The next morning, Vince Maston returned to his normal gym: a gym with an industrial vibe located in the middle of Harborview, which included a wall of mirrors and a loud clang of weights. It wasn't a corporate gym club, like those seen uptown, and it wasn't fancy. It was a raw gym with iron, sweat, and a healthy dose of old-school lifters. Vince liked it that way. This gym was real. Vince understood that every success needed strain to stay real.
Vince was halfway through his leg workout, as sweat dripped down his forehead and he breathed heavily to get through the reps. The burn in his thighs was painful but also a good burn. While he pushed through the burn and movement, he let his mind wander back to Eddie.
Vince remembered Eddie's words from right before he left his apartment: "I'll keep pushing forward, no matter what."
The memory made Vince smile weakly. The man was stubborn, and a bit too prideful; but he was also passionate. But, he also felt bad for how he said it.
Saying it was more helpful to "settle it in the ring," almost sounded like he was throwing gasoline on it. He meant to imply it was more an opportunity to put something in the past and leave it there, than to engage ego.
Then, his smile faded as another memory came to mind: the disgusting apartment. The trash, the flies, the couch potato named Larry, who sat there and watched reruns of ACW matches as though it were scripture.
Vince groaned under his breath as he racked the weights, "Of all things to watch... that sloppy, disgusting blob watching the competition, of all things."
He got up from the bench, grabbed his towel, and leaned over to stretch again. After completing halfway through his next set, a man standing behind him spoke in a deep rumbling voice.
"You're doing it wrong."
Vince stopped mid-set, froze, and carefully turned his head and saw the man behind him, his eyes went wide.
The man was massive, not tall, but massive, as in a wall of human being massive. The type of person that would accidentally rip the door off its hinges. Vince noticed the man's shoulders looked like stone slabs, and his hands were the size of Vince's head.
The man chuckled softly, seeing Vince's stunned expression. "Yeah," he said in a thick, slightly accented voice, "everyone looks like that the first time."
Vince blinked a couple of times, still half in disbelief. "I—uh—what am I doing wrong?"
The giant advanced with slow, heavy steps, creaking the floor just a tad. "You're pushing from your knees too much," he said, pointing to the leg press. "You do it enough, you'll tear your muscles apart."
Vince frowned. "Really? I've been doing it this way for a few weeks now."
The man chuckled again, shaking his head. "Then you've been doing it wrong a few weeks."
Vince scratched the back of his neck, compressing his embarrassed look. "I guess that's what I get for skipping a trainer."
The giant raised an eyebrow. "You don't have a trainer?"
Vince shook his head. "Nah. I just asked Brocke Steele—one of my, uh, employees—how to get started. So he told me the basics, and I went from there."
The man nodded slowly. "You should consider it. It isn't smart to go alone."
Vince did a slight smirk. "So, what about you, big guy? Are you available?"
The giant blinked and was caught off-guard for a moment before a small, embarrassed grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I only come here twice a week. I'm not really a trainer."
Vince took a hand, and a grin broke loose. "Vince Maston."
The giant reached out and shook it—his hand easily subsuming Vince's. "André. André René Roussimoff."
Vince's heart skipped a beat. No way.
That name hit him like a lightning bolt. He knew it. Of course he knew it. André the Giant—the myth from his former life. The eighth wonder of the world himself. But here, no. Here, he was just André.
Vince's brain buzzed in disbelief. First, Grant Austin, then Hogan Hornet...now André?? No way that was coincidence—this world, this strange wrestling-primitive world, was starting to show its cards. Or if legends existed—all legends—in this world, they were just distributed, untouched.
He must have stayed quiet for far too long, as André waved a gigantic hand in front of his face. "Hey, you okay?"
Vince blinked and awkwardly chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Just... thinking. French."
André nodded. "Born there, yeah. Could you tell?"
"Your accent," Vince said. "Are you... uh, a wrestler?"
André's smile flickered for a moment. He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not really," he said softly. "People said I am not made for it. Too big. Too heavy. I scare the audience more than I entertain them." He smiled weakly. "I just bounce people. It pays the bills."
Vince's jaw almost fell to the ground. A bouncer? An icon of one of the most revered and revered pillars of wrestling history was reduced to a bouncer haranguing drunks outside a bar? It was somewhat of a crime to the art.
What a waste, Vince thought.
He almost shouted an offer right there to bring André to IRW and he would be the centerpiece of everything. But he stopped himself. Too fast. Too eager. That would spook him.
Instead, he kept his tone at an easy going level respectively. "You know," Vince said thoughtfully, "whoever told you that clearly didn't have a brain. If you wrestled you would be perfect. I'd bet there are people that would pay thousands of dollars just to see you squash people like bugs."
André let out a quiet chuckle, more like dark undertones instead. "I already have been paid hundreds for squashing people," he said quickly that either looked away or commented on and his smile did not reach his eyes.
Vince could not see fit to pry.
"Well," he said lightly clapping his hands, "if you are ever sick of tossing barflies, there is always another kind of ring."
André looked at him, curious. "You really think so?"
"I don't think so," he said with a grin. "I know so."
They were still talking with Vince asking for form tips-- how to angle his knees, how to stretch, how to breath-- to be vocal, despite the guys size, André was surprisingly patient and articulate. The hour flew by, which conversation changed a ton between trained and bantering. Vince even had him laugh a few times, which sounded like far away thunder rolling in a gym.
Once they had finally concluded the workout, Vince took a towel and wiped the sweat off his forehead. André took his jacket from a bench.
"So, you're a businessman?" André said.
Vince nodded. "Something like that. I manage a few things here and there."
André smirked. "You don't look like a typical businessman; you actually lift weights."
"It's an occupational hazard," Vince said playfully, with a wink.
They both had soft laugh, and André began to reach the exit. Vince yelled down the gym's corridor after him, "Hey, André, if you ever decide to think about wrestling, you have my number! And I'll see you next time, alright?"
André turned his head half way back to Vince, smirking. "I'm not your trainer, Vince."
Vince chuckled. "Did I say you were? I said I'll see you!"
The giant grinned broadly—a warm, genuine smile—and he nodded once more before exiting.
Once the large doors had shut behind André, Vince released a long exhale, feeling his lips curl into a smile.
"The seeds," he said softly, "are planted."
Because deep down, he knew—André would come back. And when he did, Vince Maston would have the greatest giant in wrestling history under his roof.