Alicia Goon 017: Day one

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It didn't last long, but Alicia gave herself a minute to let it out. Everything had changed so much. She had a new life and it moved fast, and then everything slammed into a wall. Could there be a tomorrow?

Yes.

The bruised wrestler stood up, tossed her singlet in her gym bag, slung it over her shoulder and wiped her tears with her fingers. As she pushed through the painted red dressing room door, the Reinforcements took notice, and the solidly-built blonde brawler rose from where they were gathered on the bench and reengaged, "I was just giving you a- hey!" Alicia brushed past Jill McKill the hard way and put her shoulder into it. "Hey, what's your problem?" barked the woman in camo. Both Bridget and Jaime stood up joined their ringleader storming after Alicia towards the corridor with the star dressing rooms.

This was not the night. The irritated wrestler wheeled around and remarked back, "What's yours?" Even if it was just for five matches, Alicia wasn't about to let herself become the new locker room punching bag. She knew what happened to those.

McKill stood with one hand on her hip. "Hey, I've seen you wrestle. I don't think you want start picking fights around here. I was messing around. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, alright? I wasn't trying to pick on you."

Alicia nodded, happy to have escaped the night without taking a second beating. "It's alright. Sorry for bumping into you. I was mad. It's just... I'm sorry. Nothing went right for me tonight. My debut didn't-"

A barely stifled snicker gave way to belly laughter as Jill and her Two Woman Army shared a get-a-load-of-the-rube look with each other before turning and directing their laughter into their victim's face. "Oh wow. You're not going to last around here at all," she managed between bouts of laughter. For a second, Alicia thought she registered panic in their eyes as they looked over Alicia's shoulder. 

"Jill! So good to see you! How'd the divorce go?" Alicia recognized the voice. Peering over her shoulder, she saw a young woman with flawless skin, a beach tan, and blonde hair with pink tips that hung just past her shoulders. She was adorned in thousands of dollars of pinks and yellows bearing her own brand logo. In her arms, she held a rotund Persian cat. The tips of its orange fur had been dyed pink to match with the everything. It looked just as confused about the situation as Alicia.

"Did you ever find out who he was seeing?" asked Giselle Tillman, her tanned complexion aglow with a camera-ready smile as she flitted her eyes to Bridget Slaughter. The tall, slender, pale brunette shook her head in denial as her expression turned to a furious scowl. "Hm," squeaked the surprisingly-tall-in-person magnate, shrugging her shoulders. Giselle locked eyes once again with her target. "Did you get custody, or did you lose that fight, too?"

It took an Army to hold back Jill McKill as she lunged for the TV star. Anticipating the reaction, the other members of the Reinforcements latched onto the fuming, red-faced woman between them to keep her from attacking the young celebrity. Unspeakable delight filled the multimillionaire's eyes as she knelt to the floor to let her cat down while Alicia took a few steps back. It wasn't necessary. The two mostly calm members of the faction held their friend back, pushing her towards the lockers and out of fighting range. The fashion icon showed off her manicured pink fingernails as she cupped her hands around her mouth for a parting shot, "Good luck on your match tonight! When you see your ex in family court, tell him Bridget says hi!" As the Reinforcements dragged Jill McKill back to the locker room, Alicia stood aside in silent horror listening to the darkness pouring from her mouth.

The rookie turned to look the megastar in the eyes only to find the blonde's attention still fixated on her outmatched victim as her friends almost carried her back into the locker room. Alicia gave the undefeated* wrestler a smile and a nod of appreciation. "Thanks."

Despite looking in Alicia's direction, the pop culture sensation only just seemed to notice the 6'3", 192-lb. professional wrestler standing in front of her. Giselle Tillman reflexively flashed a magazine cover smile in confusion, "For what?" The exhausted wrestler opened her mouth to explain but thought better of it. Polite little wave. She headed for the parking lot.

* * * * *

Sabrina had been excruciatingly right about being useless the next day. The beaten rookie awoke mottled head to toe with angry bruises. When she could bring herself to look in a mirror, her nose had swollen noticeably, and a ring of blood around the left nostril seemed to have leaked out overnight. The shiner on her right eye didn't distract from the purplish-black streak of bruising covering the cleft of her chin and entire right cheek or that her lip had been split down the middle. Save for the couple kitchen trips when she could bear to chew and the several more to refill ice from the bags Robert bought, Alicia remained in bed nearly the entire weekend. She lay stiff and aching, playing back the tape on loop. Wrapped in bags of ice, watching the match on repeat on the popcorn ceiling, she asked herself what went wrong. That list was simple enough - everything - but what went right? My fist into her stomach. She needed a new strategy.

The reruns continued into her morning commute, now soundtracked to the hits from the '80s, '90s, and today. Every strike, every impact, every rough landing replayed in crystal clear detail, reminding her of the aches that still lingered up and down her entire body. Even as Alicia pulled into the parking lot and the Perletta whined to a stop, she was still backstage getting dressed down by her trainer to the hottest summer jam of '93. The slam of a car door in the cool morning air jolted the secret wrestler back into the present.

Each step wracked the office assistant's body with reminders of the battle she had endured. She took a few seconds at the entrance to brace herself. Deep breath, exhale. She turned the knob of a door that belonged on a two-story colonial instead of a dental practice, and stepped inside. Miss Maxine rose from her seat and came through the door like it was a fern emergency. "Oh my goodness, honey, are you okay? Look at you! How could they let this happen? You can have my- Miss Alicia? Alicia. Alicia, it's okay." The young woman walked wordlessly past her worried coworker back into the break room.

Please no Dr. Pupe, please no Dr. Pupe, please no Dr. Pupe.

