DISCLAIMER: I do not own Chris Jericho, Stephanie McMahon, or other wrestlers that appear in the following story. They are the property of the actors and actresses that portray them, as well as the WWE.

SPOILERS: Discussion of the main event from the 5-17 Raw.

ONE LAST THING: This chapter is dedicated to Nina (DCFanatic4life), who told me in her review for chapter one that she loves my writing, causing me to choke on a potato chip in disbelief.

Flowers for Jericho

CHAPTER TWO

To say that Chris Jericho was having a horrible day would be an understatement. It was unfortunate timing, since today was the day he would participate in a 20 man battle royal and possibly become the #1 contender to the world title. He knew he could beat the 19 other wrestlers that also vied for contendership. He also knew that he could beat Chris Benoit and win that title, given the opportunity.

However, it seemed that Fate was trying to beat him into submission.

The day had begun normal enough, with Chris boarding his flight to San Diego around 10 AM. However, a freak rainstorm caused the flight to be delayed nearly two hours; once the plane took off, the turbulence was enough for Chris to regret eating breakfast that morning. To further his growing hatred for the aerospace industry, the layover in Portland went from 45 minutes to 4 hours, for no apparent reason other than to piss off the already annoyed wrestler.

He thought he was home-free once the plane landed in California. But Fate was not done with him yet; the baggage claim conveyer belt broke down halfway through the luggage from Chris's flight. It would take the 'highly-skilled' maintenance men half an hour to discover the problem: an oversized baby blue suitcase plugging up the luggage chute. The suitcase belonged to an old woman, who shouted happily once the blue monster was pulled from the jaws of the chute "That's mine!".

Chris nicknamed her Millie. If she hadn't been over 80 years old, he would also have wished death upon her.

Once Millie's monstrosity was out of the way, the conveyor belt whirled back to life. Jericho's suitcase came out immediately afterwards, lifting his spirits a bit as he dashed towards the rental car counter. The clerk was surprisingly nice, handing Chris the keys and wishing him a safe trip without any hassle. Perhaps, Chris thought as he made his way to his rental car, my luck is changing.

Thinking had never been so dangerous.

His rental car turned out to be some foreign compact car that would even make Spike Dudley squirm uncomfortably, even with the driver's seat moved as far back as possible. Chris squeezed into the tiny automobile, glanced at the directions to the arena and started off towards the highway. Like most other highways during the summer months, this one was in the throes of construction, limiting it to just one lane of traffic.

It shouldn't be that bad, Chris told himself. It's already 8:00; the rush hour traffic should be nearly gone. And he was right; the roads were clear except for one Cadillac in front of him. A baby blue Cadillac that didn't go any faster than 40 mph.

"You have GOT to be kidding me!" Jericho shouted within the confines of his car, his temper boiling as he recognized the driver in front of him.

Millie, on the other hand, did not notice the irate blond man in the compact car behind her; she was too busy concentrating on the odometer. She was 86 years old, after all; it wouldn't be proper for her to get a speeding ticket.

Despite the fact that he knew it was morally wrong, and that she was an old woman, Jericho cursed her to hell. Repeatedly.

Finally, after an hour of hellish driving (Jericho had decided, after a few miles, that whomever coined the phrase 'devil in a blue dress' had meant to say 'Millie in a blue Caddy') Chris had reached his turn-off. He continued to grind his teeth as he sped to the arena, found a spot in the athletes' parking lot, and rushed inside. A parking attendant pointed him in the direction where his dressing room was, and he hurriedly walked towards his destination. A quick glance at his watch showed that it was 9:23; still plenty of time to dress, stretch, and mentally prepare for the big match tonight.

Once inside his dressing room, Fate delivered her last jab. For on his coffee table, much like last week, was a simple bouquet of white irises. Chris could see the card sticking out of the flowers, already taunting him with what he suspected was another cryptic unsigned message.

Yep, it was officially a bad day for Chris Jericho. And there was only one thing on his mind – letting off some steam. Leaving his suitcase by the door, he re-entered the hallway and grabbed the t-shirt of the first person with a headset on that walked by. "Who's in charge of the superstars' dressing rooms?" he growled at the technician, yanking him closer.

