Four, five, six. The blonde has got daggers for eyes, and scales for skin - now, where had he seen this before?
On bad days, no one has a clue who Todd Grisham is: he sees the split-second hesitation when they raise their eyebrows to look at him, asking, "You again? The silly interviewer?" Because, really, he's not apart of their world. Their world which is full of bright lights, and roaring crowds, and sweat-laden wrestling mats.
A world which Todd can only ever peer at through the backstage curtain. He supposes that is his advantage, a knack to see through the gimmick, through the façade – perhaps that is the cinch, which convinces them that they are who they are.
Sometimes all it takes is a question, and Todd has always been very good at questions. Like a surgeon, he knew what exact sentiment to dissect or syllable to put stress on. Sometimes the reaction isn't always obvious – a small shiver, or a quick break in their character. Other times it's so obvious that it ends with him on the receiving end of a punch or chop or uppercut.
And yet, as he stares at the icy blonde, he can tell this is different. The microphone feels heavy in his hands, as he speaks into it. "Any thoughts on tonight's loss against Jacqueline?"
It feels heavier as he moves it closer to her. Her eyes are daggers once more as they rip into him.
"No comment." she replies stiffly.
The scruffy blonde next to her grunts, eyes slanting.
The interviewer pays him no mind, continuing. "Seems like it was a rather one-sided fight. Jacqueline had you under pressure for a good chunk of it."
Daggered eyes shoot at him, while a frown forms on her face. A possessive hand grips the vellum of her championship belt tighter. "Jacqueline only knows how to fight dirty, perhaps that is why."
His own hand grips his microphone tightly, "Really? Because it seemed pretty fair to me."
The scruffy blonde flexes himself, "You callin' my girl a liar, kid?"
Blood shoots up to Todd's head, as he feels his face go hot – was it embarrassment or reckless bravery? He wasn't sure. He was about to find out, though. "I'm not, Christian. I'm just saying that this is a disparity between what Trish is saying and what actually happ-"
It happens so quickly that he barely has time to react. Christian's hand swings down, and violently grabs the microphone out of his hand – hurling it across the backstage room. It breaks into about a million pieces; not that Todd counted or anything.
He stands there for what feels like an eternity, even after he hears his camerawoman yell 'Cut!'.
He feels the eyes of a defeated blonde make a hole in the side of his head.
Not that he cares or anything.
She's smarter than they think she is, that is the only thing Todd can say for certain.
Todd is no fool – well, at least not all the time. He sees the way the other women look at her belt, the way their eyes sparkle at it. He's not surprised, in a business full of bra-and-panties matches and mud wrestling, a championship belt must've felt like the holy grail.
And so, he wonders if Trish Stratus sees the envious eyes of her peers. Did she notice the sneers they gave her way backstage? Or the whispered gossip they spoke behind her back? Did she even care for it?
Sometimes he thinks she might, but other days he thinks she doesn't. She walks down the corridors with an aura of mystique. Holding the belt closely to her chest, the way some Tolkien-esque dragon held its hoard of gold.
That is exactly what she is, he thinks, a dragon. He scribbles the gimmicky idea in his notebook, alongside all the other storyline and kayfabe suggestions he had. When he finishes, he's not as satirised with it, as he should be – and so closes his notebook with a snap, letting the idea rot away on the page and in his mind.
When he finally sees her again, it's in a dingy production room backstage during a RAW taping. She's sat around a foldable table, with production crew scattered about – and a few of the McMahons sat at the forefront.
"I think you and Trish here can be the start of a brilliant storyline," says the elder McMahon, cutting straight to the point.
The interviewer is confused, the blonde even more-so.
Vince leans across the table – Todd thinks he smells like Versace, smoke, and debauchery. "We're gonna have a pregnancy storyline between you two. You'll have Trish's kid, Grisham."
Todd's mouth goes dry, "You want me to what?"
Papers ruffle behind him, and a nameless producer quickly snipes, "Ratings are booming with Kane and Lita's pregnancy storyline. It would be good to capitalize on that."
"No!" a voice – Trish's: frustrated, angry, calloused – cuts through the air. "No! I— I will not!"
The air clears for a moment, the voice of the frustrated blonde echoing throughout the room, before settling. McMahon's eyes fall on her belt – "I don't really think you have a choice, dear."
"Please," she says again, this time weaker – it nearly sounds like a plea.
But the champion's appeals seemingly fall on deaf ears, instead Todd hears the hustle and bustle of a production crew outlining the storyline's plan and timely execution.
He can feel her eyes make a hole in the side of his head. But he doesn't look back her way.
"Okay, places people!" shouts a camera man, the following week at a RAW taping. He clicks the a few buttons on the large videocamera, and a red light appears.
Todd gives a weary sigh and adjusts the collar of his suit – they were always too big. He peers over at the blonde next to him. Her face was a blank slate - she was clearly in no mood to do this backstage bit, just as much as he was.
"Okay… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… action!"
Todd puts on his best, thousand-watt smile – it hurts his cheeks. "So, Patri— Trish, excellent win today against Jazz!
"Thank you," she coos, voice sickly sweet – a stark difference to the daggers which shot from her eyes' moments prior.
He feels a chill run up his body. "Er, so, um… what would you attribute this win to?"
The blonde flips her hair, moves in closer, "Well," she says softly, "The good luck wishes of a certain interviewer certainly gave me the motivation."
Her eyes twinkle, and something in Todd shifts. As she grows closer to him, he feels something in his stomach rise – was it butterflies? He wasn't sure, but everything slowed down – until it didn't.