"Oh my God, Alicia what happened?! What happened to your face?! You look awful! Oh. My God. Were you in an accident? Have you looked in a mirror? Do you need me to call 911?" rapid-fired the wide-eyed blonde woman in medical scrubs. She hadn't even been thinking of Sherry. The young-for-her-age hygienist almost jogged to her badly hurt coworker. "Do you need me to call somebody for you? Do you need a place to stay?" Any other time, the aching office assistant would've been moved by the concern, but on a day she wanted to be invisible, this wasn't how she wanted Sherry to find out.

"Hi, Sherry!" said Alicia with the confidence of someone about to lie very badly. "I'm fine. This was an accident, Whatever you think it looks like, it isn't, unless you think it's an accident, then it is." Sherry threw up her hand like she didn't know what to do. Then she thought of something. Not that. Please not him.

He came around the corner seconds later: hair the color of charcoal, moustache the color of used charcoal, different coffee-stained doctor's coat. Dr. Pupe's expression dropped the instant he laid eyes on his wounded employee. Sherry followed close behind into the break room. The office assistant could tell the hygienist felt at least an iota of remorse when she saw the frustration on Alicia's face. She shrugged uncomfortably. "Sorry! I don't know what else to do."

Alicia threw up her hands in frustration. "Well, not that! Did you tattle on me for hurting my face?"

Her coworker crossed her arms, indignant. "I didn't tattle!"

"Alicia, this isn't about Sherry being a tattle-tale," said Dr. Pupe, playing peacekeeper. "You can't come to work like this. Go home and try to clean yourself up. The patients… It looks bad. It's just not the impression we want to make on people."

"That I hurt my face?" asked Alicia flatly.

"Yes."

Alicia once again felt ganged up on. She kicked the linoleum floor and stifled a sneer. "You're sending me home until I look better?" The doctor nodded. "Can I come back tomorrow?" Alicia said, shifting her stance, hand on her hip, testing her boss.

For once, he didn't push back. "That's your decision, Alicia."

She turned and lumbered away, each step a shifting kaleidoscope of pains and aches. "Then I'll see you tomorrow." There was just one stop on the way out the door: at the reception desk, beneath a hand-knitted blanket sat the 72-year-old beating heart of the entire office. The young woman's gaze fell to the floor. "Were you there?" asked the still-defeated wrestler.

"Yes, hon. I was," said Maxine. "I'm sorry for how it turned out. You tried your best."

Please don't let that be my best. As Alicia opened the door to the reception area, she met her coworker's gaze for the first time. "Thank you for coming and supporting me," she said, trying to smile. "It meant so much to me to have someone there, but please don't come anymore. I'm sorry."

* * * * *

"Welcome to your first day of wrestling school! Have you ever been inside a ring before, or are you coming in completely new?" asked Sabrina. Alicia bowed her head slightly, staring at the canvas as even her hair seemed to burn with embarrassment, eyes locked on the mat. "I'm sorry," mumbled the trainee, knowing the answer was unsatisfactory.

That hadn't been one of the options, so Sabrina chose for her, "Completely new? Okay. Then we're starting with back bumps. 100 of them. Let's go."

Alicia found some of that bravado she had in the break room. "I don't have to take this."

The trainer looked unimpressed. "I don't see anyone else training you," said the veteran matter-of-factly. And there went the bravado. "100 back bumps," she repeated. "Good ones."

The rookie had already suffered this side of Sabrina before. She felt her blood pressure start to rise recalling the month she endured as her human stress ball. The warmup was meant to embarrass her: back bumps, flip bumps, no-contact rope runs - literally day one stuff. Each exercise subjected the young wrestler to further scrutiny and more hypercorrection. The ordeal only seemed to end when Sabrina ran out of ideas. Alicia had bottled up the urge to confront her trainer about the hostility. That bottle was nearing its fill line.

They met center-ring while Alicia sucked in air after the workout. Sabrina spoke up in her husky alto. "They're giving you a match next week. You know Kunoichi?"

Alicia's face screwed up in confusion. "Does Japan have a problem with me or something?"

"It's an open contract. You get who you get. Sorry," said Sabrina, not sorry. "I'll just get it out of the way: it's not a good matchup. Longer the fight goes, more it favors... well, not you." She shot a look at the equipment area. "Exercise bikes are over there, by the way."

Fittingly, Alicia felt her heartbeat spike at the comment. "Hey," she said, checking her trainer. She didn't feel bad about disappointing Sabrina anymore. A thousand unspoken retorts boiled in her throat. The rookie wasn't doing this again.

"So we're going to try and end this one quick. You've got size on her, so if you can reverse a submission into a pin attempt, you've got a chance to steal one. We're watching tape and practicing technical pinning combinations out of reversals. Can you follow directions?" the trainee nodded. "Can you still remember them during the match, too?"

She scowled harder internally than she thought possible. She bit back the brunt of the anger, but she couldn't help a tiny bit of sass. "You don't have to talk to me like I'm stupid."

The veteran shook her head. "I didn't say that you're stupid. I said you have a problem with your memory." The trainer leaned in a bit and locked eyes with her student to emphasize her next words, "Stick to the gameplan."

Alicia mentally rolled her eyes. She hadn't abandoned the gameplan–it was the other way around.

Alicia Goon 016: Head over heels

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Alica lay face-down in the middle of the ring. The entire world hurt. And then hurt even more as Connie shoved her prey onto her back and went for the pin. The ref slid into position for the count, "One! Two! Thr-" Shoulder up. Too soon. The wounded wrestler still had strength within her and dug deep into her reserves to push the gifted athlete off and try to get to her feet. This was Alicia's debut match; she wasn't about to embarrass herself.

