It's all about the GAME and how you play it! The rebel in the leather jacket. I miss that guy.
This is a first time for me. I usually just read, because I love this site, and there are such talented writers here, so I decided, after years of reading, to write one and see if I can do it.
It starts a little slow, but it gets better when The Game shows up.
I know it's probably not the best time for Triple H stories, with the current storyline and all, but I can't help it, I love him, no matter what he wears or how he acts.
I guess I'm supposed to say that I do NOT own Triple H's character, so I don't own any wrestling character.
Special thanks to DrunkOnJerichohol.
Rated M, for language and future sexual content.
- POSSIBLE SLASH -
Chapter 2
The lowball glass in my weak hand was empty as I felt it slip between my fingers and hit the carpeted floor. Hunter, my faithful dog, rushed to my side and started licking my face. Every night, he would lie in the corner, waiting for me to fade, before he would wake me up and send me to bed.
It was nights like this when I felt the hole inside my aching heart getting bigger and deeper, as the cool breeze would take me on a trip to a time when everything was perfect in my life.
Yes, I was alive, I was breathing, but every breath I took was painful, every fiber of my being screamed with misery. Yes, I was successful, in anyone's eye. I was a golden boy, a rising star who turned everything he touched to gold. No, I wasn't happy. I wasn't even content. When you ask someone, anyone, about their goals in life, most of them would say: career, success, family. I had everything… that I didn't care for.
My goal was to just stay alive, as painful as it was. Sure, I could end it, but it would be the easy way out, and after what happened, I needed to feel the pain. It was my fault, my mess, my life. I was alone. It was a choice I made years ago; opening up to someone wasn't even an option. It was the look in their eyes that I wanted to avoid, those sad eyes and the sympathetic expression tore my heart every time.
When my boss said his name today, I felt a flash of hope shoot through my veins. Something good finally comes my way. I felt good, and then I was terrified. Meeting him was a 15-year-old dream that I've kept hidden.
When you tell people your hero is Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, or even Michael Jordan, they smile and they understand, but when the answer to that question is Triple H, people tend to look at you funny.
As I sat up on the couch, thanking my dog for being my good friend as always, I started thinking about that meeting: about coming face-to-face with my idol, about all the great moments I shared with him throughout his career, about how he will probably never know that he made me smile when everything around me was falling apart. Just to shake his hand would mean the world to me.
I'm 30 years old. I went to every WrestleMania for the past five years. I watched him battle Cena, Orton, Sheamus and Undertaker, twice. With the thought of The Undertaker and Triple H standing on the top of the ramp with Shawn, I put my head on the pillow and drifted off.
Another day had gone by.
The morning came with the sun, trying to sneak in between the curtains. Every morning was the same: the shower, the walk with Hunter, the cab ride to work. My regular coffee was already waiting for me as I made my way across the street to the coffee cart outside the complex, and just like every day, I smoked my first cigarette of the day near the edge of the lake.
Working for Nike was a dream job; no one could deny it. Standing there in my suit and tie, I sighed. It wasn't me, but it was my life now. I was promoted to a new role last year. After working there for five years, it was as close to a family as it could get. Some of the people here have known me for half of my life. They gave me opportunities, they helped, and they took care of me when I needed them. Emily, my boss, was one of those people.
I met her when I was 16. I remember that I liked her from the start. As the years went by, it was pretty clear that I was in good hands. She gave me my first job, an opportunity to work for the greatest sports company in the world. She took me under her wing and taught me everything I know.
When she was promoted to her new executive role, she used her connections in the company —her husband David, who had an even bigger title than her —to make me her assistant. They were our power couple in the company. They met here, worked together, fell in love and ended up married, with two boys.
As I was thinking about how funny love could be and how it could find and hit you when you least expect it to, I noticed the Nike power couple walking in my direction as I finished my cigarette.
"Good morning, Joe," David Ashburn called.
"Good morning, sir," I replied and shook his hand.
"Good morning, golden boy," she teased, and I smiled shyly.
"Joe, I heard you were a big wrestling fan. Emily says you watched ever since you were a kid."
