Blaze of Glory
A/N: Alright, Kiera, this chapter is for you. To the rest of you who have been so good to read and review, or just to read, thanks a bunch. Also, to my girlie, Olivia Dawn - Happy Birthday! I don't own them, and you know it, so just move on to reading the story - Enjoy!
"Why are you pacing?"
His question stopped Trish in her tracks. Turning on her toe, she looked straight into the face of the man who had logged so many hours in the ring with her over the last few months. "Are you kidding?" she asked incredulously.
He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "Pacing wastes your energy, Trish. And worrying fogs your mind," he reminded.
A part of her wanted to give him a Chick Kick, just for the hell of it. Sure, he had been a great coach over the last couple of months. But tonight, he was her competitor. She wasn't even sure he should be in the same room with her, let alone giving her tips on her game. "Shouldn't you be somewhere else?" she asked hotly.
Standing from her couch, he conceded with a nod. "I was just getting ready to leave. Listen, this is it, okay?" She turned her head, a slight expression of confusion on her face. "After tonight, I'm not training you anymore."
"What?"
"You don't need me, Trish," he admitted. "You haven't for, like, the last six weeks. You know what you're doing and you're good at it," he assured her, moving toward the door. "Trust your instincts, and watch your back."
When he reached for the door handle, she felt her stomach jump. "What do you mean? Watch my back? You think someone else is gonna try to interfere?" Try as she might, she couldn't figure out who would do that. Carlito was out with a broken leg, thanks to her. Lita had delivered a perfect Twist of Fate on Snitsky two weeks prior, leaving him with a tweaked disc in his neck. And, thanks to a botched Widow's Peak, the Masterpiece had a dislocated shoulder.
With a shake of his head, her opponent opened the door. "No," he told her, raising an eyebrow and then shooting her a wink. "But don't think I'm not gonna kick your ass."
She flipped him off, but felt like all of the air had left her lungs as soon as the door closed behind him. He was right – he was going to kick her ass. He might have been in total support of everything she was trying to accomplish, but it didn't mean that he was going to lie down and let her have the match, either.
In all honesty, she didn't want him to give in to her. She wanted to prove that she was strong enough to hang with the big boys – that she deserved an opportunity to wrestle like one of them. And the only way she was going to get that was to earn it from someone the fans loved and respected as much as him.
She let out one more heavy sigh and then moved to the hallway. Her match was up first, and she was glad. Stretching her arms above her head and behind her back as she walked down the hall, Trish pulled into her shell and tried to focus. She could do this. She could beat him. She could prove to Bischoff and Vince that she deserved this opportunity, and that they were the only ones who couldn't see it.
She reached the ring, accompanied by a thunderous ovation, and stood in the corner to wait for his entrance. Trying to shut them out, Trish reminded herself that the biggest obstacle to winning this match would be the fans. Sure, they were screaming now, and holding posters for her and wearing her shirts, but they were fickle. They loved her, but they adored him. And if she listened to what they had to say, she would lose the mental advantage immediately.
I'm back, and better than ever.
Bischoff's music played to loud 'boos' and Trish masked her shock perfectly. This couldn't be good – at least, not for her.
With a cocky grin that she desperately wanted to smack off of his face, the general manager raised his microphone to his lips. It was the first time, as far as she could recall, that he had even acknowledged her since she had introduced the world to the new Trish. At least, publicly, it was the first time. Mostly, he and Vince had tried to downplay her tirades, and pretend as though they hadn't even existed.
"Miss Stratus," Bischoff started, the words dripping off of his lips. The only other time he had spoken to her in that tone was when she had won the World Heavyweight Championship at SummerSlam. He had come to the ring, following her victory, to "congratulate" her, only to immediately thrust her into her first title defense.
"What the fuck do you want?" she shouted angrily.
"Now, settle down there, Princess," he sneered, knowing that her blood was boiling, even if her face was showing nothing but determined focus. "Vince and I were talking this afternoon, about your latest proposition." He let the words dangle in the air, an innuendo thick in his tone. "You want a match at the Royal Rumble. Is that right?"
Trish nodded, her heart pounding in her chest as she leaned her back against the far ropes and crossed her arms over her chest, as if telling him to get to the point. "So?" she asked.
"So, we think you may be right. Maybe these people would like to see Trish Stratus in a match at the Royal Rumble. What do you think?" The crowd went nuts, breaking into chants of 'We Want Trish.' Bischoff nodded his graying head. "Alright, then, Trish – here's the deal. Your match tonight is now officially a Royal Rumble Qualifying match. If you can win, you will earn one of the coveted spots in the Rumble. What do you think about that?"
She thought it was bull shit, and he knew it. But it was better than nothing. Maybe she would sail over the top rope the second she set foot on the canvas, but it was a match. Nodding, Trish took the microphone from Lillian. "Deal." Handing it back, she pushed off the ropes and waited as the weasely GM disappeared behind the curtain.
When the next music hit, Trish's suspicions had been confirmed. The crowd went beyond crazy, into hysterically insane. She heard the simultaneous "whoosh" of fifteen thousand seats snapping up as the sold-out crowd hit their feet and began chanting for him. Squeezing her eyes tightly, she looked at the mat and thought about the ramifications of the match. Royal Rumble. She could be the second woman in history to be a part of the Royal Rumble. It would further her cause, and it would be another accomplishment to her legacy. She had to focus on that, and not the words Lillian was trying to shout over the roar of the crowd.
"And making his way to the ring, from Battle Creek, Michigan." She paused as he approached the apron. "ROB VAN DAM."
Once the bell sounded, Trish stopped worrying about Pay-Per-Views, crowds, Vince, Randy, and everything else that had clouded her mind over the last few months. When they locked, collar and elbow, in the middle of the ring, she slipped into "match" mode.