Barely a heartbeat passed between Alicia rolling onto her stomach and Connie Rocket reaching down, grabbed her larger opponent under the arm and by a braid and hauled her up to a position that could be charitably called "not all that upright" before dragging her foe on rubbery legs to the relative stability of the nearby ropes and slinging her sizable opponent's arms and neck over the middle strand. The wiry competitor grabbed the top rope and sprang up and over onto the ring apron. With signature quickness, Connie ran to the other end of the apron, steadied herself, and took off at a sprint towards her target. 

Time seemed to slow for a moment as Alicia found her strength just in time to push off the rope and fall to her bottom in the middle of the ring just as a meticulously detailed facsimile of a track shoe whizzed past her tender nose. It seemed the runner hadn't figured the possibility of missing into her calculations and barely had enough room left to slow down before colliding with the turnbuckle pads and taking a nasty spill down the steel ring steps. She came to a writhing stop at the bottom, maybe 12 feet from where the former hockey player sat. This was it! This was her window! Alicia scampered to all-fours, half-running, half-crawling towards her downed opponent, heavy limbs churning beneath her. Her feet left the canvas as she took flight towards her downed opponent for some more ground-and-pound. Does she have one eye open? wondered Alicia.

The track star vaulted to her feet and took an interception course to her fast-approaching target from outside the ring. I did something stupid. There was that knee. With a smack that could be heard from the cheap seats, the strike connected flush with Alicia's cheek. The airborne wrestler tried to get her arms up for the worst bump of her life, but just as her forearms made contact with the floor, she stopped in place. Something had clamped down hard on her right ankle and would not let go. From her upside-down position, she looked up or maybe down to find her right ankle ensnared between the jet black ring ropes. The bottom rope had become the middle rope, and the middle rope had become the bottom, and there was her boot in between. The pain in her ankle wasn't excruciating compared to every other part of her body, but it was still at the very top of her "pressing concerns" list. There was a hush in the crowd, and then laughter. Not howling, but they weren't politely stifled chuckles, either. At least she couldn't really see the thousand or so people laughing at her.

Connie didn't quite seem to know what to make of Alicia's predicament, but her first instinct was to start laying the boots in. A dozen or more kicks and stomps rained down on the inverted wrestler's chest, stomach, and skull before the assailant decided to help the referee free her opponent. Alicia could more feel than see the ref trying to push her foot through the ropes or pry them apart, but the cables would not relinquish their grip. Alicia reached up to try and remove her boot when she felt a set of hands reach under her arms and start violently trying to yank her free. After ten or so seconds of fruitless pulling, Connie dropped her cargo, allowing the trapped wrestler's head to slam unprotected into the floor.

Through blurry vision, Alicia thought she saw the half-Japanese athlete shrug her shoulders before rolling back into the ring under the bottom ropes. It looked like she was going to let the ref's count reach 20 and take the count-out victory. "Twelve! Thirteen! Fou-" the ref paused her count and Alicia briefly stopped struggling as something up above cast a shadow. The sustained cheers built to a thunderous crescendo as the Rocket launched herself over the top rope using the referee like a pommel horse, the heels of both feet aimed at the struggling wrestler's chin.

"Oh, buttons!" groaned Alicia an instant before her vision flashed and then exploded into stars. 

Nothing had ever hurt like this. Fortunately, the agony swimming in her head provided an effective distraction from the horrible pain in her back, right ankle, and hip from colliding with the floor. The only other sensation besides pain the motionless competitor could register was of the cool arena air against her black knee-high sock. The force of impact knocked Alicia out of her boot, sending her crashing onto the floor as Connie somehow landed on her feet.

Just as the beleaguered wrestler rolled onto her shoulder, the tight grip on her braid returned. Connie dragged Alicia's near dead-weight up off the ground. As soon as the battered, barely conscious wrestler found her feet, she showed there was still some fight left. The body had given up, but the brain hadn't gotten the memo. The wounded powerhouse shoved her assailant back, but without the track star supporting her weight, the most the rookie could do to try and remain upright was to topple into the timekeeper's table before going hard to the floor and pulling it along with its contents down with her. Alicia considered herself extremely lucky having managed not to take either the ring bell or the hammer to the head as they spilled onto the floor.

The Rocket dragged the larger woman out of the wreckage, but even on her knees, the newcomer remained defiant, beating her fists uselessly against the smaller woman's abs. Connie stood the wrecked combatant up enough to drag her back into the ring–or so she thought. The former hockey player cracked the heptathlete between the eyes with a scintillating headbutt that snapped the Rocket's head back. Alicia stumbled backwards but didn't fall. Last chance; make it count. She rushed Connie, intending to Spear the smaller woman to the floor. Winning by pinfall was out of the question, but maybe she could steal a win by count-out. 

"Owww!!" cried Alicia as she fell to the ground in pain clutching her bootless right foot as she accidentally stepped on the timekeeper's hammer. Of all the humiliation she had suffered during the bout, none cut deeper than the look of pity on Connie's face as she dragged the spent competitor towards the ring and, with great effort, rolled her back inside. The champion runner slid into the ring behind her beaten opponent, bent down and snatched an ankle and a wrist, dragging Alicia to the center of the ring to put her out of her misery. The Rocket released her grip and dropped down on top of her opponent, hooking a leg for a textbook pin. The referee dropped to the canvas for the count, "One! Two! Thre-" The crowd audibly gasped and cheered at the debuting wrestler's shocking kickout as she just barely plucked her shoulder off the canvas in time.

