Cena was looking back at him over his shoulder. Their eyes met. "Like what you see?" Punk asked, brushing his fingers over his erect cock to emphasize exactly what he meant.
Cena nodded mutely. The flush of red in his cheeks had started to move down his neck. Punk's eyes trailed down as he imagined the blush traveling down Cena's entire body. That's when he noticed that Cena had managed to get his boxers off when he wasn't looking.
Punk suddenly felt breathless. That. He needed that. He moved toward Cena, who raised a silent eyebrow at him. He felt himself flushing, and that was bad, but fuck, that ass. He was beyond pride.
When they were just inches apart, Cena moved his hips back, just a little, but it was way too tempting a target. Punk took ahold of them, closed the distance between their bodies. His dick slid along the crack of Cena's ass, and it was almost too much. He exhaled slowly, leaned his head against Cena's back as he caught his breath.
Cena was breathing hard too, but, Punk suspected, for a completely different reason. He moved his hips forward again, slowly this time. Cena gasped, and his breath got caught in his throat, turning it into a gurgle. Punk couldn't help but chuckle as he leaned in, spoke directly in Cena's ear. "I hope you do that when I fuck you."
A shiver ran through Cena's body even as it tensed against Punk's. He laughed in response, but it was a breathy, barely there sound. It turned Punk on more than it should have, but he wondered if this was an issue he should force.
"Say the word and I'll stop," he said, despite that being the absolute last thing he wanted. He didn't know if he could take jerking off in the shower, another night alone.
"No," Cena forced out. "No, I want… Just do it," he stammered.
"I thought you'd be the type to like it slow," Punk said, rubbing the head of his cock teasingly over Cena's asshole.
Cena pushed his hips back, and Punk could feel himself sliding into Cena. He just wanted to sink all the way in, but he tightened his grip on Cena's hips, forced them still. "Easy," he murmured.
"Shit. Shit, that hurt." Cena muttered under his breath. Punk didn't think he was supposed to hear it. "Are you going to… do you have anything to, uh…?"
It took him a moment to figure out what Cena was asking in his gasping lack of articulateness. The fact that he needed to ask made Punk realize, if he hadn't already, that taking him raw probably wasn't an option.
"Don't move," he ordered Cena, and crossed the room to his bag. As he fished through its contents, he glanced up and caught Cena looking at him again. He hadn't moved, except to turn his head. He made quite the tableau, his hands pressed to the wall, his powerful shoulders tensed, his broad back tapered to his narrow waist, his firm, round ass sticking out, begging to be fucked. Punk groaned and grabbed the Vaseline he'd been searching for.
He realized at that moment his fingers closed over the tub that he'd completely forgotten about protection. He didn't have any condoms on him; he definitely hadn't expected to need any tonight. He thought about asking Cena if he had anything, but he knew that might be the straw that broke the camel's back. Fuck. Fuck it. He'd been clean on his last test.
Cena watched intently as Punk scooped some Vaseline out of the jar with two fingers, spread it over his own cock. Cena moaned low in his throat and his knuckles were white as he pressed his hands against the wall. Punk hurried to rejoin him.
After grabbing another glob of Vaseline, Punk let the jar fall to the floor. He wiped the excess off on Cena's side, just below his rib cage, for later use, then he stepped in so they were touching again.
A tremor shook Cena's body as Punk's slicked cock made contact with his skin. The Vaseline made everything slide more easily, and he had to hold Cena's hips still so that nothing would happen accidentally. "Easy," Punk repeated.
"Fuck, just. More," Cena said in a low, thready tone. He was tense and keyed up, thrusting his hips back shallowly against Punk's grip.
"Calm down," Punk said as he reached around Cena and stroked his cock. "Wouldn't want this to hurt any more than it has to."
He could feel Cena making the effort, gulping in air, letting it out slowly. "Calm. Yeah, I'm calm," Cena said shakily.
Punk withdrew his hand, and Cena made a small whining sound in protest. Not bad, but Punk liked the other one better. He got some more Vaseline on his fingers and ran them down Cena's spine, along the crack of his ass. He circled Cena's hole with his index finger. Cena tensed, then relaxed. He did it again, going just a bit farther. This time, Cena thrust his hips back and his finger slid in, farther than his cock had, Cena's muscles clenching around his finger before he pulled it out.
This was killing him. He wanted desperately to hurry it along, and if Cena wasn't complaining, was there any reason he shouldn't? He wiped more Vaseline off Cena's body and sank a finger into Cena's ass. He was rewarded with a sharp yelp that turned into an odd squawking sound.
"Doing okay, Johnny?" Punk asked, his voice strained. He added another finger as he spoke, not even waiting for an answer. He angled his fingertips downwards as he thrust his fingers deeper into Cena's ass, searched for his prostate.
