Chapter VIII: If It's Love. . .
After having to cut their time on the field short, the two were back at the hotel. Cheryl was showered and had her knees propped up with pillows while she and Dave munched on take-out. "Can I ask you something?" he curiously asked.
"Depends," she replied with a shrug.
"Yes or no?"
"I guess."
"You said your developmental contract almost didn't happen. What were you going to say?" Dave prodded.
She opened her mouth and then closed it. Without some sort of a script and some time to think about it, she was at loss for ad libbing. So, with a shrug of her shoulders, she replied nonchalantly, "I almost didn't take it. That's all."
"And I think you're lying to me. Does it have to do with your husband?"
"Yeah but guys don't want to hear about their girlfriends' past boyfriends'…or in my case, husband," she answered, dismissing him.
"I think it's different with us. It's not like the both of you got a divorce or anything. What happened?"
Cheryl thought for a moment, wondering how to begin. "I got the call on Tuesday with the offer. I only went to the try-out because Pierce insisted I go. Oh, Pierce was my husband…" He nodded, having figured that out already, and she continued. "Anyhow, we talked about it for two or three days. I had a week to think about it but I was so scared to take the contract. I didn't think I could do it but Pierce was so supportive. That Wednesday I came down with a head cold that would put a mammoth down. I worked that night but I thought I was going to die…" Cheryl's eyes drifted off as she related the story of her husband's death and the aftermath to anyone for the first time beyond her family.
Everyone assumed that the perpetually drippy nose and croaking voice of the widow were the physical signs of her grief and her hollow, vacant eyes the emotional reflection of her soul. They couldn't have been more wrong. Cheryl's sinusitis was near the tail-end of its run, leaving her with a sore throat from the drainage. The emptiness of her face was the result of a continuous string of sedatives some "kind" relative thought to slip her after a very ugly bout with her mother-in-law, a woman she never got along with because she attempted to control Pierce's life more than a mother should for a thirty-five-year-old man.
Mike had taken Cheryl home and put her in bed at the crack of dawn before calling their relatives. When she finally woke, she was being crowded by her parents and in-laws. As the events of the previous night came rushing back, she stumbled into her bathroom and wretched the bile that was rising in her throat. The woman had handled grief before by packing it all away and dealing with it at a more appropriate time—usually never, depending on the circumstance. She had fallen apart hours before and, to her, now was not the time for another public episode. With stoicism, she dressed, ate, and listened to her and Pierce's kin begin to tell her how to handle the funeral, insurance, etc. The façade fell apart that afternoon at the funeral home.
As the widow, Cheryl was granted the privilege of making the decisions for the service and interment. South Carolina was the couple's childhood and adult home and in South Carolina Pierce would stay. The two had discussed their wishes in case one of them should die "before their time." Pierce had been adamant about wanting only a grave-side service, extremely adamant. In the director's office, she quietly explained her husband's wishes until his mother interrupted her.
"No service?" Marjorie Ellis almost shouted, standing up from her chair.
"It's what he wanted," Cheryl replied, not looking up at the other woman.
"What he wanted or what you want?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" the redhead ground out, whipping her head up to glare at her mother-in-law.
"You're just being selfish and keeping as much of the insurance money as you can to support that stupid hobby of yours!" Marjorie yelled, referring to Cheryl's training as a wrestler.
"I won't grace the comment about my hobby with a reply but I will tell you what I think about you," she shouted in reply, shooting up from the chair.
"Don't you—" the older woman started but was quickly interrupted.
"No, don't you. Pierce made it abundantly clear what he wanted and I intend to make that happen."
"Ladies, ladies," the funeral home director interrupted. "Did Mr. Ellis have this put in writing?"
Cheryl stared at the man with her mouth agape. "Uh, uh, n-no."
"Listen here, missy," her mother-in-law started again. "My son deserves a funeral service and that's what he'll have."
"You over-bearing bitch. I can't believe you. You tried to control him when he was alive and now you try to control him even in death. You'll get your service over my dead body."
