Lita
There are two weaknesses to me that I would trade anything in the world to get rid of. Well...actually, not just two weakness; in fact I've got more weakness than I'd like to be reminded of. But out of all of those, there are two in particular that I can't resist, and of those two, the one that I'd like to be cured of the most is dating other wrestlers. I should honestly know better; these relationships never work out, but there's just something about a tanned and cut athlete sporting a mane of long hair that you just want to reach over and run your fingers through that I really should but simply can't resist. Well, after one Matthew Moore Hardy, I've more than learned my lesson: WWE couples are trouble. Period. Look at what happened between Randy Savage and Miss Elizabeth. Broke up. Gregory Helms and Molly Holly. Broke up. David Flair and Stacy Keibler. Again, broke up (but not before undergoing that horrendously embarrassing pregnancy angle in the old WCW!). Matt Hardy and yours truly. Most definitely broken up! And yet look at all the non-wrestling couples: The Rock and his wife--happily married with a newborn daughter. Kurt Angle and his wife--also happily married and expecting a newborn daughter. Undertaker and Sara--again, married and expecting a baby. Are you beginning to see a pattern here? Now that I think about it, this probably makes me the most pathetic person in the world, needing two or three years to understand a simple WWE dating concept that most people seem to have gotten in less than five minutes. But I've learned my lesson now. No more dating a fellow Superstar, no matter how gorgeous or charismatic he is.
I start the engine of my
rental car and crank up the radio volume, flipping impatiently through
the stations until I arrive at a channel that's actually not spewing out
commercials for a change. Some corny love ballad is playing, a cheesy male
voice crooning about how he will always be my hero, and I recognize it
as being that one guy with the giant mole beside his nose--Enrique What'sHisFace.
I scrunch up my nose, as I remember Stacy telling me something about how
he's gone ahead and had his mole surgically removed. I let out a groan
of disgust as Enrique--mole or no mole--continues crooning about being
my hero--and reach forward to switch off the radio.
"Sugar, if you were
my hero, then I'd be in deep shit," I mutter scornfully under my breath,
before keeping one hand on the steering wheel and using my free one to
dig through my CD collection. Let's see...Pearl Jam--nah, too depressing,
something that I do not need right now, and besides, I can't understand
half the words Eddie Vedder's singing to begin with, anyway. Red Hot Chili
Peppers--maybe, I think I'll use that for backup if I can't find any Tommy
Lee or Megadeth. Goo Goo Dolls--like hell, I didn't turn off one love ballad
just to put on another one! Guns N' Roses--heh, no; I'm really not in the
mood for getting fined by the rental company for shattering all the windows
on one of their cars with Axl Rose's banshee scream. Motörhead--oops,
gotta remember to give that back to Triple H one of these days. AC/DC--see
Guns N' Roses. Nirvana--see Pearl Jam...Okay, I must've blown several hundred
dollars on CD's, and yet I can't seem to find one lousy album to suit my
just-broke-up-with-longtime-boyfriend mood! Ugh, that's what I get for
buying the albums of rock bands all fronted by men...Wait a minute, what's
this? Lynyrd Skynyrd?! Now how the hell did that get in here; God knows
I've got better things to do than listen to seventies' Southern rockabilly
about Alabama and the greatness of the Confederate flag! I finally stop
doing a Rock imitation when I realize that this must be from Matt's extensive
collection, and let out a low laugh. Switching hands on the steering wheel,
I lean over to roll down the window, before promptly hurling the Skynyrd
record straight out of the car and letting it fly over the highway. It
cracks pitifully on the road, no doubt to be run over by hundreds of cars.
Hey...No Doubt! I bend down to closely examine my CD collection, tossing
aside some Creed and U2 and ignoring the honking of passing cars as my
grip on the steering wheel loosens in my concentration.
"C'mon, where is it...where
is it..." I mutter to myself, rifling through Skid Row and Van Halen before
finally coming across the album that I want. Opening the CD case, I slide
No Doubt's 1995 Tragic Kingdom into the car's stereo system, cranking
up the volume as the first track starts blaring over the speakers.
"Nothing like a good, angry,
girl-power break-up album after Matt," I mutter to myself as I continue
driving and singing along to "Spiderwebs" at the top of my lungs, not caring
that I'm starting to sound dangerously close like Stephanie screeching
out the lyrics to "Wind Beneath Our Ring." Hey--at least I don't
have to worry about getting sprayed with milk by a crazed Kurt Angle, now
do I?