The young man looked to his left, met Jericho's fiery gaze, and admirably did not wet his pants. "We-we-we-well, sir, there are a few people who manage…"

Chris Jericho did not like that answer. Balling his fist in the boy's collar, he lifted the boy a few inches in the air and gave him a death glare. "Look, kid, there are flowers in my dressing room. Somebody had to have put them here. I want you to find that person and send them here RIGHT NOW!"

The young man nodded furiously, even though he didn't have the first idea who could have put that particular item in this guy's room. However, his first priority was to get his feet back on the ground, the second was to run away from this psycho. "Yes sir, right away!" he squeaked, hoping that would appease the much larger blond man. He then got his wish, falling unceremoniously to the ground as the wrestler released his grip and stomped back into his dressing room. Rubbing his sore behind, he walked off in search of his supervisor, muttering about how his measly wages did not accommodate for 'roided-up freaks'.

Back inside the dressing room, Chris took a long, deep breath, trying to steady his already frazzled nerves. He needed to focus, to channel this rage into something productive for the match tonight. With another scathing look at the bouquet, which still sat untouched on the table, he opened his suitcase, pulled out his gear, and high tailed it into the bathroom to change.

Unfortunately, as he mechanically got dressed for his match, his mind became fixated on the flowers that lie just outside. He itched to read the card; there could be some sort of clue to help him discern who his secret admirer was. If he continued to act stubborn, he could be losing out on precious time with this girl, he told himself.

From a person who was intent on not letting this secret admirer get to him, this was a rather disturbing thought.

As he finished taping his wrists, he exited the restroom and sat down before the flowers only because there was no other comfortable seating in the room. And after a day of riding coach to riding behind Millie in a tin can, this folding chair looked like a throne. Relaxing almost immediately against the metal frame, Jericho decided his warming up could wait another ten minutes. And, in that case, perhaps he should keep himself occupied by reading something of growing importance.

Within seconds the card was plucked from the blooms as Jericho eagerly read its contents: Despite what happens tonight, you'll still be the #1 contender for my heart. Again, there was no signature; not on the bottom, the side, or even the back. There was the same flower doodle in the corner, daisy-like flowers attached by a vine.

His hopes dashed, Jericho dropped the card into his lap and began to rub his temples. Can I not even score ONE break today? he wondered despondently. He didn't know exactly when knowing who his secret admirer became a priority – most likely sometime in the restroom – but now the mystery consumed him once again. He kept asking why she insisted on writing this sappy-sweet love notes, contained within ordinary bunches of flowers that one could buy at the grocery store. Didn't he, the man she was in love with, deserve something nicer? his egotistical side demanded to know. His mind burned with the information… the answer was THERE somewhere… but he could not grasp at it. He went over the facts again: mysterious gifts that arrived before he did, a bouquet of almost ordinary flowers, a card with a different declaration of love and flower doodles but no signature… Wait a second! What about…

His door banged open, startling him enough to jump about a foot into the air. His train of thought flew around the fuming Stephanie McMahon in the doorway and out into the hall. Realizing what her intrusion had cost him, Chris leapt to his feet, hands flinging about in anger. "Jesus, Steph, what is your problem?!" he nearly screamed. "I was so close!"

She stomped closer to him, allowing the door to close behind her. "Close to what, throttling another one of my technicians?" She got into his face, her one hand poking his naked chest repeatedly. "You listen to me, Chris Jericho, if you EVER…"

He grabbed the wrist of the hand that was poking him, effectively cutting her off. Pulling her closer, he pinned her down with a threatening look. "Do not touch me again, or you will regret it," he growled.

Her chin wavered a bit, but her eyes remained defiant. "Or what? Lay one hand on me and my father will have your head."

Chris laughed hollowly; did she really think that was a threat? "Vince McMahon, the man that choked you out with a lead pipe, would probably thank me for putting you in line. You aren't his little girl anymore." The light disappearing from her eyes did not deter his wish of causing her pain. "You're nothing to him but an employee."

