Say Anything

A/N: So, this story was originally only supposed to be a OneShot. But since I fucked up and forgot to tell you all that, and so many of you reviewed saying you couldn't wait for more, I decided to try to move on with it. I can't promise that the story will be very long, or that the updates will come super quickly, since I have no outline and am only writing it as an idea pops into my head, but I hope that's still okay.

You know I don't own any of the WWE Superstars, right? Okay. So Enjoy!

For Randy, things seemed to go from bad to worse after his suspension. Not that he would willingly admit it, but Trish's surprise visit the week before had thrown him into an emotional tail spin. Not to mention the fact that Samantha had nearly gone through the roof when she checked the mail, and found the ring that Trish had left behind.

Tired of beating holes into the drywall of his unfinished basement, Randy decided to head out to the basketball court to try to pound out some aggression. The sun was high in the St. Louis sky as he sat on a courtside bench to lace his sneakers. If this didn't work, he was going to commit himself. He was losing his mind, and he wasn't sure how much more he could take.

A long shadow fell over his shoe as Randy lifted his blue eyes and squinted against the sun. "What the hell do you want?"

Smirking, John Cena took a seat beside his friend and shrugged. "I've missed you, too, Sunshine," he smiled.

Rolling his eyes, Randy continued tightening his laces. "Not really in the mood for another pep talk, Cena. Sorry."

"Good thing I'm not here to pep talk then, huh?" John asked as he grabbed the ball between them and began to twirl it on his middle finger.

Randy's eyebrow shot up in surprise as he leaned back against the bench. "You're not?"

"Hell no." John shook his head and stood, dribbling the ball between his legs a few times as he looked around at the peaceful city park. "For three years now, Randall, I have come to this court every Wednesday for only one reason. To kick your ass one-on-one," he smiled and shrugged. "That's not gonna change just because said ass has now got a 2x4 wedged up it."

Randy stood and rolled his shoulders. "There is nothing up my ass. God!" he gasped, wishing to hell that everyone would just leave him the hell alone.

"Settle down there, Napolean Dynamite," John responded. With another knowing smirk, he tilted his head. "Thought you didn't want to talk about it."

"I don't," Randy pouted.

Tossing his friend the ball, John stepped into the lane and waited. "Then stop running your fucking mouth and take the ball out, Princess."

Two hours, a whole lot of cursing, and buckets of sweat later, John and Randy finally took a breather. Plopping onto the courtside bench, they each reached into their bags for bottles of water, sitting in silence as they gasped for much-needed air.

The silence proved too much for Randy, though. And rather than wait for John to bring up the elephant in the room, or on the court, he decided to attempt some sort of conversation. "How's Maria?"

John smiled instantly at the thought of his girlfriend. "Good," he nodded. "Not your biggest fan, but she's good," he added.

Randy rolled his eyes and took another drink. "Guess I kinda deserve that."

"Kinda? Dude, you called her an empty-headed, worthless waste of space," John argued.

He couldn't deny it. Randy had said the words in a fit of anger when John, Dave, Hunter, Maria, Trish, and Stephanie had first approached him about his attitude. It wasn't her fault, but she was the quietest, and she quickly became his target that night.

"At least I didn't call her a cu--," he started to mutter.

But John raised a hand and shook his head, his eyes closed as he seemingly tried to calm himself. "Man, I beg you to stop talking. Please?" Turning to Randy, he shot his friend a glare. "Before something irreversibly stupid comes out of your mouth."

Again, they fell into an awkward silence. And, as if his mouth needed no permission from his brain, Randy found himself bringing up the one subject he absolutely did not want to talk about. "Trish came to see me last week."

John nodded. "I know."

Though it bothered him that all of his former friends seemed to be conspiring to "fix" him, Randy couldn't say that he was surprised. "Of course you know."

With a shrug, John collected his thoughts and leaned back on the bench. Lifting his water bottle to his lips, he stretched an arm over the back of the seat. "Man, you got balls." His eyes drifted over the court as he shook his head. "Not a lot of brains. But balls." After another drink, he added, "Professing your love to her when she's engaged to the Incredible Hulk? Takes some grapefruits."

Randy huffed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I didn't profess my love," he insisted.

"Whatever you did, it upset her, man," John informed the oblivious young man to his left. "Which means it upset Dave."

"I'm shaking." His voice was arrogant and dry.

This was exactly the kind of conversation John had hoped to avoid. He had known that it would come up, but he had secretly been hoping that he would arrive in St. Louis for their weekly pick up game, and Randy would have miraculously changed into a thoughtful, caring, repentant human being.

He had known it was a lofty fantasy, but John was Randy's closest friend. If anyone had a prayer of getting through what the kid was really thinking, and rooting out the source of the problem, it was Cena. "Maybe you should be," he stated easily.

Randy chuckled and gave John a disbelieving look. "Dude, he's just Dave. We've known him for years. It's not like he's a raging lunatic or anything."

John nodded in concession. "He's not going to hurt you physically, Randy, because he doesn't have to. But he's not the Dave we came up with, either, man. He's a political player now. He knows people. He has powerful personal connections now." He took another drink and spoke matter-of-factly. "You piss him off? You're gone."

"Word has it I'm already gone anyway," was Randy's only response.

Not sure which direction to take the conversation, John went with his instincts. "That what you want?"