"That can be arran—" Cheryl never gave her a chance to finish, yelling an obscenity and then lunging at the offending woman. Strong hands reached out and pulled her back while Pierce's mother stared in shock. The redhead rushed out of the office and passed the crowd that gathered to hear the argument. Once in the bathroom, she blew her nose and wet her face with cool water. Not once in her life had she ever acted that way, especially to her elders. Someone, a face she couldn't remember, maybe an aunt, pressed a glass of ice water into her hand and a pill that looked like Tylenol. The drug had immediately worked its magic.
Cheryl knew more about the attack that took her husband's life, an event for which she wasn't present, than the funeral, the event she was practically the center of but could barely recall. The next clear thing she remembered after the glass of water was the morning after the funeral. The rest was a blurred image. It was like walking through a fuzzy dream. She remembered a minister talking about heaven and hell and being pushed towards Pierce's coffin in front of a crowd. In an out-of-body state, she watched herself place a red rose on the white pillow and kiss the cold body on the cheek. Or at least she thought it was a red rose. She had paused, seeing beyond Pierce in the casket, feeling that there was something else she was supposed to do, a promise… In a flash she went from being inside the church to being seated on a green covered chair in a cemetery. A clod of dirt was pressed into her hand and she tossed it into the gaping hole in the ground. The scent of lilies followed every blurry image.
When Cheryl was finally lucid, she shot straight up in bed and shouted, "A shot glass! It was supposed to a shot glass! I promised him!"
Her mother rushed into the bedroom as Cheryl babbled on about not getting to put a shot glass in the coffin with Pierce. "Honey, why didn't you tell someone? We would have stopped the service and got you one."
Cheryl hardly believed that Marjorie Ellis would have allowed that to happen. "I don't know why…" she trailed off before rising and stumbling down the stairs.
"Honey, why don't you get a shower and change your clothes? It'll make you feel better," Roslyn cooed, following her every step.
"I…I…" she started but stopped as she gazed around the living room at the arrangements someone chose to bring to her home instead of placing on the grave. A large vase of lilies centered them and Cheryl vividly remembered staring at them throughout the entire service. They were the only thing she could specifically recall and they turned her stomach. She picked them up, their smell overwhelming her, and thrust them at her mother. "These have to be thrown away…now."
"We have to send a thank you card—" Roslyn began as she took the flowers from her daughter.
"Take the florist card out and throw them away. I can't look at them."
"What about the others?"
Cheryl glanced around at them. "They can stay."
"Now that I had all my faculties about me, I called OVW a day after the deadline but, given the circumstances, they let it slide," Cheryl explained. "I had most of his estate settled in four days and was in Ohio by the next Sunday night. I couldn't stay in Hilton Head. I couldn't go back to work, to the place where he was killed. It got me out of our house. Wrestling was my way of dealing with the grief. At first I did it to run away but then… Well, that's all history. I did it for him, I even dedicated my first match on RAW to him…of course, my family and I were the only people who knew…" She then looked up at Dave, her eyes clear. "But mostly, I did it for me and I don't regret one bit of it."
The dark-haired man had no way of responding and could only say, "I'm sorry."
"See, that's exactly why I don't tell anyone about him. I don't need sympathy for some tragic past. I'm by far not the only person in this world to have such dumb luck. I've moved on. I don't want people to see a widow when they see me."
"You wanna know what I see?" She looked away from him and he rose from the chair he was lounging in to sit beside her. Gently, he turned her face to his and huskily continued. "I see a beautiful woman, inside and out, who just needs to believe in herself. I see a sexy woman who's vibrant and full of life. I see a woman that I want to kiss so bad right now but I don't want her to think I'm taking advantage of her."
"You won't be," she breathed. He leaned in and their lips met. Her shivers had shivers as the heat spread throughout her body. She wrapped her arms around his neck and entwined her fingers in his dark curls, something she had been itching to do for far too long. When Dave was afraid he wouldn't be able to stop himself, he pulled away from her, sucking her lower lip as he drew away.