"Ye—unh…" Cena broke off mid-word in an inarticulate gasp.
Taking that as a sign he was ready, Punk pulled his fingers out slowly, moved himself in position behind Cena. He grabbed a bit more Vaseline, just in case, and lined himself up with Cena's entrance. Cena pushed back against him, just enough to make his desires known, not with frantic disregard for the consequences like before.
Holding Cena's hips steady with left hand, he used his right to guide his cock into Cena's ass. He pushed slowly through the ring of muscle, the pressure almost agonizing, then all of a sudden, he passed it and slid home. Cena grunted and his body caved slightly against the wall, but Punk was more concerned about himself. He didn't want this to end too soon. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then another.
"You can move," Cena said. His tone sounded odd. Punk didn't know how to parse it.
Punk laughed, but he felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll get right on that."
He didn't realize he'd collapsed against Cena until he had to grab hold of Cena's hips and to straighten himself up. Cena seemed to be following him, leaning back into him, but Punk quickly corrected that, pushed his shoulders down so he was leaning into the wall again.
"Stay," he said. He pulled back deliberately, stopping when he was almost out of Cena, who mewled in protest. He liked that. It was good. It kept his concentration on Cena, away from the fact that he was about to completely lose his shit.
He waited until a count of three before he pushed back in. He kept things slow, because if he started going, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stop and Cena seemed like he needed a softer touch than that. But Cena bucked against him and he slid in a lot faster than he'd meant to.
Fuck, it was like Cena was trying to kill him, here. Oh, Johnny, you're just asking for it, he thought to himself as pulled out and pushed back in, this time not holding anything back. Cena let out a huff of air, but he didn't complain. As Punk prepared to do it again, Cena moved his hand from the wall, wrapped it around his cock and started jerking.
Then he just let loose, started fucking Cena in earnest. Cena started thrusting his hips back in counterpoint Punk's movements. And that was fine. That was good. Except maybe a little too good. He slowed himself down deliberately, dug his fingers into Cena's hips. Cena resisted his efforts, though, clenched his ass around Punk's cock at on the up stroke. That's when he felt himself start to lose it.
He held Cena's hips in a death grip, trying to stop himself, but it was too late. He was too far gone. "Shit," he swore into Cena's back as he started to come. Cena wasn't helping matters any, either. He was still trying to grind back against him, clenching his ass muscles. He wasn't even touching himself anymore.
If he'd been able to think, he would have wondered at the reasoning behind that. As it was, he was barely aware of anything except his gaining his release. He wasn't even sure if it felt good. He was breathing hard, like he'd run ten miles, sweating like a pig. It was draining and embarrassing, and fuck. Yeah, no, fuck, it felt amazing.
He came back to awareness slowly. At least it seemed that way, but Cena hadn't said anything, so it couldn't have been more than a couple seconds. He was still inside Cena. He was still hard, but that wouldn't last for long.
"So, was that good for you?" Cena asked. His tone was an intriguing combination of shy and teasing.
Punk noticed that Cena hadn't gotten off yet. "I guess it wasn't for you," he observed dryly.
"No, it's fine. I- That was hot," Cena said. The back of his neck was flushed red again. He brought his hand back to his cock. His grip was loose to start out with as he got back into it. Punk started to pull out to leave him to it. "No, just. Give me a minute," Cena pleaded softly.
Fuck. "Fuck," Punk said under his breath. He stayed where he was and slapped Cena's hand away, replaced it with his own. Cena grabbed his wrist, but he didn't do anything try to stop him.
He jammed his hips against Cena's as he jerked him off, trying to hurry this up as much as possible. He couldn't keep this up for long. "Come on," he muttered to himself as he changed his grip, increased the pressure.
"More," Cena said in a deep, guttural groan. Punk added his other hand into the mix, fondling Cena's balls, grazing his fingers over them lightly. Cena whimpered and his hand tightened on Punk's wrist. Punk gritted his teeth, pulled out an inch and slammed back in. It was enough.
Cena made that sound, that fucking amazing sound as he came. Punk was sorry he didn't have another round in him, but the friction Cena was creating with the movement of his hips was starting to go from uncomfortable to painful.
When Cena was done, Punk wiped his hand down Cena's thigh, then pulled out of him slowly and carefully. Cena hissed in clear discomfort, and Punk felt like doing the same. But it had been worth it. It had been more than worth it.
Except now that it was over, Punk wasn't sure what to do. As he was just standing there, Cena turned around and looked at him. His eyes were soft and satisfied, his lips curved into a smile. He looked so goddamn attractive.