Her eyes swirled with emotions Chris could not identify. After a moment, she looked away, pulling at her wrist until he reluctantly let go. She rubbed at the reddened skin, her eyes focused on the floor as she quietly stood her ground, choosing her next words carefully. She reminded herself that she did barge into his dressing room, and did provoke him, but these actions did not add up to such venomous words. A man only spoke ruthlessly when there was a lot on his mind. She curiously examined Jericho's face, careful to avoid his triumphant gaze, and decided that he looked extraordinarily tired. "You're probably right," she said, causing Jericho's eyebrows to shoot upwards in surprise. "Just leave me and the other employees alone next time you go on a tirade." Giving him a slight nod, she turned to leave.

"Stephanie, wait!" Chris called out without thinking. She stopped walking to hear him out, but did not face him. He wasn't sure why he stopped her retreat; he would have preferred that she left so he could be alone with his thoughts. But she remained in his dressing room, and when his eyes caught sight of the irises he found his excuse. "Do you know anything about these?" he asked, gesturing uselessly towards the bouquet on his table.

With a sigh, Stephanie turned and met his eyes. Chris again pointed to the bouquet, tapping his foot impatiently. She looked at them, and then back at Chris. "They're flowers," she stated in a monotone.

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the clarification. Care to tell me where they came from?"

Her eyes studied the plain bouquet. "Somebody cheap. Are you dating prostitutes again?" She smirked at her comment, her spirits raised a bit.

Chris fell back into the folding chair, unwilling to play their usual game. Even if she was wide open for a scathing comparison between her and a hooker. "You can leave now," he said, picking up the card that had fallen on the floor.

Stephanie gaped at him; since when did he just let a comment like that slide? He appeared to be drowning in misery as he stared at the flowers, and despite her best efforts, she found herself concerned. Of course, being selflessly concerned about someone else was a relatively new sensation for her, and she didn't have the first clue about what to say to him. Better yet, she didn't know how to make the feeling go away. Deciding to start with the origin of the flowers, she dug around in her jeans until producing a piece of folded up paper. Scanning over the list of dressing room deliveries, she walked over to Jericho and handed him the sheet of paper. "Here," she said simply. Hoping this would do the trick, she turned and left his dressing room, trying to squelch the feelings of worry by reminding herself of all the nasty things he said to her on a daily basis.

Jericho allowed Stephanie to escape this time only because he was engrossed with reading the list. He carefully read the contents three times; not once did his name or the irises appear on the sheet of paper. He took a moment to snicker at a few of the items, like the seven tubes of Icy Hot delivered to Evolution's locker room, and then tossed both the paper and the card aside.

"So the techs aren't delivering this stuff… that can only mean the girl is doing it herself," he concluded to his empty locker room. "And if she's coming in here, all I have to do is arrive early and catch her in the act." He congratulated himself on such a brilliant plan as he got up to stretch. Now, all I have to do is decide where to hide, and what to say to her.

While he warmed up he decided that hiding in the bathroom would be the best course of action. He would then tell her that he wasn't interested in a relationship; if she was gorgeous and desperate, he supposed he could give her a dose of Vitamin C.

While he walked out to the ring, intent on winning this battle royal, he suddenly decided that she at least deserved dinner, before he broke her heart. But only if she wasn't weird or ugly.

While he was smacking around Ric Flair, surrounded by the stench of Icy Hot, he decided that if she arrived before him next week, then she would figure out that he was hiding in his bathroom. Therefore, he'd have to find someplace else to hide; perhaps across the hall in another room, with a clear view of his locker room door?

After he smashed his knee on the steel steps and fell on his head outside of the ring, he determined that the wrestling ring was no place to strategize plans on meeting a secret admirer. Lying ringside, clutching his throbbing knee, the words from the card in his dressing room floated through his mind, but did little to make him feel better.

All in all, it was the perfect ending to a horrible day.

Backstage, a woman cringed at the sight of Chris being eliminated. When he was in the ring, he had appeared almost… distracted at times. She wondered what he was preoccupied with; regaining the world title should be his first priority. Whatever the cause, losing the match would most likely send him back to the doldrums, and she couldn't bear to see that again. And yet she could do nothing except continue to send him flowers and cards. It would have to do, she reminded herself, until he was ready to find out the truth.

END CHAPTER TWO

Author's notes: Hey y'all! I'd like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this fic, it inspired me to continue with this idea. And I can't tell you how much I loved writing this chapter; I can only hope that you guys loved reading it. Please review and let me know what you think. Take care!