She gulped in a breath as he whispered, "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself."
"You don't hear me complaining."
Dave stole a quick kiss and then checked the bags of ice on her knees. "Time to change these," he said, taking both of them with him into the bathroom. Cheryl grinned and slid down into the pillows in bliss.
Dave and Cheryl were inseparable while they were on the road, with the exception of the Monday night crew. The diva wasn't about to give up that relationship with her girlfriends, knowing when she had found a good thing. But she knew she had found just the same in Dave. They worked out together, drove to the next show together, had supper and after show drinks together… Triple H and Stephanie had even caught the two of them, dressed to the hilt and wearing cheap black masks, with a bag of candy a piece coming into the hotel as the wrestling royalty were on their way out to a Halloween party.
Word quickly spread they were an item. Now Cheryl had pissed off an entirely different set of women who thought she was just moving through men like underwear. Of course, what single woman wouldn't be jealous of the one who snagged Dave Batista? Lita had caught wind of the rumblings but decided not to tell her this time. She could tell Cheryl was coming out of her shell and being less shy around the staff. Lita knew she would be so self-conscious about it and the new diva didn't need another hole in her cheek because she was chewing on it from stress. Besides, when was the backstage not rumbling about something? It would pass in two weeks like everything else did.
RAW was another match-less night for Cheryl, for which she was grateful since she could barely wear pants from the knots on her knees. Triple H grilled her character once again about her attacker—this time less in-depth. Besides Dave sending her a bouquet of a variety of pink, white, and red flowers, the only thing good about the night was getting to chase Stacy Keibler on a motorcycle. In the midst of an interview, Stacy interrupted Cherry Leigh where she leaned against the Hog, shoving her and almost sending the bike down with her. The redhead immediately righted herself, steadied the Harley, and shoved on her helmet. She squealed off as Stacy quickly climbed into a limo. When the sleek vehicle disappeared, Cherry Leigh pulled her flamed helmet off to stare into the darkness beyond the garage door. When it was all said and done and the limo returned, Stacy stalked off without a word.
If only the next week was as easy. Cheryl took a step down in her performance to accommodate the inexperienced Stacy. The match that their feud had been leading up to was finally taking place. The redhead couldn't have been more elated about no longer having to do vignettes with the woman. If only she could feel that elation during the match. The only emotion coursing through her after the match was anger as she limped to the back.
"Calm down," Lita ordered, taking Cheryl by the shoulders.
"The bitch worked stiff the entire match," she replied, jerking away.
"She's not smart enough to do that," the other redhead condescendingly responded.
"I don't think we give her enough credit. She twisted the ankle that I broke several years ago. And she didn't slap my chest, she chopped it and caught me in the throat. That's not counting the fact that she nailed me in both of my knees where I got hit with that ball."
"You should have your ankle looked at," Lita said, changing the conversation in hopes of helping to abate Cheryl's anger.
"It'll be fine. It's just really tender…I'll take it easy for a couple of days," she added, seeing the demanding look on Lita's face. "Look, if I let one of the trainers look at it, I probably won't be able to play ball this weekend and I have no intention of missing that."
Lita snorted with a half-smile. "One of those, huh?"
"What is that supposed to mean?" Cheryl demanded.
"Let's just say that the only time me and Stacy are alike will be this Saturday when I stand on the sidelines and cheer."
"C'mon. It's not that bad," she replied, peeling out of her wrestling attire.
"Whoa, you've not played ball with these guys. You think they're competitive now, wait 'til you see them this weekend. Now, in the spring when we play soccer, I'll give'em a run for my money."
"Good, you can count me out then. Definitely not my game," Cheryl replied, gingerly heading for the showers. Lita smiled to herself, glad that she put that fire out before it really got started.