He turned from the lock up and pushed her toward the corner. Her new weight training had prepared her for an upper body war, but he was stronger, and she knew it. The ref called for a break, and Van Dam gave it, stepping back cleanly, only to whip around and kick her in the gut.
Trish sank to the mat, her wind escaping her body. He gave her no time to recover, though, as he grabbed her hair and dragged her to the middle of the ring. Barely able to hold herself up, she didn't notice when he charged off the ropes and caught her with a monster clothesline. She noticed the lights when she was laid out flat on her back, though.
If she didn't counter with something, it was going to be a short match. And she couldn't afford a short match, or a loss. Wiggling her fingers for some feeling, she took a deep breath and nipped up, turning to find his boot in her throat. She flew backward and hit her head on the mat. For a second, her mind went blank, and she forced herself to blink, just to remember where she was.
If Van Dam had grown cocky, Trish couldn't tell. He didn't let up on her at all, and she took it as a compliment. The only way she had beaten Triple H, she knew, was by taking advantage of his arrogance, and his disbelief that little Trish could beat him. Van Dam wasn't underestimating her. He was beating her.
When she finally pulled herself up by the ropes, she turned to see him charging at her again. Ducking at her waist, she grabbed his thighs and launched him over the top rope, to the concrete floor below. The velocity caused her to lose her balance, and she hit her knees, gasping for breath. Was this what it was like to run with the big boys? Would it take this much out of her every time? Was it worth it?
As Rob rolled himself back into the ring, Trish held onto the ropes and stood above him, stomping on his recently-injured knee. As his face twisted in agony, she smiled to herself. It was worth it, alright. The rush of adrenaline, the sound of her name on the lips of hundreds of fans, the sound of his name on others, and the satisfaction of knowing that she was in control, all told her that it was worth every damn minute.
Grabbing his ponytail, she pulled him to a standing position in the corner and climbed to the second rope. Drawing back her fist, she hit him in the forehead twice, with all of her strength. The reddening mark on his skin told her that the hellacious weight training he had put her through was worth it, too.
As if on instinct, Van Dam started for the second rope. Trish could tell, by the glassy look in his eye, that he was just doing what felt natural. He was a high-flyer, and he was going to the part of the ring that felt the most comfortable for him – the top. With his feet on either side of the turnbuckle, she made her way to the top rope and slung his arm over her shoulder. It wouldn't be the prettiest one they had ever seen, but with her arms snuggly around his waist, she launched both of them into a belly-to-belly Superplex, smacking the mat with a painful 'splat.'
Both participants gripped the backs of their heads, and Trish felt a thousand convulsions running up and down her neck. It hadn't been that long ago, she remembered in an instant, that she had been out with her own surgery. Rolling to her stomach, she opened her eyes to see Van Dam, gripping his knee and writhing in pain. 'Never give them what they expect.' That's what he had always told her – never give the crowd what they think you're going to give them. And never give an opponent the move they're expecting. Never give them a chance to counter.
Standing on legs that felt like lead, Trish watched Van Dam struggle to his feet. It wasn't her plan to end with a Chick Kick, but she had intended to use the maneuver as an equalizer. Unfortunately, he was ready for it, and he grabbed her leg in the air, jumping over it and then spinning back with a right leg of his own. He caught Trish in the jaw and sent her crashing to the mat.
She lay on the canvas, the impact echoing in her mind. As she heard the crowd clapping, and stomping their feet, she knew what was coming. He was climbing the ropes. He was setting up for the Five Star Frog Splash. He was going to crush her for the victory. And she couldn't stop it.
It felt as though someone was sitting on her chest. Each time she tried to sit up, she had the eery feeling that someone was holding her back down. There are a million little girls watching you right now, Trish. They're cheering for you. They need you to win this match. They need you to get into that Rumble. There are a million woman out there that need you to get off your ass.
Accidentally, Trish countered the Five Star. In an attempt to nip up once again, she raised her legs and caught Van Dam in the chin. She rolled to her knees, only to see him gripping his stomach and flopping around like a fish. Pulling herself up on the ropes again, she stood in the corner and tried to catch her breath.
What could she do that they wouldn't expect? And what the hell did she have in her arsenal that he wouldn't expect? Nobody on the roster knew her better than he did. And then it hit her.
First, she executed the Chick Kick to the back of his head, knocking him flat on his face. Standing over him, she grabbed his ankles and stepped between his knees, tangling his legs around hers and sitting on the mat. With every muscle in her body straining against the resistance, she reached her arms back on the mat and held her torso as straight as possible, maintaining her leverage when he screamed out in agony at her perfectly-applied Figure Four Leg Lock.
In the middle of the ring, Trish watched as Van Dam reached his arm toward the ropes. They were nowhere close to his grasp. He tried to reverse the maneuver, but she was determined not to budge. After what felt like an eternity, he managed to lift one of her ass cheeks off the mat, but Trish mustered all of the power left in her thighs and cranked herself back down. And he tapped.
The disbelief in the crowd was nothing compared to the disbelief filling Trish's chest. Standing, Lillian took her arm and raised it above her head. "And your winner, by submission: Trish Stratus."
Her music began to play, but Trish wasn't paying attention. She had a Royal Rumble spot, thanks to the man on the mat before her. Reaching down, she extended a hand and helped him to his feet. The crowd ate it up as Rob pulled her into a hug and patted her back. "You beat me," he said, his voice a little surprised.
Trish nodded, and when he pulled back to look at her, she winked. "I know."
One small step for Trish. One giant leap for Womankind. A leap that exhausted her, and drained her energy, she realized as she waved to the crowd and headed up the ramp. Now all she had to do was prepare for this, times twenty-nine, and she could win the Rumble. No problem.