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Brief description of injury
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The mournful wail of a powder blue four-door pierced the general din of city life. For a moment, all other noise seemed to hush in deference, rapt at attention to hear the squeaking, whinnying, cough-cough-cough of a finale. The world continued on, unimpressed. The terminally ill sedan sputtered to a stop between the painted lines. Alicia didn't like that sound. She killed the engine, waited a moment, and turned the key. Lights, squealing, but no ignition. "Crunchy pancakes!" cute-cursed the owner of a powder blue wheel-box. Head buried in her hands, Alicia ran through the mental speed dial. I really hope Robert's working.
The wrestler regretted putting off meeting her teammate and former mentor until Wednesday. She didn't want to show up until her hand had a chance to heal at least a little, was the lie she kept trying to believe. It did hurt a little less, but it remained every bit as stiff and painful to use. While the trainer had rather enthusiastically bailed her out of the beating of a lifetime, it remained to be seen if that enthusiasm extended to polite conversation.
The soon-to-be tag-team partner of the decorated Iron Maiden flung open the door and emerged into the full brunt of winter. A sudden gale drove the air from the Hard Times graduate's lungs. For a moment, it reminded her of Hellion. Above the front door, beneath the bright-as-day lights, hung the faded, partially rusted maroon sign with white lettering that read "Hard Times," and beneath it, smaller, but also inexplicably capitalized, "TLING TRAINING SCH OL." She could guess at what the other letters were supposed to be. Out of the entire operation, it stood head and shoulders beneath the rest as the least impressive part. The wrestler wondered whenever she passed if it represented the last remaining piece of the original building. If keeping it had been anyone's idea, it would've been Sabrina's. She could see from the parking lot that nobody was watching the front.
Six steps up and through the front door. The heavy door swung open with a shrieking, metallic lamentation. This must be the same metal they make Perlettas out of, thought Alicia. The young wrestler peeked her head back into the main gym. No sign of the 29-year veteran. Through the unassuming door in the corner, first door on the right. Polite little knock. "It's open," called back a gruff alto. Breathe in, breathe out.
Alicia turned the handle and pushed then pulled the door open. "Hey," said the rookie. With her head drooped and shoulders sagging, she looked small. "I thought maybe we could talk about that match coming up." The young woman began to step inside when the sinewy veteran stood bolt upright from her seat and started toward her. "Um-"
"I have something to say first. A lot to say, actually. That right hook of yours. The Gut Check, I thought I heard Chris call it? I was right about what I said," said the stone-faced veteran staring her in the eye a few steps away. "That move can't win a match. That's the reason for everything I taught you, why you needed to listen to advice, why I told you to stick with the gameplan. You did everything right in practice. I saw you," stressed her former trainer. Alicia wanted to escape that sharp glare, but she wouldn't. "And the second the bell rang, you threw all of our work in the trash so you could try and get into a damn hockey fight. And what happened? You threw your punch, it wasn't enough, and you got beat."
It was an interesting team-building exercise. With each sentence, the rookie felt her pulse quicken and blood pressure creep higher. The recently victorious powerhouse drew an angry breath to speak in her own defense, when the veteran shut her down. "Now let me tell you how much I got wrong. First thing: that Gut Check of yours might not be a match-finisher, but it is a hell of a wrestling move. And you're right: I should've involved you in coming up with a gameplan for your matches. Telling you to fight a match the way I would fight it wasn't helping you. That was lazy. You worked your ass off, and I should do the same. I owe you that." Sabrina cast an uncomfortable glance to the safety of a bare spot of wall for just a moment. "I thought with your hockey background it would've been a better fit. I wasn't ready for your… level of cardio." The rookie pursed her lips at the apology-putdown. "I thought since you're skating up and down the ice full-tilt for an hour-"
"Shorter than that."
That wasn't the point. At least, the veteran didn't think so yet. "Ten, twenty minutes. Whatever."
"45 to 60 seconds," answered the MVP, crossing her arms. "A shift on the ice lasts about 45 to 60 seconds. Hockey is an anaerobic sport. You assumed. You never asked." The veteran tried to hide her shocked embarrassment behind a straight face. In some ways, she didn't succeed, but to a far greater extent, she failed. "I didn't go out there and do my own thing to try and prove a point, either," replied Alicia, fixing a serious look on her former trainer. "I was getting my butt kicked, and I wanted to be the one doing that to others." The young wrestler held until she was sure she had Sabrina's attention. "And you weren't lazy. You taught me a lot. You saw how I won, right?"
The trainer's lips spread in a proud grin, "Damn right I taught you a lot!" She punctuated the reply with a punch to the shoulder the larger woman could barely pretend didn't hurt. "I was so proud of you adjusting for her right leg! How's the hand, by the way? I guess nothing's broken?"