I arrive at the arena where Raw is to be held tonight over an hour early. Good. That's how I like it; this way I can squeeze in a light workout routine, take a hot shower, and casually socialize with the other Superstars at the catering room before the show is about to go live on the air. Since I've got nothing to do aside from commentating on Sunday Night Heat, and since my rehab is progressing faster than as was expected, I'm allowed to travel around with the crew--at least for most Raws and PPVs. And, of course, before that, foolishly hop on the road with Matt for the Smackdown! tours. Take it easy, Li, I silently order myself. Stop thinking about Matt; it's over now, and there's no need to remain bitter over a relatively amiable break up. I reach forward and stop Tragic Kingdom halfway through "Don't Speak"--good thing, too, because the whiny mopey sadness of the break up ballad was beginning to get on my nerves and make me wish I'd swiped that Alanis Morrisette CD from Ivory's car. I reach into a compartment to grab an electric pink scrunchie, which I use to pull my hair back into a messy ponytail before getting out of my car...only to be nearly run over by a silver Trans Am. I let out a little shriek, diving back into the leather safety of my own rental car, as a male voice laughingly calls back a casual "Sorry!" in one of those California surfer dude type voices. Resisting the urge to pull a Stone Cold and flip the disappearing car the double bird, I concentrate instead on getting my heartbeat back to normal, before glancing out cautiously around me to make sure there aren't any more incoming cars. When I'm satisfied that nobody else is nearby trying to pitifully relive his adolescence as a 'Vette-driving frat boy rock n' rolling all night and partying every day, I get out of my car and walk over to retrieve my luggage from the trunk, before slamming it shut and heading into the arena.
I pass by some members of the crew, setting up the ring and the barricades, and smile and nod hello, exchanging some pleasantries with the ones I know particularly well. Heading over to the women's locker room, I sling my duffel bag off my shoulder and place it down into a corner. Molly and Victoria are the only ones there, and we exchange greetings, including some sympathies from the two for my break up with Matt. I can offer only a weak smile and quietly accept their kind words, before mumbling a lame excuse and heading out of the locker room. I don't know why I get so touchy about this subject--I guess deep down, I'm not really over Matt just yet, and am still trying to get used to being alone again. Stop it, Lita, I tell myself. This was what you wanted--you were the one who chose to break things off. And I was right. Chickening out and crawling back to Matt was definitely not making progress and taking a break from all men, not to mention a utterly humiliating and hypocritical thing to do. Bleh, I hate it when I'm right.
Passing by the catering table,
I notice the back of a familiar muscular figure sporting a dark blonde
ponytail. Remembering the Motörhead incident back in the car, I reach
into the pocket of my jacket and dig around until I find the CD I'd borrowed
from Triple H three months earlier, and had flat out forgotten to return.
In fact, I'd flat out forgotten all about it, period, until earlier that
day. Walking up to him, I tap him on the shoulder and speak up.
"Hey, Hunter, I've got your
Motörhead album right here," I tell him. I add with a guilty laugh,
"Sorry it took me so long to return; I guess it slipped my mind, and--"
At that moment, he breaks away from his conversation with Jericho and Christian
and turns around, and I realize that the man I am speaking to is most definitely
not Hunter.
"Oh, hey there, um...Lita,
right?" Rob Van Dam speaks up lazily, casually setting down his Styrofoam
cup of coffee on the nearest table. Hn, I'd been wondering why Hunter suddenly
seemed to have shrunken a couple of inches in height.
"Hi, Rob," I say, feeling
slightly embarrassed for mistaking him for Hunter. "Um, listen, sorry for
bothering you, I guess I thought you were Triple H...You don't happen to
know where he is, do you?" RVD shrugs, motioning that he has no clue. Not
that I'd really expected him to, anyway.
"Well...I guess I'd better
look for him, then, I've got to return his CD," I finally mumble after
a short stretch of silence, and turn around to leave. RVD reaches forward
and grabs my hand, pulling me back while saying, "Wait, hold on--I have
to tell you something." Without really knowing why, I begin to blush as
I turn around to face him. Stop it, Lita, I silently scold myself,
as Van Dam starts speaking.
"Listen, about that incident
in the parking lot--sorry for nearly running you over," RVD begins guiltily,
scuffing his shoe against the linoleum floor as he talks. My eyebrow nearly
flies off my forehead, ending up in a People's Eyebrow that the Rock would
have been both proud and envious of, as I shriek in a keening, abrasive
shrill that Stephanie would have been both proud and envious of, "What?!"
(And, just in case you're curious, that "What?!" was uttered in a manner
that Austin would have been both proud and envious of!) RVD begins to look
uncomfortable, as he apologizes while jerking in the direction of Jericho
and Christian, "I'm sorry, you see Dumb and Dumber over there were mock-fighting
in the backseat, and I couldn't really see where I was going, especially
with Stacy shrieking something into my ear...You're not hurt, are you?"