Punk turned away, his eyes frantically focusing on anything but John Cena. He settled on a box of tissues sitting on one of the chairs and he grabbed it, took a few, and tossed the rest at Cena. "Clean up," he said shortly.
So he didn't have to watch Cena swabbing at his ass, trying to get as much of the come and Vaseline as he could, he turned and cleaned himself up. As Cena rustled behind him, hopefully getting dressed, Punk picked up his fight shorts and slid them back on. They were loose, designed to hang low on his hips and expose the waistband of his compression shorts, and they were practically translucent, but it made no difference to him. It was just something to do.
He turned around. He made eye contact with Cena and they exchanged a long look. Punk knew this was where one of them was supposed to say something, but he had nothing, and he didn't want to hear what John Cena had to say. As the adrenaline and the need wore off, he was starting to realize what he'd done, and he just wanted to be alone to absorb the impact. Take the hit and move on.
Cena broke first. He looked away, sighed and shook his head. He took a step towards the door. Punk was about to let out a breath of relief when Cena turned and walked towards him. He wanted to back away, but he held his body still. He refused to give an inch. Cena slid a hand down his hip, dragging down the side of his shorts to expose his pelvic bone. He looked at Cena while Cena looked down at the expanse of bared skin. Then Cena looked up and kissed him softly on the lips. "Thanks," he said in a whisper that Punk had to strain to hear it. He turned and walked away before Punk could even begin to come up with a response.
His skin was cold where Cena had been touching it. That was the first thing he noticed. The only thing he noticed. He felt prickly heat flushing through his body, but that one spot was cold. He touched his hip lightly. The cold spread and he started to shake. He backed up to the wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. The cold seeped into his back through the cinder block wall. The cold seeped through his thin, nylon shorts.
He wrapped his arms around his abdomen, where the tattoo used to be. "Straight Edge." Those words had once meant everything to him. So much that he'd inked them permanently into his skin, except so much for permanence, because you could barely see them now that the laser removal had done its work.
I don't understand why you're doing this. I thought this was something we shared. True 'til death.
He didn't know when he'd become the type of person who would do this, who would fuck a stranger in his locker room because he could. Because he was horny. Because he had no regard for the consequences of his actions.
He sat there until Rener came back. When he noticed the door opening, for a second he wondered if it was Cena, but that was ridiculous. That was stupid. He didn't want to see him again. He wasn't going to see him again. He'd completely forgotten about Rener, and he was so fucking glad he hadn't gotten back sooner, seen him balls deep in John Cena.
Rener was already looking at him askance as he entered the room. The room was a mess, and probably smelled something awful. The look only got worse as Punk got to his feet and Rener took in what he was wearing.
Punk grabbed the styrofoam takeout box Rener was holding to deflect, popped it open, and started shoveling fries into his mouth while they were still hot. The risotto would keep until later. God, he was starving all of a sudden.
"Are you wearing anything under that?" Rener asked.
"No, I…" Punk paused, using his chewing as an excuse to gather his thoughts. "I was getting changed and I got tired. I didn't want you to come back and find me with my balls out."
"Are you sure you're okay? Do I need to get a doctor?" Rener sounded so worried, Punk felt terrible even suggesting there might be something wrong with him.
"No. I'm fine. Nothing a little rest won't cure."
The lie burned, even though physically, he did mostly feel fine. His shoulder was bothering him again, but that was nothing new. He was exhausted and beat up, but he was making it out without any new injuries. In fact, the release he'd gotten from fucking John Cena had made him feel more than fine. Better than he had in ages, physically. But he just couldn't put a finger on where his mind was at in all this. It wasn't right. It wasn't him.
"Then go hit the shower, the press conference is coming up soon. You can have this when you get out." Rener held up the diet Pepsi for emphasis.
"You didn't get the bacon." Punk observed.
"You didn't really want it," Rener told him. And it was true. Rener knew him way too well for comfort.
"I wanted those fucking pancakes. I'm not going to forget this." He wasn't quite sure if he was joking or not.
He shoveled the rest of the fries into his mouth in record time, barely pausing to chew. He closed the box carefully and set it down on a folding chair for later. He grabbed a towel and his clothes, still piled up from before… before, and headed to for the showers, if only to escape Rener's watchful eyes.
"Yell if you need me," Rener called out after him.
"I always need you when I'm showering," Punk threw out as he disappeared around the corner.
He didn't wait for a reply. He hung up his towel, stepped into the tiled shower area, and turned one of the heads up to somewhere near scalding, He dropped his shorts in a pile on the floor, stepped out of them, and under the spray in a single movement.
When Rener came to get him forty minutes later, he hadn't moved from that spot.
Post Fight Presser - Highlights
Reporter 1: Question for Punk. Yushin Okami has never been submitted before. What was going through your mind at the moment you locked in the kimura, and when he tapped?