Connie Rocket sat up on her knees, hands on her hips. From the look on the athlete's face, it was clear she didn't really want to do what her opponent was making her do. The rookie knew what came next. Get up. Get up, Alicia. Get up, Alicia! Move! MOVE!! M- Her eyes went wide as the Rocket started the countdown to victory with T-minus-3. The devastating Corkscrew 450 from the top rope connected flush. With a deafening crash, Connie landed flush with the downed competitors's chest, blasting the wind from the thoroughly beaten challenger's lungs as the challenger's limbs spasmed off the canvas and fell inert. The count was a formality. "One! Two! Three!"

Ding ding ding. 

Debut over.

The defeated wrestler lay on her back trying to summon the strength to rise from the canvas. Maybe tomorrow. There was that college marching band music again. She could hear the men of the cheer squad shouting something in Japanese as the pounding drum beat filled the arena. A hand reached into view. Attached to it was the Rocket herself. The victorious wrestler did most of the work of lifting the defeated wrestler to her feet. Once Alicia was steady enough for a conciliatory slap on the shoulder not to knock her over, the human blur was out of the ring and up the ramp to celebrate with the assembled cheer team. The short-haired athlete turned, gave the audience a two-handed wave and a bow, and vanished through the curtain, followed by the rest of the squad. 

Alicia remembered when that was her. There was a tap on her shoulder. The referee handed the beaten wrestler a black and red wrestling boot. The defeated rookie wouldn't be going out the way she came in - the ramp was for winners. For the ones on the other side of the equation, there was the loser's exit. She exited the ring and walked to the right of the entrance ramp, past the at-best indifferent crowd and the mountainous stands, and pushed through a door leading backstage. Every muscle felt sore. Her face was masked in pain she had never imagined possible. She couldn't imagine a worse possible end to eight months of training. Then she could.

It was an ambush Alicia should have been prepared for. On the other side of the door stood a woman with short brown hair, about five-five, five-six, sinewy build, long trench of scars on her forehead, prominent indentation of a split lip. Unfortunately, Alicia recognized her. A complex cocktail of emotions darkened her trainer's face and disposition, but most prominent among them wasn't anger or even disappointment, but betrayal. The beaten rookie grasped for straws, "Sabrina, I-"

"Who trained you?"

Alicia's heart hit her stomach. "I-"

"What was that? Who trained you?" growled the veteran wrestler. No words came to the rookie's lips. "You should be embarrassed," Alicia's trainer continued. "Go home and don't bother coming in tomorrow; you're going to be useless. I work on New Year's. If you're still serious about this, I'll see you Thursday. If not, don't waste my time." 

"Sab-" called the former trainee to her mentor, but Sabrina didn't turn around. For a moment, Alicia wondered if there would be a Saturday. Why was she pretending to be a wrestler? For attention? Who cares. The aching, pain-wracked rookie shuffled one-booted down the wide, mostly lit corridor past the production area and "gorilla position." The hum of the fluorescent lights hurt. After far too long a walk, she pulled open the door to the locker room she had been waiting in. The first person she noticed was Layla Navarro–Phenom–trying not to notice her. The Puerto Rican high-flyer moved to the other side of the locker room as Alicia approached her locker and dialed the combination.

There was a click followed by a clique. Just as she opened the lock, the Reinforcements had arrived: the trio of Bridget Slaughter, "One Shot" Jaime Carlyle, and Jill McKill at the lead. The tall blonde in camo pants approached with a smile and a nod. "Hey, we wanted to welcome you to QoW, so the three of us pitched in and got you something we knew you could use," said Jill, barely containing a grin. "Here," said the blonde, handing the shell-shocked rookie a pair of boot laces as the three broke into laughter. The Reinforcements stood in front of Alicia, awaiting a response. Instead, the defeated woman pulled her gym bag from her locker and walked in silence to an unoccupied dressing room and shut the door.

She fixated a blank stare at the course, red tufted carpet while she changed back into her civilian clothes, feeling both excruciating pain and completely numb as she tried not to think. She turned to grab her wrestling singlet to stuff it in her gym bag. As soon as Alicia saw the ring attire in her hands, she felt her eyes turn warm and her vision blurred. She leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor, face buried in the red Lycra fabric. For the first time since the airport, she allowed herself to cry.

Alicia Goon 015: First impressions

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She hadn't been pushed through the curtain, per se, but it was more than a nudge. People. Stands and people. She had played in front of bigger crowds, but that was when she was one of the best at the thing she was doing. The crowd of a few hundred and more steadily filing in felt like an ocean. Oh jeepers, she thought. "Oh jeepers," she said. She stared down the ramp at those 30 feet. Those 30 feet that couldn't be 30 feet. They should measure again. One foot in front of the other. This was happening. What am I doing? What have I done? This was happening soon, and soon was almost now. Take a breath. It's been a while since the last one. "Okay. Okay, I can do this." I don't remember a single wrestling move.

"Ohhhhh boy," whimpered Alicia bravely. There had been scattered claps. The reaction wasn't hostile, at least. She noticed the ramp wasn't a ramp anymore. It was flat now. How am I getting into the ring? Up the ring steps or one big step up onto the apron from the floor or slide under the ropes? Or roll? Step between them? BETWEEN WHICH?! The newcomer picked the least cool option of all: none of them. She stepped up the ring steps, climbed up on the bottom rope, then stepped over with one foot, sort of, and then swung the other one over. She was now standing on the second rope, holding onto the top rope with both hands, inside the ring. The wrestler making her one and only debut of a lifetime then kicked her feet out and landed flat-footed on the canvas. That was not an entrance she had practiced.