"Nothing broken, but I'm not going to be anywhere close to 100% by Friday," admitted the wounded wrestler. "Like 20%, if I'm lucky." The veteran shook her head.
At the end of the hall, she heard a doorknob turn and a door swing quietly open that nevertheless shouted for their attention. Their curiosity led their gaze to a tall redhead garbed in a pure white suit and heels. "I'm so glad I caught you both," said Helene, voice thick with displeasure. "You two can spare a minute, can't you? Come on out, Sabrina. I said this concerns both of you." Judging from the annoyed sigh, Alicia suspected the trainer knew what this was about. The shorter woman slowly stepped out into the hallway, taking her time as she circled around behind her former student to draw out the silence a fraction of a second longer. The rookie found herself collateral damage of Helene's blistering glare. "Winthrop, you're new, so let me explain what an open contract is. An open contract means that you have signed a contract for which the terms of the match have yet to be determined, or remain 'open,'" she said, mercifully not using finger quotes. "To be decided later. A decision that remains at the sole, exclusive, and immutable discretion of the head booker." Helene dramatically raised her right index finger and pointed it at her chest.
Hands on her hips, the boss sauntered closer, cherry-red lips only just holding back a scowl. "An open contract does not mean bending the ear of the producer in the middle of a show to settle your personal grudges." The rookie's heart sank. "I appreciate the initiative backstage, but requests for matches go through me, not around me. I set the cards around here. Not Allen. Not Sabrina and Allen." Helene's voice turned from stern to annoyed as she fixed her ire on her head trainer. "And Ms. Irons, I shouldn't need to repeat this, but a part-time contract does not mean whenever you want a match." Alicia's face was frozen with the terror of the first trip to the principal's office. Three feet to her left, she thought she heard a stifled yawn. "The match is happening because Mr. Preston can't help himself in front of a crowd. Helene's eyes darted between the two women, confirming their understanding. "I didn't have to give it to you, especially since you didn't ask. We're clear?" The rookie nodded meekly as the owner locked eyes for just a moment longer. "Good."
With a quick nod towards the door, Sabrina exited the hallway. The head trainer kept her office quite organized; it was the rookie who looked like a bomb just went off. Alicia entered the tiny room pacing, hands shaking, the nervous energy working itself out on its own. "Ohhhhh crap, crap, crap," moaned the rattled newcomer. "I blew it. I blew it, didn't I? I'm so screwed. Like… no matter how the match goes, she's just going to cut me."
With a creak and a bounce, the wiry veteran landed in her old, leather rolling office chair. She wiped her nose with her wrist and looked up at her student. "Why?" The young woman froze. The answers all got stuck trying to squeeze out at once. "If she wanted to cut you, she'd have saved her breath and just cut you. It at least means you've got a shot at winning her over." Alicia's grim expression started to lighten. Even in a long-shot, she found comfort. "But yeah, she is pissed." And there it went. Sabrina gestured towards the chair across the desk from her and shifted in her seat. "That's nothing. Let me tell you the bad news: cards on the table, I've never actually been in a no-DQ match before."
Alicia didn't know how to react. Laughter wouldn't have been her first choice if she had any say in the matter. After several seconds of trying to compose herself, she could finally stammer something out and suddenly realized how unfunny that bit of Iron Maiden trivia was. "I'm sorry, what?! You never told me that!"
"Why would I tell you about something I didn't do? You assumed. You never asked," replied Sabrina. The rookie's eyes darted to safety as her cheeks burned. "Now, I'm guessing you didn't come here for a workout, seeing the state of your hand and no duffel on your shoulder. I've dazzled you with my conversational charms, but you're still here." The head trainer folded her arms and rested them on the desk as she leaned in, "Alicia Winthrop, did you drive here after work on a Wednesday night to watch tape with me?"
The corners of Alicia's lips curled into a smile. "What can I say? You converted me when Connie didn't knee my head off. On the first try. Let's just say I'm teachable." She was forgetting something. Something about the drive in? Right. The automobile carcass in the parking lot. "My car died."
Resting a finger on a VHS cover marked in pen, Sabrina looked up from the third shelf of the "tag/multi" bookcase. "I'm so sorry. Does the family know?" replied Sabrina.
What was it Sabrina always said? "Ask me a question; don't tell me a story," she shook off the barb. "Sorry. Can I use your phone to call someone for a ride?" An indifferent shrug accompanied a glance at the disused receiver and handset on the desk. The dusty handset seemed to shrink as the powerhouse lifted it from its carriage.
Sabrina interjected before her tag partner started dialing, "By the way, if you still need a ride to the match Friday, I can pick you up,"
The younger woman shook her head. "That's like a 40 minute drive both ways."
"I didn't ask how long of a drive it was."
Alicia forgot who she was dealing with for a moment. "Thank you. I really appreciate it." It felt good to have a partner again.
It felt even better to be a partner again.
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