Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(97)
“Hear, hear!” Skylar says, more loudly than I anticipated. And to that, we all cheers, and then roll out to find our seats.
Rhys: Expect the unexpected.
Tabby: What does that mean?!
He never texts me back, which makes waiting for Rhys’s match fucking torture. The arena is electric. Only the best wrestlers are out for tonight’s event, but nothing holds my attention. Nervous butterflies erupt in my stomach, and I twist my wedding ring as each match progresses.
Eventually Million Dollar Bill makes his entrance, strutting out like he owns the place, all blond curls and defined muscle paired with cocky smirks and finger guns. I know Rhys has told me he’s not so bad, but I can’t see it.
He must be a hell of an actor, because he screams douchebag to me. He’s wearing black tights and boots lined with gold trim, and one of those loose-fitting robes that boxers wear, also printed in a garish gold pattern.
I suppose that’s part of the character, but it’s interesting to watch. The crowd is booing him, but it might as well be a cheer. It’s like they’re all in on the joke. They love to hate him, and he thrives on their reaction. He hops up onto the ropes and holds a hand up to his ear, which makes the boos intensify.
His response is a grin. Then he brings his fingers to his lips in a kiss, and extends the gesture to the audience, pressing his fingers to his thumb in a chef’s kiss motion.
It’s theater at its core, and being here in person feels so different from watching it on TV. I find myself swept up in it, and looking down the row of chairs beside me, it would appear that the girls are too. All of them have their hands cupped around their mouths and are booing, except Cora. She looks sullen, glaring at him as though looks could kill, holding up two thumbs down.
When the music changes, the arena goes absolutely insane. Everyone, including me, shoots up to their feet. My front row chair shakes with the noise, and I suspect my ears will ring for at least a full twenty-four hours after this, but I don’t care. I’m consumed. I’m all in. I’m having so much fun.
My stomach flips when Rhys’s hulking form appears at the top of the ramp. Strobes flash and smoke fills the entryway as the first chords of “Killjoy” by Rob Sonic and Aesop Rock blare from every speaker. At the pause in the music, a barrage of fireworks explodes, marking the moment he makes his way down the ramp. Elle appears behind him, as some type of escort, but he doesn’t pay her any mind, even as she lifts her arms, urging the crowd to be louder.
He takes his sweet time, and it’s such a power move. It’s like he knows everyone will wait for him. Like just watching him walk in will satisfy people. He’s so significant that waiting for him to get to the ring builds the anticipation until the air vibrates with it.
Or maybe it’s just me who’s vibrating. My chest rattles from the heavy thud of my heart, and my hands tremble with a heady blend of excitement and nerves.
He turns at the ring and heads in our direction. Although he has walked toward me countless times—passing in the house, heading to the back patio, hand in hand with Milo—I never felt like I might have a fit and faint.
It must be a widespread psychosis that I’m not immune to. Women and men alike stretch their arms over the barrier, hands reaching for him. He glides his fingers over theirs without sparing them a glance, like a benevolent king.
Me? I keep my fingers gripped on the edge, not wanting to stand out or make a show of anything while he’s in character.
I know his hands will be all over me later, so I let his fans have their moment. But it doesn’t stop me from licking my lips as he approaches. I think he’s looking at me—no, staring at me—but it’s hard to tell with the mask on and his wet-looking hair dangling over his cheeks.
Still, just the illusion of his attention makes my mouth go dry.
Cora, the first seat in our row, sticks her hand out when he nears. And it pays off. She gets a casual high five and a wink from a mask-framed eye.
The other girls follow suit.
And I freeze like a lovesick teenager. I just stare at him with slightly parted lips and white knuckles. But bless him, he doesn’t make a show of me locking up. Instead, he hits me with a panty-melting smirk and trails a finger over the tops of my knuckles, initiating contact in a way that people around us don’t fail to notice.
Elle’s eyes land on mine, a flash of venom there that I don’t bother feeding into.
I’ve already won, and we both know it, so I turn my attention back to the man commanding a crowd of seventy thousand like a puppet master. It takes me a minute to catch my breath, and by the time I do, he’s almost finished standing up on every corner of the square ring, drawing enthusiastic cheers from each side as he goes.
Before I know it, the announcer has introduced both him and Will, held up the belt that’s on the line tonight, and sent them to their respective corners.
The bell rings, and all bets are off.
Both men launch at one each other in a blur of limbs. Punches and kicks land, and it reminds me of what Rhys told me this morning. Yes, much of it is fake, but when you’re in character, it becomes difficult to remember that. Even though losing a belt is part of the plan, it can still feel like a gut punch. And winning can feel more real than it is.
The match goes on and I can see the men growing more tired. The sweat. The heavy breathing. It’s grueling, but they forge ahead. I watch him own the ring with a new appreciation—and a new level of anxiety. Suddenly, everything he’s doing looks much more dangerous. When he flies from the top ropes, everyone cheers, but I press a palm to my chest and watch with bated breath. When he goes down and falls to the stomps of his opponent, my teeth clench.