The Emancipation of Trish Stratus
A/N: I really expected to reemed out for the identity of the "mystery man" by someone, but you guys have been really kind. I guess it's safe to say now, since the truth is out there, that I'm a die hard Trish-Randy fan. That being said, though, I just got the idea for another story that won't feature that pairing - so if you're a Cena or Batista fan, just wait - as soon as I'm done with this one, they'll get their time in the spotlight with the amazing Ms. Stratus. But first, I gotta finish this one up, and that means I gotta get my ass in gear. You know I don't own anything, and I'm starting to feel redundant for telling you every damn time I post something. But since I'm broke, I don't think getting sued would be a hell of a lot fun, would it?
Randy couldn't seem to wipe the smile off of his face as he, Cena, and Batista reminisced about the night's events over beers in his hotel room later. Cena was doing a spot-on Flair impression, and Randy couldn't help but think of their OVW days, when all three were training, and dreaming, of a day like this. A day when they all knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they had arrived in the business.
None of it had gone according to plan, really. When he had started rehabbing his shoulder back in May, Trish was just starting hers with her back. Neither of them held much affection for the other, but day after day in the same therapy room, tossing rubber balls to each other, and stretching their weakened muscles with no one else to talk to, had brought them together. Randy found her sardonic wit incredibly entertaining. And she found the arrogant, snide remarks under his breath quite funny. They were friends before they realized it.
When he had invited her to St. Louis, she had agreed whole-heartedly, and that's when it had happened. Sitting around the dinner table with his family, his mom and sister talking to Trish like they had known her forever, he knew. She belonged there. She belonged in his life, by his side. He loved her. His dad had dragged him out to the patio for a drink, told him to stop bein' such a coward, and let her know exactly what she meant to him.
Being in love was the best feeling Orton could ever remember. It was even better than beating legendary men from his business or making history as the youngest World Heavyweight Champion. With Trish, he felt indestructible. Nothing could touch him if she still believed in him – nobody else mattered. The world could think he was a total heel, but if Trish loved him, that was good enough.
When she suggested that he ask Hunter for a place in Evolution once again, he almost rethought their entire relationship. There was nothing, NOTHING, he wanted less than to follow Triple H around like a sick puppy for the rest of his career. He didn't want to help anyone else attain, or retain, that belt. But she said that it would be for the best. She said that she would make him see just how perfect they were for each other. All they had to do was pretend like nothing had changed between them for a little while – like they still hated each other – and then, when Hunter had accepted that she was a big girl and that she was in love with someone who was really good for her – they would let him in on the secret.
Maybe it was the sex that numbed his mind into thinking it would actually work. Or maybe it was the purity of the love he felt for her. Either way, he had made the most dreaded phone call of his life, and he had put on the best show he could muster. And he had gotten in. All he had to do was wait for her to do her part.
After that, things went crazy. She was hitting Triple H with chairs and challenging him for his belt. She was being rescued by Batista and Cena, and all he could do was play along. She had driven them past the point of no return, and to spill the truth would only result in pain and suffering for both of them. He had offered, on more than one occasion, to just tell Triple H the truth and take his punishment, but she promised she could work it out. She promised him that she knew what she was doing.
And she had. She had known exactly what she was doing nearly two weeks prior when she asked him the best way to cushion the RKO for minimal damage. He had looked at her like she was crazy. Why would she ever need to know something like that? But he could never tell his sweet Trish "no," so he had shown her on the bed in their hotel again, and again, until she was sure she had it down. That night, at SummerSlam, he felt her tuck her head into his shoulder before they hit the ground, exactly like he had shown her. She had known Hunter would pull something, and she had prepared for everything.
When Hunter and Ric kept him out until three in the morning, celebrating his victory, he was sure that they were catching on. Though he didn't know how – he was fairly certain he'd been careful enough to keep their suspicions at bay – he knew that their shameless attempts to hook him up with girl after random girl that night was more than just generosity. By the time he had called her phone to let her know what was going on, he was ushered to her voice mail, and he hadn't heard from her again until she appeared in the ring the following night.
He had made a decision at some point during the day. He was going to give Hunter his damn belt back and then tell him that he was in love with Trish, in front of the entire world. Let them beat the hell out of him, he didn't care. He just wanted it to be over. So when she had come out, saved him the humiliation of losing his title, and done the secret-spilling herself? Well, he didn't think it was possible to love her more than he had over the last few months, but that night – it took everything in him not to drop to one knee and ask her to marry him in front of everyone. He knew that there was no one else in the world he trusted, or needed, more than Trish Stratus.
"So, man," Batista finally sighed, standing and placing his empty bottle on the table between him and Cena. "I better go call the family, check on my girls," he winked, moving toward Randy with an outstretched hand.
"Thanks for everything, man," Randy responded, making his way to his feet as they embraced in a half-hug. "I mean, everything you did means a lot," he stammered.
Batista just raised an eyebrow as he turned toward the door. "Yeah, well, remember the deal, man," he reminded. "I help you get the belt, you give me a fair shot at winning it back?" Randy nodded and patted his back. "Tell Trish I said "goodnight," okay?"
When he was gone, Randy fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. "I feel like a little kid right now," he sighed. "Like a kid who just pulled one over on his parents or something."
Cena rolled his eyes. "You're such a girl," he spat. The bathroom door creaked at that moment and Trish appeared, drowning in a thick robe, her blonde hair sticking to her face and shoulders. "And yet you managed to score the hottest ass I have ever seen in my life," Cena added, looking Trish up and down with a customary smirk.
"Alright," Randy sighed, pulling himself into a seated position as Trish moved to the vanity and began to brush her hair. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Cena shook his head. "Then why don't you go find somewhere else to be?" Randy's voice was tinted with just a hint of irritation.
Cena stood, as Batista had, and put his bottle on the table. "Fine. I'll catch up to you later?" Randy nodded and shook his hand. Before he left, Cena hooked a right and dropped a kiss on Trish's cheek. "You did good tonight, baby girl," he smile.
She returned the gesture and gave a slight nod, but went back to brushing her hair as Randy walked Cena to the door. "Thanks, man," Randy said sincerely, as John stepped into the hallway. "I know you're new on RAW and everything. This probably wasn't the smartest alliance to make."
Rolling his eyes, Cena just shoved his hands into his pockets. "Stop droppin' that sentimental bull shit on me, man," he laughed. "You my boy – I got your back, you got mine. That's howwe roll." It was Randy's turn to roll his eyes. "Fine, you wanna be all super-sensitive guy? Why don't you go lay some o' those cheesy-ass lines on your girl in there and leave me the hell alone, okay?"
They shared a smile and another handshake before Randy shut the door and sighed. It was, quite possibly, the most dangerous time of his career. But he never felt safer. He had his title. But more than that, he had good friends, and an amazing woman. Everyone else might think that he would be smart to cower in fear, but Randy Orton didn't feel like cowering. He felt like the King of the World.