Alicia marched to the center of the ring. Halfway through raising her hand to acknowledge the audience, it became clear she was not about to be introduced. Cringing, she dropped her hand to her side and shuffled back to her corner. She wouldn't have to wait long for her opponent, as the sound of lively drums and brass of college marching band music from the arena speakers punctured the relative stillness. A half-dozen college-age Japanese men emerged from behind the curtain. Their uniforms were identical and immaculate: a coal-black four-button suit with two golden stripes around the left arm. All four polished bronze buttons had been done up, and the suit itself had a collar that hugged the neck, almost like a priest's collar. She could only tell they were wearing formal white shirts underneath by the protruding inch-and-a-half of sleeve.

The men spread themselves evenly in a straight line along the stage area at the top of the ramp, facing out towards the audience. Then came the cheerleaders: clad in red skirts, red and yellow tops, and each carrying a red and a yellow pom-pom, the cheer squad filed in and took their positions several feet behind their male counterparts. Following them, a seventh college-aged man also wearing a black suit rolled out a massive drum and took his place in the back. Then the show began. 

Rising above the rest of the band came the pounding of that massive drum. With each beat, the besuited--she didn't know what else to call them but cheerleaders--gestured flamboyantly, changing poses in perfect unison every few seconds. Hands flat, arms outstretched, then crossed at the chest, up, down at the sides, overhead, crossed at the chest; then a pause. All at once, the men shouted, kicked out a leg--managing some impressive height--turned 90 degrees to the right, dropped into a squat, and rhythmically threw one-two punches at the air in front of them. Another high kick, another 90-degree turn - this time to the left. Repeat. All the while, the cheerleaders kept up their end of the performance with a complex routine of dancing, kicking, jumping, and waving their pom-poms in time with the music and the beat of the drum.

There she was: Connie Rocket. Bursting through the curtain beaming a confident smile, she soaked in the cheers of the gathering crowd that had grown to close to a thousand. Even with that few people in a still mostly empty arena, the adulation neared a roar. She wore her usual yellow track shirt, red track shorts, and wore a red sweatband with a thin yellow stripe around the middle. No boots; instead she wore red and white wrestling shoes patterned to look like track shoes. She stretched as if for a race, finishing up by easily touching her toes and then going palms-flat to the ground.

Upon completing the cheer routine a third time, the music stopped. The cheerleaders in skirts took a stance with their pom-poms at their hips while the ones wearing suits assumed a pose with arms outstretched, right arm tilted slightly up and the left slightly down. The men shouted something in Japanese as they continued alternating between poses. Arms up, arms out, cross the chest, arms up arms forward. After bellowing a few sentences, the men stopped posing and stood in place as well, arms at their sides.

The Rocket approached the top of the ramp, crouched down, and brought her fingers to the floor, as though lining up for a race. Head up, eyes forward. Silence washed over the crowd.

Bang.

She earned the nickname for a reason. With the sound of a starting pistol, the track star came off the blocks and was down the ramp and sliding into the ring blink-and-you-miss-it fast.

A man with gelled hair and a flawless smile wearing a suit and bow tie entered the ring in a more traditional manner. He held the microphone up to his lips and announced the premier athlete, "Hailing from Okinawa, Japan and weighing 148 pounds, she is the human blur. She is the gold standard. She is CONNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEE ROOOOOOOOOOOCKEEEEETTT!!!!!!!"

There was a roar in the crowd that time. The fans rose to their feet, clapping and cheering in support of the living legend herself. Connie mounted the second ropes in each of the four corners and played to the crowd. Some fans threw colorful streamers into the ring from the stands. Two young Japanese women in their early 20s wearing track suits and carrying towels and bottled water had eventually followed the Rocket down the ramp. They had been waiting at ringside, but reflexively climbed into the ring and bundled out the streamers with a quickness almost as impressive as Connie's. At the top of the ramp, the men of the assembled cheering squad chanted something along with more poses while the cheerleaders clapped their pom-poms together. The music stopped. With a loud "Hoi" and a bow, the squad filed out, drummer at the caboose. Connie Rocket took her corner.

"And her opponent, already in the ring: Alicia Winthrop."

Polite little wave.

It wasn't crickets, but if crickets heard the reaction, they'd describe it as "mild." Alicia took the corner opposite Connie. Big inhale, big exhale. You've got this. Just rememb-

Ding!

Connie didn't drop into the traditional wrestling stance. She instead bounced on the balls of her feet, shifting her weight between them as she removed her sweatband and tossed it into the crowd. Alicia dipped into a half-crouch, arms partially extended. She knew her opponent wasn't going to lock up with her. She hoped her opponent didn't know she knew that. As the debuting wrestler approached, the track athlete kept a measured distance, harrying Alicia from just outside her reach. The newcomer dropped the disciplined wrestler act and charged full-speed into her opponent, aiming a clothesline at chest-height, hoping to catch the smaller woman off-guard. Way too slow. The nimble combatant effortlessly ducked the clothesline, turned, and leaped in the air with a dropkick, catching Alicia right on the button with both feet as the larger wrestler rebounded off the ropes.

Alicia went to the ground hard, clutching her nose with one hand. It hurt, but it wasn't broken. After vandalizing her own prom photo with a broken nose from a game the week prior, she prayed it would never happen again. Sabrina was going to give her heck for going maverick at the start of the match, but the rookie had never seen anyone try bum rushing the Rocket at the opening bell. Unfortunately, the experiment hadn't paid off. Alicia rose to her feet. Where was Connie? Alicia wheeled around just in time to see that same pair of wrestling shoes hurtling towards her chest. The former hockey player brought her hands up and blocked the dropkick, deflecting her opponent's feet away and sending her crashing unceremoniously to the mat.