Punk: I wanted to win. [laughter from crowd] I was thinking I made some mistakes. I wasn't sure if I was ahead on points and time was running out, so I just put my head down and focused on locking something in. When he tapped? Well, anyone would have. And if he hadn't, I would've broken his arm and it would've been a technical submission.
Reporter 1: Would you have preferred that?
Punk: No, I wouldn't have. What kind of person do you think I am? This is our livelihood, I'd hate to see anyone injured. Except maybe that loudmouth douche, Chael Sonnen. Does he still even fight?
Reporter 2: You called out WWE Superstar John Cena, who was seated in your corner, after your fight. Why did you do that? And do you really have a problem with him?
Punk: I got caught up in the moment.
Reporter 3: You were seen kissing Eve Torres, your trainer's fiancé, as you exited the cage tonight. You've been romantically linked to her in the past. Were you jealous that she was sitting with another man at your fight?
Punk: That's fucking disrespectful. I'm not going to answer that.
Reporter 3: Dana?
Dana: He's right. That's fucking disrespectful. Any person asking questions in that line will be ejected. Next.
Reporter 4: People have already been calling your victory tonight a fluke, a lucky break. How do you answer the critics who say you don't have the technical skill to succeed at a high level in the UFC?
Punk: People? Who are people? Did you type that into a blog on the internet so that you could say that to me right now? Look. Everyone has critics, even pissant little gossip reporters like you. People's opinions of you don't change the facts, and luck's for losers. If I have what it takes, I have what it takes, and you'll see it eventually.
Ariel Helwani: You mentioned Chael Sonnen before. There's been a lot of tension between you over the years. Do you see this as leading to a fight between you two? Or are you more concerned with chasing a title shot right now?
Punk: Look, I don't need to fight him. I have nothing to prove to him. He just lost his second title fight against Anderson. A lot of people call Anderson Silva the best of all time, but a loss is a loss. As far as the title goes, of course I want a shot. But I don't beg for title shots, I fight who they put in front of me. I'd fight you if Dana White asked me to.
Ariel Helwani: So you don't agree that Anderson Silva is the best of all time? And do you think you can beat him?
Punk: Dude, that's subjective. I have a lot of respect for him and what he's accomplished, I'll leave it at that. And yeah, I think I probably could beat him. Who knows, right?
Post Fight Scrum - Highlights
Question: After his fight, Brooks said that far too many people have been underestimating him. Do you feel like that comment was directed at you? And do you agree with his assessment?
Dana: If Punk feels like I've personally slighted him, he's never said anything about that to me, and as you know, he has no problems with speaking his mind. He's a dangerous guy and he wins fights, but a lot of people are convinced that his technique isn't there, that it's all some bizarre kind of luck. He's a polarizing figure for sure.
Question: Like when he called out John Cena after his fight. Were you upset about that?
Dana: [chuckles] I'm all for guys calling other guys out if it helps build fights. But I don't see a lot of potential there. I don't know what's in Punk's mind, but this guy rubbed him the wrong way, and he's not shy about expressing his feelings. And don't start asking me about his personal life. It has nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with his fights.
TMZ: Phil Brooks - Hooking Up With Trainer's Fiancé...CAGESIDE; Calls Out John Cena
[Picture: Phil "Punk" Brooks kissing his trainer's fiancé, Eve Torres on August 18, 2012 while trainer Rener Gracie looks on]
UFC bad boy Phil "Punk" Brooks laid one on trainer Rener Gracie's fiancé, WWE Diva Eve Torres, at UFC 150 last night...in full view of Gracie.
Brooks - who defeated favorite Yushin "Thunder" Okami - has been linked to Torres in the past few months (TMZ brought you exclusive photos from their romantic lunch rendezvous in Los Angeles this past June).
[Video: Phil "Punk" Brooks kisses Eve Torres August 18, 2012]
Gracie, member of the famed Gracie Jiu-Jitsu family, was later seen dragging Brooks away from the octagon. Sources close to UFC say they exchanged heated words in the back.
To make the affair - pun intended - even juicier, WWE Superstar John Cena accompanied Torres to the event. Brooks was noticeably distracted by Cena's presence at Torres's side - even calling him out in his post-fight interview.
Gracie was not seen again, and Cena only returned to the arena after a trip backstage - sporting an impressive limp, though sources could not confirm if there was a confrontation between Cena and Brooks.
This is not Brooks's first encounter with a taken lady. Earlier this year, Bleacher Report published a list of the unavailable women Brooks has been linked to. Torres shares her place on that list with such notable hotties as WWE Diva Brie Bella, UFC fighter Miesha Tate, and UFC fighter Chael Sonnen's girlfriend Brittany Smith.