By the way the people were standing in slightly amorphous groups, Cheryl could tell that this yearly gathering had its permanence and ritual. Even with Vince McMahon present, he hung towards the back and the entire group seemed to look to Triple H as the coordinator of this tournament. He named the coaches, probably the same from the past years—Hunter himself (no surprise there), Vince McMahon, Kurt Angle, and the token female, Trish Stratus. Then the part that Cheryl always hated began, the picking of teams. Growing up, her quiet nature relegated her to the last of the choices, mistaking her reservedness for one of unathleticism. By the time she was playing varsity softball, she had no need of pick-up teams.
Hunter picked first (no surprise) and chose Batista. The two then paid little attention to the next three choices as an argument arose. "Cheryl next, you've got to get Cheryl next," Dave insisted.
"I'm not picking her because you're doing her," Hunter muttered and turned his attention back to the coaches.
"I'm not—" He quickly stopped, not about to admit that that wasn't exactly going on between them yet. "She played in college, 3rd base," Dave whispered over Helmsley's shoulder, holding his glare back.
Hunter paused for a second to digest the information then replied, "Steph will eat me alive."
"Do you want to lose to Vince again? Two years in a row? He ate us alive last year!"
Hunter glanced over his shoulder at his wife, who was holding a parasol over her head to shield her from the fall noon sun. "For God's sake, Hunter," Vince firmly interrupted, "pick Quentavious and get it over with."
Hunter gulped as he looked up. "I pick Cheryl."
Vince laughed and said, "Good, I get Quentavious."
The man in discussion strutted past Hunter with a crooked grin. "It's good to finally be on a winning team."
"Did I screw something up?" Cheryl whispered to Dave as she sidled up to him during the next round of picks.
"No, you've just made it better. McMahon's won three years in a row. He put us out in the last game last year. He's going down," he explained.
"And I'm supposed to do it?" she asked and sucked her lip between her teeth.
"He and Quent are pull hitters, straight down the third base line. They'll never know what hit them."
Cheryl gulped and shook her head. "I'll try."
Chris Jericho was the last choice for their team and he shuffled up, mumbling something about why they couldn't play hockey. Hunter clapped his hands together and announced, "Alright, the usual—one game before lunch then—"
"And who would be playing that?" Vince asked with quite a smug smile, knowing what had been forgotten.
Helmsley turned to Batista. "Did you bring the schedule?"
"You said you were putting the brackets together."
"Hold on, I said…" He stopped when he heard everyone groaning.
"I can put one together," Cheryl whispered, tugging at Dave's shirt. He turned around with an 'oh really' look. "Yeah, give me a piece of paper." Dave whispered something to Hunter and he announced Vince's and Trish's teams as going up against each other first.
"You can do this?" Hunter asked, disbelievingly. She glared at him and jerked the notepad from his hand. In minutes, she had sketched out the double-elimination brackets of seven possible games for four teams.
"That good enough for you?" she inquired icily, handing him the schedule.
"Perfect," he replied with a toothy grin and slapped her on the back. She rolled her eyes and headed off with Dave to find a seat and scout out the first game.
"Is this co-ed rules, no guys sliding—" Cheryl began but interrupted by Dave's chuckle.
"On that field, all women are men…unless a little groping's going on," he said with a crooked grin and lightly pinched her side close to her breast. When she didn't jerk away, he leaned in for a kiss and then they both turned away to watch the games, a warm blush rising up their cheeks.
During the first game, Edge slid up beside Cheryl on the bleachers and whispered, "How's it going with you two?"
"Great," she quietly replied. "Couldn't be better. How're you doing?"
"Well, I'll be better after I talk to your man. Mind if you slipped off to maybe get you two something to drink while I bother him?"
Cheryl glanced over to see Batista still absorbed in the game. "Go easy on him, okay?" Edge nodded and she turned to Dave to explain where she was going.
Giving her time to leave, the blonde edged over to the bigger man. "Dave, I think you owe me," he said, nodding in the direction of Cheryl.
Batista sighed. "What?"