He makes a step backwards and takes in a gaping breath. Blood rushes to his head, and his knees feel weak. He hears a disgruntled cameraman yell 'cut!'.
"Take 5, everyone!" says production assistant.
Todd takes another breath, and another, and another, and anoth-
"We've done like 10 takes already. I don't bite, Todd. I promise." The blonde's voice cuts through the bustle of production. As he peers over, he finds her with her arms crossed in slight annoyance.
"don't bite?" Yeah right, thinks the interviewer – she'd chop his head off and eat it for dinner if she could.
"Why are we doing this?" he asks aloud, to no one in particular. "It's just a bunch of lies."
He looks at her, and he hates how instinctive it is – as if he expects her to know the answer.
She looks back at him with empty eyes, "It's all a bunch of lies, sweetheart." She croons softly, hands tightening on her belt. "You just got to pick the best ones."
It wasn't really an answer, but Todd supposes he didn't really ask a question. So he shuts up, and gets on with it, and hates her all the same while doing it.
Their "love story" lasts a mere 2 weeks, before dwindling ratings makes production realize that it was doomed from the start.
After a quick meeting with McMahon, he's given control of Byte This. Not his preferred segment, admittedly, but he takes it graciously. Trish Stratus, on the other hand, is given a better run with Lita – a "proper" storyline.
He's still jibed a bit about the storyline in the locker room, he supposes perhaps that'll follow him around for a while.
"What do her lips taste like?" Val Venis rags one night after a show, "Probably taste like cocaine or something."
Todd doesn't entertain an answer, packing his travel bag neatly.
His silence chides the large wrestler a bit, because he mutters under his breath, "Out of all people, Vince put you in a storyline with her – ha! No wonder it failed…"
"God, the things I'd do to have blondie for a night," piques another wrestler, "I'd love me a Canadian…"
Todd snaps his head to turn towards the group of wrestlers, but as soon as he opens his mouth, everything he wishes to say turns to ash. "Just… shut up, will you."
Venis grins, "Jealous? Blondie is for everyone to share, Todd. We all wanna love her a bit."
Love, really? Todd scoffs at the idea. He wonders if she knows about the locker room talk. He wonders if she knows that they don't love her; they love superimposed images. They love girls that life drags through the years.
Maybe they only loved the blonde better, to throw her away?
Todd tries shaking the thought out his head, but it's pesky. It didn't matter, he thinks, it's not like he loved her.
…Right?
"Remember the time we had a baby?" Trish asks. Her voice is thicker, as her Canadian accent comes out with certain vowels – a symptom of too many vodka cranberrys.
Todd Grisham leaned against the company-ordained open bar, wearing his horrendous Christmas tuxedo – a size too big. Always a size too big.
The blonde had found her way to him a few minutes ago. Not that he minded, in some fucked up level, he enjoyed the company.
"Remember our baby?" she says again, asking like it was just another bar story – mixed with that kind of half-funny, half-terrifying Trish Stratus charm that isn't nearly as funny as it intends to be. Remember when Vince fucked up our lives, is what she's trying to say.
Todd takes a generous sip of his lager and shakes his head. "Not quite, Patricia." He says, because this isn't a conversation he wants to have. She's a bit tipsy, and he's getting there, and it'd be hilarious if he still didn't get nightmares of shooting backstage segments with the blonde.
He gazes over at her. She was beautiful. But that wasn't saying much – because, to Todd, she was always beautiful. It's stupid, but he can't tell if she made him sad or just annoyed.
She was the pinnacle of women's wrestling at the moment, and yet given the frown on her face you'd think otherwise. He wonders how no one noticed it. She was beautiful, yes. But she was also, tired. And she looked more tired than usual tonight.
"Remember that time we were in love?" she asks, in that same devil-may-care kind of voice, like it was just a quick chat over drinks between old friends.
His stomach turns again – was it the drink or butterflies? He wasn't sure. "Not really, Patricia."
She smiles, but as smiles go, it could use some work and laughs like she's just heard the best joke in weeks. "Me neither," she says, and drinks her drink. Her make-up is thick and smudged, like the painted-on costume of a Hardy brother.
If he was to write about her – and Todd doesn't think he would – but if he were to write about her, he'd say that she's got heavy eyes, holding the weight of the world. He'd say something pretty about her, that would fit neatly in his made-up wrestling world, somewhere in the background, behind Triple H and John Cena and Stephanie, and all the other important characters.
He probably wouldn't write about her, but if he did, he'd make something up. The truth is ugly, and she laughs her ugly laugh into his neck after she leans in and kisses him.
In the kayfabe world, he'd shove her off right then, maybe say something meaningful to help her turn her life around – a moral that the audience could take away from.
In the real world, he freezes, awkward, and spills his drink on himself and bumps his glasses into her forehead – it doesn't feel like the porcelain scale he expects it to, rather it's softer, warmer. And when she laughs then, it's not as ugly as it could be.
She takes his chin between her fingers and asks, "dance with me, Todd Grisham." He could tell that she means for it to be an order, but it comes out very softly.
He bursts out into a smile - He can't keep anything in, not with her. He looks around, the dance floor was quite empty. And he wasn't the kind to attract attention. "I don't know, Patricia…"
Trish cocks her head, smile faltering. "Dance with me, you fool…" she says, weaker.
She had him then. He takes her hand softly and leads her to the cheaply built hotel dancefloor – her body melts into his, like surrender was all it had been waiting for.
It's all he had been waiting for as well.