"Yes, sir, I'm a big fan."
"Well, your knowledge of the wrestling world could very well be an advantage for us in that meeting next week. I have faith in you, my wife speaks highly of you every chance she gets and, quite frankly, your projects speak for themselves. You're a very talented young man."
"Thank you, sir, I appreciate that."
"Yes, you were never a good small talker, but that's okay. Have a good day."
"You too, sir, good day."
"I'll see you later, darling. I need to discuss something with Joe," Emily said to her husband as he walked away. David waved and walked into the building.
"Is everything okay with you this morning?" she asked, looking for my evasive eyes.
"I'm okay, just excited about next week."
"Don't worry, kid. You're going to impress him. I'm sure of it."
"I'm not sure at all. I've been waiting to meet him for a very long time, and I just hope my words don't fail me."
"Wow, I know you keep a picture of him in your office, but I had no idea it was that big of a crush…"
"It's not a crush. I don't want to marry the guy…he's just…well…not him…his character…well…" I struggled.
"Oh, for crying out loud…" She rolled her eyes. "I get it; he's your idol."
"Well, yeah, you could say that."
"You know, I did some reading about this guy when I got home last night, and apparently his character is quite the rebel. Does he really like to hit people with sledgehammers?"
"Yeah." I smiled as I pictured him staring at the sledgehammer, crowd roaring at the sight. "He does." It was the best thing about him.
"How does that even work? Fake or not, it's still a sledgehammer…"
"He is just that damn good," I announced, as I quoted him.
"That damn good…looking, you mean," she teased, trying to get my attention.
"Do you honestly think I care about his looks?"
"Hey, there's nothing wrong with that."
"I'm not gay, Emily!"
"I'm just teasing, so chill. I'm just glad you get to meet him and that you owe me now. Come on, we have that Wimbledon dress code to deal with today. Every year, the same restriction: only white clothes. These people live in the 1920's. It's the 21st century. Don't they know that in England?"
"It's tradition, Emily. It's what separates them from other tennis tournaments."
"I don't care." She smiled and led me, by the hand, into the building. "One of these days, you will understand that it's stupid to play a game in white clothes."
"It's called the white sport, Emily. That name didn't invent itself."
"The only time I ever put on something white was on my wedding day, and I messed up the dress before he even said 'I do', " she joked.
"You are impossible," I surrendered. "Let me deal with the dress codes and just sign it when I'm done approving the catalogue."
As the days went by, and the date for the meeting came close, my excitement turned into anxiety. What if I embarrass myself? What if he asks me something and I choke? I couldn't share my fears and doubts with Emily, because I was afraid she'd think I wasn't the right man for this.
I needed this deal; I needed to meet him. He was all I could think of, the moment when I come face-to-face with him and shake his hand. Emily, on her part, knew something was wrong with me, but she was being her usual flirty self and kept sneaking out back for a cigarette and asking me to tell her wrestling stories. She says that when I talk about wrestling and about him, I almost look happy.
Everyone at Nike knows my story. Every single one of them read about it at some point, thanks to that damn internet. They all look at me like a man who rose from the ashes and made a life for himself, in spite of what happened. I hated that everybody knew. They all try to hide it, but I can feel it in their tone of voice and on their looks. Every time people watch a big tennis match at the office, I can feel them staring at me with a sad look in their eyes.
Those are the days when I wish I could turn back time. Those are also the days when I go home and put on a random DVD to watch him wrestle. He brought me back to life. He always made me feel better.
Thursday came, and I met up with Robert at the airport. I liked Robert. He was one of a few people in the office that treated me with no composure. He wanted me to be tough, and he never felt sorry for me. I always appreciated that.
Robert was a veteran in the company, but some say he lost his passion. That's why, in recent years, he never negotiated alone. Nike always sent someone else with him. The flight to Connecticut was nerve-racking. What was I going to say when I finally met him?
I just prayed I wasn't going to embarrass myself.
The king of kings is finally here, next...
Reviews, criticism and suggestions would be much appreciated.