Connie was on flat her back and within reach; it was time to go on offense. Work the leg. Alicia grabbed her smaller opponent's ankles and launched a few kicks into the back of that rehabilitated knee. Figure Four. Here goes. Right knee flush to the back of her left, release the right foot, step over, keep turning…

Suddenly, a woman in a black and white striped shirt jumped in her face, shouting and counting with her fingers. It was unwelcome. "Alicia, you've got to break the hold! One! Two! Three! Four!"

While she had been trying to apply the figure four, her opponent had been scrambling for the ropes. Despite her smaller stature, the track star made good use of her long, powerful limbs, dragging herself across the mat and secure a tight grip on the bottom cable with one hand. Guess that's that "ring awareness" thing Sab always talks about. Alicia released the captive leg and took a step back. Connie rose to her feet, but not unchallenged. Seeing her opponent's back against the ropes and an opportunity, Alicia reached down and grabbed her opponent in a wristlock, trying to drag her to her feet. The smaller combatant shot her head up into Alicia's stomach, momentarily knocking the wind out of her. The quicker wrestler turned the wristlock around on her more powerful opponent and jumped through the middle and top ropes, pulling Alicia along, hanging her up by her armpit over the middle strand.

Alicia faced out towards the stands and groaned in pain as an ache stabbed up into her shoulder. Connie kept her foot on the gas by grabbing the second rope and using it to assist a jumping roundhouse kick directly into her larger foe's face. Alicia stumbled and fell onto her back in the middle of the ring clutching her nose in anguish. The next thing she saw was Connie completing a backflip, landing chest-first across Alicia's stomach and floating ribs with a devastating Moonsault. Connie reached down, hooked Alicia's leg and went for a pin. The referee slid next to them and slapped the canvas, "One! T-"

Alicia kicked out, shoving the nimble warrior off of her as she clambered to all-fours. Wait. This felt familiar. She turned her head to the left just in time to see Connie coming off the cables at breakneck speed, looking for that running knee. Nice try. Alicia shot to her feet and took two powerful steps toward her fast-approaching adversary and threw her arm wide, like swinging a right hook over her opponent's left shoulder. The impact felt nothing like hitting the kick pads in the gym. The smaller woman left her feet and went to the canvas hard. For the briefest instant, Alicia was back on the ice. She'll be looking for the Figure Four, thought the rookie, mentally running through the list of alternatives.

She bent down, grabbed her opponent's left ankle, and used it to roll Connie onto her stomach. Alicia kneeled down and pressed her full weight onto her grounded captive, driving her knee hard into the smaller fighter's back while bending the ailing woman's leg up and over those broad, powerful shoulders, wrenching and hyperextending it with a Stretch Muffler submission hold. The Rocket pounded the mat and squirmed in the larger competitor's grip. Alicia knew she hadn't locked it in tight and couldn't maintain it for long. Turning her body hard on the mat, the star athlete wriggled free of the hold. She scrambled to her feet, but this time she couldn't outrun her pursuer. The powerhouse grabbed the smaller woman's wrist and twisted it behind her back between the shoulder blades. Connie expected it, and swung her free elbow behind her, cracking Alicia in the jaw and causing her to lose her grip on the hammerlock.

In a daze, Alicia searched the ring for her opponent. There she was, flying in from the top rope. Connie Rocket caught the larger woman's head with her legs in a flying Headscissor. The heptathlete twisted her body, using her momentum to throw her opponent. Sabrina was right: practicing flip bumps really did pay off. The aching fighter rolled to her stomach and tried to push herself up, but the smaller aggressor was already on her. She grabbed Alicia by a French braid and pulled her to the nearest corner, gathering speed on the approach. Holding her opponent in a tight front face lock, Connie hopped on the middle rope to the left of the turnbuckle, then the top rope to the right, then leapt back towards center-ring, sending Alicia spiraling down to the mat face-first. Alicia's hands instinctively flew to her face, trying to protect her throbbing nose. The ring was still spinning, but the debuting wrestler rose to her feet regardless.

The Rocket was confident to the point of carelessness and spent a bit too long soaking in the cheers. When she approached Alicia again to resume the assault, the larger woman caught a roundhouse kick with her arm and kept hold of the errant limb. Trying to press the advantage, the rookie went to sweep the other leg - where was it? A spinning kick to the side of the face answered Alicia's question and sent her sprawling.

Standing up had gotten significantly more difficult. The best Alicia could manage was a slow crawl for the ropes, but Connie was more than happy to help her on her journey. The half-Japanese wrestler grabbed that braid again and tugged the bigger combatant along behind her. Alicia finally managed to stumble to her feet, which allowed the Rocket to try and slam the former hockey player's head into the top turnbuckle. Although groggy, beaten, and bewildered, Alicia managed to grab the top ropes on either side to stop her momentum. The larger woman fired an elbow behind her, grabbed her opponent by her short raven hair, and sent the smaller woman's head colliding into it instead, then bounced it off the pads two more times for good measure.

Grabbing the dazed Connie by her shoulder, Alicia spun her opponent around and shoved her back-first into the corner, and tried to lift the premier athlete into a seated position on the top turnbuckle. Once again, the smaller woman was one step ahead and hopped up onto the second ropes, then the top ropes, and front-flipped up and over Alicia and out of her predicament, making an escape back to center-ring.

Nuts to this! shouted the rookie in her mind. She tracked the nimble wrestler through the air, and as soon as the Rocket touched down, Alicia threw a right hook–the punch she wanted to show Sabrina since the very beginning of training; the one her trainer insisted couldn't possibly win a fight–and hit Connie Rocket dead center of the breadbasket like a sledgehammer. The smaller wrestler's eyes turned to saucers, her hands dropped, and then the rest of her did. She sank to the canvas, audibly sucking air, trying desperately to fill her lungs. A rush of adrenaline lightened the powerhouse's limbs as she dove to the mat on top of her gasping opponent, fury in her eyes as she poured on the punches and forearm shots to her victim's head. 

