This is my first wrestling Fanfic… And as much as I love watching, I'm not the most knowledgeable about the industry as a whole and I apologise for that in advance. But so it begins…
Act I: An Unlikely Union
If there is one thing that Maeve Finnegan couldn't tolerate, it was be deviation from her routine. For as long as she could remember her life had revolved around a rigid schedule: Ballet, jazz and modern had become the Holy Trinity featured in Maeve's youth. Her life comprising of little more than eating, sleeping and a myriad of dance lessons; she was almost obsessive in her quest to micromanage her life. But not all things go to plan, and Maeve had to swallow a particularly bitter pill.
Standing before some abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Bray, she had an overwhelming urge to simply turn around and go home. But she had never skipped a dance lesson, or more accurately, she hadn't skipped a dance lesson in over a year: And she wouldn't start now, even if she had to degrade herself by stepping over the threshold of this hellhole.
Madame Baker may have been the most prolific tutor in County Wicklow, but in this moment Maeve wanted nothing more than to be back in Finsbury: Training in a place with sprung floors and a barre was a necessity for a woman who wanted to succeed in the dance floor. Thankfully, this 'arrangement 'was only a temporary matter and within the next few weeks she'd be back in a real studio rather than this 'NWA Ireland Wrestling Gym' shithole standing before her.
Glancing at her wristwatch, Maeve took a deep breath before pushing open the door. Almost instantly she gagged, hit by a wave of stale sweat and stout. Her eyes began to water with the sheer stench which seemed to permeate from the walls themselves. It was only a one hour private lesson, it would be more than unpleasant but she would survive, stepping into the foyer she spotted Darlene Baker.
"Madame Baker, sorry I'm late: I had trouble finding this…place?"
The elder woman laughed at the girl's disdain, aware that somewhere like the recently opened wrestling gym would offend someone of Maeve's delicate sensibilities. Waving off the apology, the Ballet tutor gestured her newest student forward.
"Nothin' to worry about me love, and how many times have I got to tell y'? The name's Darlene. There be nutting else happening here tonight anywa—"
"I wouldn' be too sure bout that Dari, got a class in a bit later. Ferg ain' messing around. Got these kids working night after night."
Maeve took a step back as the man she knew to be her instructor's husband stepped into the musty gymnasium. She was almost embarrassed by her reaction: This wasn't her first time meeting Andre Baker, but there was something about the man that set her on edge. Something that warned the young English woman that if his feathers were ruffled in the wrong way. He would be nothing less than dangerous, which was surprising as he was married to the most kind-hearted woman the young Brit had ever come across.
"The boy's gonna work him into the ground Dre, you need to tell him to calm it down a little"
Maeve was growing increasingly more awkward as she listened to the Irish couple debate 'Ferg's' status as some kind of slave driver, she was here to dance for Goodness' sake: Glancing at her recently manicured nails, Maeve was struggling to hold her tongue. Darlene must have noticed her discomfort, turning her back on the imposing physique of her husband the petite brunette gestured Maeve forward.
"Well, come on then Maeve: Looks like our time here is limited."
As soon as she had begun to dance, Maeve Finnegan was no longer trapped in some nondescript gym on the outskirts of County Wicklow: She was no longer an 18 year old Ballerina working towards the improbable dream of dancing on the hallowed stage of the Bolshoi Theatre. She was Giselle, the young woman coerced into a relationship with a Nobleman while betrothed to another man.
As the delicate symphony of Adolphe Adam reverberated throughout the gym, she was transported into the 1880's: Every subtle nuance in the piece was reflected in the dynamic of her movement: The acclaimed choreography of Coralli and Perot was second nature to the young British woman. Pas de chat, arabesque, grande jete and so on: Maeve's willowy figure mimicked the motions with aplomb.
In the back of her mind she could hear Madame Baker's words of encouragement and comments on how to improve her technique, taking these corrections on board she amended the placement on her arms and ensures to ensure her toes were pointed throughout the routine. As the music reached its end, Maeve came to a stop: Sweating profusely and trying to catch her breath. A smirk found its way onto her delicate features; she knew that she had smashed it: She had, without a doubt, given a performance that would win her a place in any of the premiere Dance Academies.
CLAP. No stranger to applause Maeve turned to thank her instructor, and was more than surprised to see she had gathered an audience. The man clapping stood separately from everyone else, and Maeve had to admit that he was handsome with his chiselled features and cerulean eyes: But the quirked eyebrow and the way his eyes scaled her body was more than enough to knock off the rose tinted glasses. Turning her back to the audience of wrestling Neanderthals, Maeve bowed toward her instructor before heading towards the exit. Grabbing her bag as she went.
"Well Lass, you gonna stick aroun' and watch?"
His voice was smooth like honey, as intoxicating as a glass of the finest scotch but Maeve wasn't naïve. Turning towards the handsome Irishman, her expression schooled into an expression of disinterest, she raised one blonde eyebrow before gesturing to the gym and the young people gathered behind him.
"No, I'm not. I have absolutely zero desire to watch grown men, oiled to high heavens, grunt and throw one another around like overgrown chimpanzees… but feel free to continue."
Without waiting for a response Maeve turned on her feet and left the gym with her head held high, hips swaying from side to side. She may have never turned back but she couldn't help but feel gratified by the cacophony of guffaws and laughter emanating from the crowd. If she had have turned around, she would have taken complete delight in seeing the absurd expression of impressed meets offended painted on the face of the man she would come to know as Fergal Devitt.
So there it is, the prologue. I'd really appreciate some feedback and see what you think about the characters and what I've done so far.
A little information: This will be written in three acts:
Act I: An Unlikely Union
Act II: A Reluctant Re-Acquaintance
Act III: Riding High and Falling Hard.
The first Act, and around 40% of the second Act are plotted out: And this is probably the first of around thirteen chapters of the first Act although this is admittedly the shortest of the chapters I will present.