"Oh, gee, I don't know--do
I look as though I just came back from the ER?!" I growl sarcastically,
and RVD looks taken aback. I begin to feel guilty at the genuine concern
that had occupied his voice when inquiring about my health, and hear myself
saying, "Listen, I'm sorry for snapping at you, Rob, I guess I'm just in
a bad mood today." RVD nods silently, and I add, "Here, why don't we just
forgive and forget, all right?"
"Sure, I'm cool with that,"
he chirps brightly. "After all, I'm--" I cut him off as I finish for him,
complete with one half of the thumb pointing and all, "I know, I know,
because you're Rob...Van...Dam, I get it." RVD looks at me with a confused
expression on his face.
"Actually, I was going to
say that I'm a helluva lot more forgiving than the likes of Taker or Nash,"
he mumbles slowly, and I feel my cheeks begin to grow warm at the realization
of my mistake.
"Oh. Well, okay," I mumble
slowly, and at that moment RVD chooses to drop the bomb, as he adds brightly
with a rather goofy grin, "Besides, if we're going to be working so closely
together for the next several months, then we can't afford to be feuding
with each other behind the scenes." I am still recovering from the shock
of discovering that RVD is the "blonde, brainless California surfer dude
trying to pitifully relive his youth by zipping around in a 'Vette in an
effort to rock n' roll all night and party every day" who'd nearly run
me over, and would have fallen right on my ass had I not grabbed on to
the nearest object--which just happened to be Rob's arm--and held on for
dear life. RVD gives me a funny look, before opening his mouth to say something--probably
inquire after my health--but I blot out the sound of his voice and instead
concentrate on regaining my composure. After I finally do, I realize that
I'd been holding on to his hand like it was some sort of lifesaver, and
quickly let it go, hoping I am not blushing too badly.
"What...what do you mean
you and I are going to be working closely together?" I finally manage to
say. Great, so now I've developed a damn stutter on top of all things!
RVD shrugs, like the whole world knows about it by now.
"Didn't you hear?" he asks
me. "There's been talk thrown around backstage that once you return to
Raw, we'll be paired up with you as my valet for a while, and last
week the creative team finally decided to go ahead with the storyline."
"Huh...they did?" I don't
know what else to say--not that I need to have worried about that, since
RVD seems perfectly happy to chatter away enough for the both of us.
"Yeah, apparently, the bookers
are pretty impressed with the fan response you've been getting from Sunday
Night Heat, and are thinking of bringing you back early--just to accompany
me down the ring for a couple of Raws, of course," he explains.
Arching an eyebrow at my unresponsiveness, he ventures, "So...what do you
think?" I finally break my silence by muttering, "Honestly? I think I need
to go back to the women's locker room and lie down." RVD shrugs.
"Okay--just make sure to
knock and wait before you enter," he advises. "Remember, Nicole Bass doesn't
need any more incentive to launch another sexual harassment lawsuit against
the WWE." Despite myself, I can't help but laugh at his--well, if it was
a joke, then it was pretty cute, and if he was actually being serious,
than it was all the more adorable.
The insistent sound of someone
pounding against my hotel room door awakens me, and I yawn and roll over
to glance at the digital clock lying on my nightstand. One-fifteen...!
Jeez, who the hell could be visiting at this time of the night? On the
bed beside mine, Trish buries her head into her pillow and mumbles something.
"What?" I ask her. Her pillow
is muffling her voice, and whatever it is that she'd said has come out
like sounding, "Ymph feff mmh duff thzz tmph." Trish reluctantly raises
her head a few inches from her pillow to yawn and lazily mutter, "You get
the door this time." I let out a groan, and lie back down on my bed.
"Why me?" I grumble, to
which Trish simply replies, "Because I got it the last time, remember?"
I groan and cover my ears with my pillow; unfortunately, whoever's on the
other side of the door's apparently very persistent, because the knocking
will just not go away. Finally, after I can stand the racket no longer,
I let out an irritable growl and reluctantly crawl out of bed, reaching
over to pull on a red bathrobe. I yawn, before yelling frostily, "All right,
all right, I'm coming!" Trish speaks up from her bed, "Think it's another
room service boy trying to get a peek of the WWE divas in their pj's?"
I giggle, before mockingly threatening, "If it is, then he's going to get
his teeth shoved down his throat for waking us up in the dead of the night!"
Trish yawns, before rolling over in her bed.
"That's the spirit, Lita,"
she murmurs sleepily, as I grin and head on over to the door. Flinging
it wide open, I grouchily bark out, "What?!" but my irritation quickly
turns to surprise as I recognize the person who's been knocking on the
door.
"Rob?" I gasp his name.