Not satisfied with the damage of her ground-and-pound, Alicia stood up from the mat with Connie in tow by the hair and arm. The stronger wrestler wrapped her prey in a front face lock and bombarded her rapid-fire with fists and knees to the stomach, chest, and face. Still not enough. Alicia stood the smaller woman up, saw she still hadn't caught her breath, and shoved her back-first into the nearest corner. The rookie mounted the bottom ropes and fired piston shots down onto the dazed woman's forehead while the audience counted along.

There were those black and white stripes again. "Come on, out of the corner! One! Two! Three! Four! Fiv-"

Reluctantly, Alicia peeled herself off her trapped opponent before getting herself disqualified. Stay there. I'm not nearly done with you yet, she thought. It was the angriest she had ever heard her internal monologue. Alicia stormed toward her staggering, punch-drunk opponent and threw a massive haymaker. The instant she committed to the swing, the newcomer realized she'd been had. Connie was playing possum. The quick competitor sneaked underneath the shot and stood up behind her towering adversary. The track star hopped onto the middle rope and sprung off, mounting Alicia in a piggyback position, securing another tight Headscissor, and with one massive surge of coordinated strength, Connie Rocket backflipped Alicia headfirst into the mat with a devastating Poisonrana.

The adrenaline was wearing off now. Alicia's arms weighed more than ever, her legs felt rubbery and unresponsive, and Connie Rocket was already back on her feet.

Alicia Goon 014: A rising Star

Content warning, highlight the hidden text between the lines: 

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Mild violence

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After a solid week of watching Connie Rocket matches from dinner to bedtime, the encounter now felt strangely personal. Alicia held onto her hood with one hand and her gym bag with the other as she walked down the snow-dusted ramp leading to the talent entrance. Her mentor stood by the heavy door, holding it open. Alicia took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves before making conversation. It didn't work. She was hopeful about the next breath, but alas. Sabrina was getting Alicia With Nerves tonight.

"Hey! Look who it is!" called the veteran into the darkness. For some reason, it always seemed more appropriate to shout in these situations at night. "How you feeling?"

They crossed the threshold into the brightly lit backstage area. The light momentarily stung before the debuting wrestler's eyes adjusted. There was a chair next to the door. She had been waiting. "Nervous," the newcomer said, eliciting a nod from her trainer. "But ready. I wish I could get in there now and just be in it." That comment–or at least the enthusiasm behind it–earned a smile.

"You'll be there soon enough. I'll give you the tour while we're down here. We kind of have an arrangement with The Plunj since we pull in more than half their money, so we've got our own accommodations. There's the trainer's room," said Sabrina, helpfully pointing to a door with a sign that said "Trainer's Room." The two wrestlers rounded the corner and entered a hallway with 10 or so doors approximately split between the two sides. A placard had been affixed to each door, all bearing a name. "Rockstar" Jackie Skinner, Terra Frost, Anne Boulder, Kendra Terminus, and more--all names she recognized and revered. Then the two final doors, side-by-side: Party Girl, and Mr. Cattywampus. She could take or leave the first, and the second one confused her. Both doors and the wall between them were elaborately decorated with pink and yellow hearts. On Party Girl's door was a massive vinyl sticker bearing the Party Girl brand logo--that obnoxiously fluorescent yellow heart with the hot pink chain border. In the center, her annoyingly pink slogan "Get like me!" leaped out in her signature puffy lettering.

"Big names go here. Bust your ass and you'll earn one someday," Sabrina paused to eye Alicia up and down. "Maybe. Past here is backstage and production. And these are the two locker rooms. The roster tends to get a bit cliquey; it's just easier having two," Sabrina explained as she pushed through one of the doors. "Not sure if anyone's here yet, but you can at least get set up." The locker room itself was the nicest Alicia had seen for an arena this size. Well kept locker area, showers, even two individual changing rooms for the more modest bloodsport combatants on the roster. Only one woman was inside, also appearing to be getting set up in the last locker on the right side of the room, way back in the corner.

"Layla!" shouted the veteran wrestler, startling the rookie out of her self-guided visual tour. "Long time no see! I hear you were tearing it up in the UK." Alicia gave the unfamiliar woman across the room a polite little wave. 

The tall, caramel-skinned woman in the back flashed a look of recognition, then a look Alicia couldn't place, which transitioned quickly into a warm smile. "Sabrina! I'm sorry we never got that rematch. I've gotten a lot better."

"Hey, there's still time. And I've watched tapes. I've seen you putting in the work," said Sabrina, genuine admiration in her voice. "And when they book it, you can recount the lights and make sure they're all there." It was a joke, but there was a barb in it.

The raven-haired woman took note of the sting but seemingly no offense. "Who's this?" she asked, gesturing a thumb toward Alicia before realizing the newcomer could probably speak. "Sorry. I'm Layla Navarro."

Alicia shook it as she introduced herself. "Alicia Winthrop." While approaching for the handshake, the new wrestler caught a glance inside the locker. Bundled in a heap on top of a red gym bag was something that looked like a towel. No - it was a mask. Green and silver. "Phenom?!" Her jaw dropped once again. More than starstruck, the rookie almost felt faint. "You- I saw you both- your match was-" she gestured the rest, and although she felt it mostly came across, the rookie eventually found her words. "The first match I ever saw was you two!"

"That's right; I remember you said that," recalled Sabrina with a smile, and then a realization. "Your excursion year must almost be up by now. I bet you're ready."