"That really gorgeous chick you hang out with—Leila?" When Dave nodded, Edge continued. "Would you kinda hint that I might be interested and see what she has to say?"
"What!"
Edge narrowed his eyes and sternly replied, "You owe me…"
Dave rolled his eyes and muttered, "Okay."
"Thanks," the blonde added with smile and patted the big man on the back, only to be met with a glare that sent Edge moving on.
Helmsley's team pulled off their first win but took it badly from Vince's team. Hunter and Dave spent the better part of the time between games, heads bent together in deep discussion. Cheryl and Nidia lounged together under a tree as the sun began to set, both eating their supper. "How are you and Dave doing, chica?" Nidia asked.
"Fine."
"Fine? You two are joined at the hips. Are y'all joinin' at the hips that way?"
"Nidia!" Cheryl exclaimed, throwing a chip at her.
"Is it love?"
She shrugged her shoulders in reply because she couldn't quite answer the question. She glanced over at the two wrestlers to see Batista enthusiastically jab the paper Hunter was holding. If asked if she was attracted to him, she would reply with an emphatic 'yes.' She absolutely adored being around him. The minute he was within her sights, her heart went aflutter, yet they hadn't physically gone beyond 'hugs and kisses.' But did she love him? …maybe…
"Well, is it?" Nidia asked again.
"Can't think about it right now. I've got to go get ready for the game," she replied, wiping her hands off on her sliding shorts.
"If it's love, you don't have to think about it."
Resisting the urge to sarcastically reply, Cheryl shrugged her shoulders and hefted herself up from the ground.
Hunter's team had fought its way through the losers' bracket to face McMahon's team in the final game, that is if Vince won. Batista and Helmsley had been attempting to define a strategy to take the second win. Dave noticed her approaching, smiled, and turned back to his conversation. She massaged his shoulders while he and Hunter finalized the line-up. "Ready to warm-up?" she asked, peeling off her long sleeve t-shirt. Dave reached over to check the band-aid on her elbow, which did nothing to hide the scrape from her slide into home from the last game.
"Can you ever play softball without getting hurt?"
"If I didn't get hurt, I didn't play ball," she said with a laugh.
"Just don't get hurt this game, we've got to beat McMahon twice to win," Dave replied.
The celebration from the first win threatened to delay the second game after Vince had plowed through Cheryl on a tag-out, which sent her flying across third base. At least, he had the courtesy to help pick the winded player up off the ground. Hunter joked about him intentionally hurting his best players. Whether or not it was habit, Vince did his trademark swagger across the field, calling back that Hunter couldn't win twice.
And when they did, Cheryl found out where McMahon drew inspiration for his character. The king had been dethroned, by the princess' husband no less. The sign of the times was being inaugurated.
The jabs were merciless as beers were passed around. A full day of tournament had worn everyone out and after a couple rounds of drinks, everyone began to drift off. Dave hugged her to him, sweaty smell and all, and said, "Good job, pum'kin."
"Pumpkin?" she asked, her eyes growing large.
"Can I call you that?" he asked with a smile and twirled her pony-tail. "It's better than Red or Orange."
"I guess," she replied, thrilled that he cared enough to give her a pet name.
"How ya feeling after McMahon took you out?"
"I think my chest'll be sore tomorrow but no big deal," she said, waving him off.
"You looked great out there. I knew you'd do fine."
Cheryl twisted her mouth in thought. "Did you take me out to the fields to scout me out?"
"Of course not," he denied.
"And why am I supposed to believe that?"
"Here's a reason," he said and swung her around, dipping her low for a long kiss that garnered several whistles. Forget the fact that they were covered in dirt and her fingers were slippery from the sweat in his hair, Cheryl was breathless when he pulled her up. "Game's over. What would be the point now if I was scouting you out?"
"Alright," she replied with a straight face, finally gaining her senses, but then burst out in a smile. He laughed with her and took her bat bag to sling over shoulder so they could return to the car hand in hand.
TBC…