Thirty four days. Barely even a month. At this time a year ago, Mike's role in Wrestlemania had been cemented for almost that same amount of time. How things change, he thinks grimly, running a finger down his media schedule. Even worse than not being on the card is doing this interview and that radio show, discussing the very show he as of yet isn't involved in at all ad nauseam. He swipes his hand across the table, quickly scattering the loose sheets of paper off of the table and onto the floor before leaning forward, kneading his forehead. "Ok, deep breaths. There's still time," he reminds himself, trying not to completely lose himself in the morose thoughts. I wonder if this is what Morrison felt like last fall, he thinks, shaking his head as he gazes out of the hotel window.
That Monday does nothing to lift his spirits. He's thrown into a Wrestlemania rematch of sorts against Cena with little notice or time to prepare. Agitated, he brings a microphone with him and just simply vents- about his media events, and how hard he's worked this year just to be given virtually nothing for the biggest show of the year. Realizing he's whining in front of a sea of people who could probably care less about his complaints, he declares that he'll prove himself Wrestlemania worthy and drops the microphone, heading for the ring. He holds his own off and on, Cena's offense equally as fluid. He thinks he might have a chance until he's twisted around into the STF, his neck and back protesting the uncomfortable angle until he slams his hand down repeatedly, tapping out.
Cena leaves and he remains in the ring, staring blankly ahead as the obnoxious theme music echoes through the arena, his anger and disillusionment growing with each passing second. He shakes off the referee's hand, grimacing as the other man continues talking to him, keeping his distance a bit. "Miz, you have to get out of the ring, the next match is coming up."
"Shut up," he huffs, standing in the middle of the ring and feeling like a petulant child as he crosses his arms, refusing to acknowledge anything else said to him. He demands for, and is given, a microphone after a minute, and begins loudly demanding someone from management come out and grant him his Wrestlemania match now. He's still there, waiting expectantly, when HHH's music hits, the referee looking as confused as he feels. A strange sense of hope fills him as he watches HHH nod as if he agrees with all that Mike had been saying prior to this, his lips twitching up into a smile as he waits to hear who his opponent will be. It all goes to hell the minute HHH actually enters the ring, though.
He's kicked roughly in the gut before pedigreed into the canvas, the referee quickly returning to check on him. He's dazed and embarrassed that he had actually believed HHH would give in that easily, his gaze turned towards the ramp as the COO leaves as quickly as he'd come. He pounds his fist against the mat, gritting his teeth. "Dammit!"
Alex is waiting for him, as always, in the locker room, as he stumbles inside, looking sweaty and miserable. "Mike-"
"No. Don't," he cuts the kid off with a snap, grabbing his clothes roughly. He doesn't even bother taking his wrestling gear off, just roughly pulls the street wear on over it.
"Where are you going?" A-Ri asks, eyes wide and voice subdued as Mike stomps towards the door, barely glancing over in his direction once the brief time he'd been in the room.
"I need some air," he huffs, clenching his fists at his side. "Just... drive yourself to the hotel, alright? I'll see you there later." And just like that, he's gone, leaving an agape Alex behind. He slams his way through the exit door, taking in a shuddering breath as the cool February wind strikes his bare arms. Briefly he regrets his decision but ultimately carries on with it, marching through the dark evening streets, winding this way and that through the streets of Portland.
The hotel is only a few blocks away from the arena, the bright sign heralding it visible from almost any angle downtown, so he's not that worried about getting lost or into much trouble, especially with all of his things back with Alex at the arena. He stops at this thought, suddenly uncomfortable at how he had treated his only remaining friend in the business, shaking his head. "Smooth, Mike," he mumbles, trudging along a sidewalk. "I'll apologize later, it'll be fine." He buries his hands into his pants pockets and sighs, looking up at the night sky that seems to stretch on forever and ever overhead.