Layla responded with a complicated little nod. "Yeah. I've enjoyed it, but I'm looking forward to having a promotion to call home," she explained before noticing the newcomer needed to catch up. "I trained with All-Star Joshi Wrestling. The final part of training is spending a year traveling to different promotions to learn all you can before going back to Japan and joining the roster. Hence…" she trailed off, pointing back and forth between herself and Sabrina. Layla finished arranging her locker before shutting and locking it. "Hey, I've got to see Allen and Helene about something before they get too busy. Catch up after?"

"I'm actually heading that way now," replied Sabrina to the woman known as Phenom. She turned to Alicia and indicated the locker next to the traveling wrestler's. "Put your stuff in 39 and start getting ready. If you're booked to fight on the main card, someone from production will call you back, but since you're on the pre-show, you just have to wait in gorilla."

Alicia blinked. "In what?"

"Gorilla position," clarified Sabrina before realizing that she hadn't clarified anything. "It's the spot right behind the curtain leading down the entrance ramp."

"Why's it called that?"

"It's- I'll tell you later. Can you focus? At 6:15, go out those doors and turn left. Go through the black curtains and you'll be in a production area. It'll be dark, but walk past that and look for a desk with a light. It has the book and the run sheet. You can't miss it. Wait there for your cue."

"I don't know what any of those terms are. I'm just going to wait behind the curtain."

"Get yourself prepared, and I'll see you after," instructed Sabrina. She could clearly see the anxiety building in her student. "You've got about an hour. Don't drive yourself crazy waiting back here. If you used to do something before a game to get your head right, this would be the time. You've done everything you can up until this point. It's too late to squeeze anything else in now, so all you can do is be ready."

The former opponents exited the locker room together, leaving Alicia to change into her ring gear in overpowering silence. How did she deal with nerves in hockey? Did she even get them? Instead, she tried to recall the night Langston U pulled off the threepeat–the MVP game. Hat trick, two assists, minimal time in the box. For her, it had been the best game of her life; for the other team that night, it was a tooth-loosening appointment. Heck of a high to go out on, thought the former hockey player.

Her mind's eye wanted to linger on the trophy and the sight of gloves and helmets and sticks tossed aside as she celebrated with her team center-ice. She could still recall the weight as she held the silver cup aloft and circled the rink, basking in the cheers for the prize they had fought for. As much as she wanted to remain there, replaying the moment, her mind's eye had a tendency to wander. She was 11 years old again, standing by the player's bench next to Nicole, the blonde-haired, freckled ace of girls' 12-and-under rec league hockey. Alicia didn't remember the name of the team they played on, but she and Nicole called themselves the Shooting Stars.

At the time, nobody else wanted to practice with Alicia or paid her much regard. Nicole did, though. She saw Alicia's value before anyone else. Their one season together was the reason Alicia stuck with hockey when everyone–including her own parents–wanted her to stop playing. "Ready, Star?" asked Nicole, flashing her braces in a smile before turning to point at a member of the other team. "See number 17?" Alicia saw her. Number 17 was the biggest one on the team–but not in the game. "You get her. I've got everyone else."

"Change!" shouted Coach. Alicia and Nicole clacked their sticks together. The other team was about to see Stars.

Nicole hit the ice first, with Alicia in hot pursuit. The goon followed her friend behind the goal and beelined for the puck. Time for Peek-a-Boo. Nicole skated in like she was going to challenge the girl with the puck. Fooled ya! At the last second, her friend turned a tight circle like a revolving door. Alicia shot through the temporary gap like a missile and cleared the poor girl out. Nicole was on the puck and heading the other way. Alicia steered toward the boards and crashed into them bringing herself to a stop. There was 17, crowding the goal, and she brought a friend with her. The blonde Star bided her time making another pair of girls look foolish for trying to keep up.

The big girl pushed off the boards and glass, pounding the ice, hurtling toward her target and her friend, collateral damage. "Clear skies!" shouted Alicia to her friend. That was the signal. Nicole broke off from the laughable attempt at a double-team and headed for the net. The blonde brought her stick up like she was about to take a shot into the crowd. She started her swing just as Alicia smashed into the two defenders like a freight train, sending her victims and herself hard to the ice and skidding towards the boards. She didn't see what happened next, but she heard the siren. Score another one for the Shooting Stars. Nicole raised her stick and skated to center ice as her friends surrounded her. Alicia finally got upright and joined them. Wait. What time was it?

6:21 PM. "Dagnabbit!" grumbled Alicia to herself. She snapped the combination lock shut–the same one she had when she was going through Hard Times. In an unfamiliar place full of faces ranging from inquisitive to indifferent, it felt like she brought a piece of sanctuary with her. She left the locker room and took off at a jog in the direction Sabrina told her.

Black curtain, dark area, table with a light. This was the place. She brushed past production crew dressed in black, some wearing headsets; all of whom had ID badges hanging around their necks. Allen rose from his chair and gave an exasperated shrug, "Hey, don't worry about showing up early for your first day of work or anything,"

Alicia felt her cheeks start to burn. "Sorry! I-"

"Shut up. Stand there," deadpanned the promotion's co-owner, pointing at a mark on the scuffed, rubbery-feeling floor a few feet behind the black curtain.

A member of production with a headset and a clipboard tapped Allen on the shoulder. "Two minutes."

"Thank you," he replied with a nod. There was a long pause before he locked eyes with Alicia, "Ready?"

Something was wrong. "Wait!" she cried, eyes going wide. Allen flashed an even more exasperated look. "What about my entrance?"

"30 seconds!"

Allen looked relieved it wasn't something important. His face contorted into a bemused look. "What? Who the fuck are you? Get out there."