Shaking his head, Randy leaned back and stared at the playground on the other side of the court. "Doesn't matter what I want. You know that."

Without warning, John found himself getting pissed. Maybe it was the fact that this thing had been going for too long. Maybe it was because he was busting his ass to do everything he was supposed to do while Orton pissed and moaned about how he wasn't being treated fairly. Maybe it was the fact that their tight-knit circle of friends had become strangely divided over the entire ridiculous situation. Or maybe it was because Randy actually seemed resigned to being suspended indefinitely from the job he claimed to love. But whatever the reason, John was tired of placating the immature Legend Killer.

"So that's it? You're just going to tuck tail and run away? Quit before they can fire you?" Sarcastically, he added, "Or, I know! Why don't you just act like a royal pain in the ass until they have no choice but to fire you? Yeah, that's it. That way you can pout around and act like you've been severely mistreated without ever having to address the fact that it's time you fucking grow up!"

The crimson color creeping into John's cheeks would have intimidated a lot of other people. But Randy knew him too well to get worked up over his outburst. "What do you want me to do? Start crying like a pussy and beg for mercy? You know that's not gonna happen."

John shook his head incredulously. "You really ready to lose your career over a woman?"

Randy felt like he was repeating himself for the millionth time. It was the same argument he'd had with Samantha at least a hundred times in the last six days. "It's not about her," he started the routine response.

"Bull shit, Motherfucker!" John cut him off before he could launch into the whole rehearsed speech. "It's always about her with you. Everything in your world is about Trish Stratus."

Feeling like he had to share some shred of honesty, Randy nodded. "Maybe before," he started again.

But John wasn't done talking yet. "No, man! Since the day you met her, you have been running in circles like a fucking hamster on a wheel to make her notice you, to make her love you. You have done everything humanly possible to make her want you, and it hasn't fucking worked, Orton. Because guess what, man?" He dropped his water onto the ground and turned his body toward his friend. "You can't make somebody fall in love with you. And to end your entire career, to drastically alter the course of your life because you can't fucking have it your way? That's the most childish, immature, asinine, ridiculous bull shit I have ever heard!"

If there was anyone who stood a chance of drawing Randy's real feelings out, it was John. But Randy wasn't ready to share yet. So he did what he always did in these situations. He changed the subject. Or altered it to a course he was slightly more comfortable with. "My career is not over, man," he assured easily, rolling the basketball over the asphalt with his foot. "Even if Vince was dumb enough to fire me, there are other promotions."

"Motherfucker, think," John said, leaning forward slightly. His shoulders were tense, and he was arguing as though children's lives were at stake. "You're one of the most talented wrestlers in the world. You're a marketing wet dream come true. Bottom line? Randy Orton puts asses in the seats - most of them female, which is an untapped fan base for most promotions." He knew that he sounded like a board member now, but John was reverting to two nights earlier, when he had been arguing with Dave and Hunter about the future of Randy Orton.

"So what's the problem?" Randy asked finally.

"This shit that's been going on lately?" He sighed and leaned his head back, running his hands over his face before meeting his friend's crystal gaze with a hardened one of his own. "With your reputation like it is right now, nobody wants to take a chance on your attitude. Nobody else has the cash that Vince has. They have to earn it. And bringing you in to piss off another locker room and create a hostile working environment is not a risk they're willing to take. You're not exactly a highly-sought-after recruit right now, soldier."

Unwilling to admit that John could actually be right, Randy shrugged. "Maybe I'll just go a different route for awhile. Maybe it's time I get out of the business all together."

This time, John laughed. For as long as he had known Randy, the kid had never mentioned a Plan B. Being a third generation superstar was all he wanted. There was no "different route" for Randy Orton. "Where you gonna go, Brain Trust?" he asked, still chuckling. "Back to the Marines? Train some circus monkeys? Maybe you could get a job at the zoo and clean alligator shit for a living?"

"I don't know, man. Sam and I talked about taking some time to travel. Maybe I'll do gondola tours in Venice." He gave John a withering look and then shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just have to wait and see what shakes down. I mean, as far as I know, I'm still employed for now."

Nodding, John stood and hitched his duffle bag over his shoulder. This was the part of the afternoon where they were usually still trash-talking, making their way to the corner pub, where the loser would buy drinks and they would chill like best friends until their girls called, wondering where they were. As much as he hated to wax nostalgic, John was wishing for one of those afternoons more than he cared to admit.

Randy stared at his hands, unwilling to move before John was gone. He knew that they were right - all of them had been right. Every person who had tried to talk any sense into him had their points. But he wasn't ready to back down. He wasn't ready to change. And he wasn't ready to admit that he could, maybe, possibly, slightly be a little bit wrong.

"Listen, Orton," John stated as he fished his car keys out of his bag. "You and me are boys, okay? You know you're like the brother I sometimes wish I could give back, and I want to see you succeed," he shrugged. "But you gotta want it, too, man. So if you want to leave because it's time for you to get out of the game and you seriously believe it's the right thing for you? I got your back, man." His eyes were intense as his shoulders sagged in slight defeat. "But if you're hiding? Pouting while shit you have no control over takes over every part of your life? I can't watch that."

If he had been willing to listen to anything John had said, the time was over. With defenses firmly in place, Randy shrugged and took another drink. "Then don't."