It was a low, rolling sound at first, tucked under the hum of the fluorescent light and the steady beeping at his bedside. He lay there on his back, eyes half-lidded, the ceiling tiles soft and out of focus. The television was still on, casting blue and gold flickers across the room, some late-night replay filling the silence with faint, distant roars.
His body felt like it was sinking into the mattress. Not in a comforting way. More like gravity had been turned up a notch just for him.
Somewhere, on the edge of sleep, the muffled TV excitement blurred into something else. The beeps stretched, the hum deepened, and for a heartbeat he could swear he heard it clearly:
"Let's go—!"
The chant cut off, swallowed by a wave of drowsiness. His thoughts drifted, unmoored, sliding off the smooth white of the ceiling and back, back, to a different light and a different room.
When his eyes opened again, the light above him wasn't fluorescent. It was the warm, yellow glow of a cheap overhead fixture in a cramped Ohio living room.
The smell was different too. Not antiseptic and plastic, but buttered popcorn, cold pizza, and the faint lingering scent of motor oil that always clung to Uncle Dave's clothes.
The TV in front of him was bigger than the one in his hospital room, an old boxy thing that hummed when you turned it on. On the screen, the arena was already full. Pyro sparkled on the stage. A graphic flashed: a big pay-per-view logo, the kind of night where everybody brought their best gear and their biggest moves.
"Tonight's the night, kiddo!" Uncle Dave's voice boomed from somewhere behind him. "You finally made the cut."
Alex turned his head. His body moved easily, muscles loose and light in a way that felt almost alien after months in a hospital bed. His feet dangled off the edge of a sagging couch, socks mismatched, legs skinny in worn sweatpants.
"How's it feel?" Uncle Dave asked, standing in the doorway holding two cans of soda and a big plastic bowl overflowing with popcorn.
"Like Christmas and the Royal Rumble had a baby," young Alex said.
It was his own voice, but higher, unscarred by chemo and too many sleepless nights.
Uncle Dave laughed, that full-chested shake that made his gut bounce.
"That's right," he said. "Your mom finally decided you're old enough to stay up for the whole show. No more sending you to bed at intermission and pretending you missed nothing."
He walked in, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He wore a faded wrestling T-shirt from some show decades ago, the graphic cracked and peeling.
"Don't tell her about the soda," he added in a stage whisper, handing Alex a can. "Or the fact that this popcorn has enough salt to kill a horse."
Alex took it like it was a sacred object.
"You're the best, Uncle Dave."
"Obviously," Dave said, dropping onto the recliner with a grunt. "Now scoot over so we got room for these."
He set the popcorn bowl between them on the coffee table, within arm's reach of both. The house was dim except for the glow of the TV and. Outside, snow clung to the edges of the window, Ohio winter pressing silently against the glass.
On-screen, the camera panned over tens of thousands of fans. Signs bobbed. Camera flashes popped like tiny fireworks.
"Look at that," Uncle Dave said, nodding at the screen. "Whole world in one building."
Alex stared, eyes wide. He knew this view from TV, from grainy VHS tapes Uncle Dave had shown him—Andre and Hogan, Savage and Steamboat, all the classics. But seeing it live, knowing this wasn't a replay, that somewhere right now those people were actually screaming, made his skin tingle.
"Someday I'm gonna be there," he blurted.
It wasn't the first time he'd thought it. He'd whispered it to himself a hundred nights lying in bed, clutching a pillow like it was a turnbuckle. But this time the words came out loud, cutting through the commentary.
Uncle Dave didn't laugh it off. He didn't ruffle Alex's hair and say, "Sure, kid," the way some adults did when they thought you'd grow out of something.
He leaned forward instead, elbows on his knees, his eyes still on the TV.
"Yeah?" he said. "You serious about that?"
Alex's heart kicked a little faster.
"Yeah," he said. "More than anything."
"More than Little League?" Dave asked.
"Way more."
"More than sleeping in on Saturdays?"
"Yes."
"More than… your mom's meatloaf?" Dave's mouth twitched.
Alex made a face. "That's cheating. But yes."
Uncle Dave finally turned his head to look at him. His gaze was steady, all teasing gone.
"You know it's not just big lights and cool music, right?" he said. "Those guys up there, they're hurting. Bodies beat to hell. Travel all the time. You don't just walk in and get that. You bleed for it. You sacrifice."
On-screen, a video package played of one of the main eventers: training clips, big matches, championship celebrations.
"I know," Alex said quietly. "I still want it."
Uncle Dave watched him for another moment, like he was weighing the words.
"Okay then," he said. "Then here's the deal. You want that life, you gotta work harder than every other kid who just thinks it looks cool. You can't half-ass it. School, training, taking care of yourself. No shortcuts."
He pointed at the screen with his soda can.
"You see him?" he said, naming the top star in the main event. "He didn't get that belt by wishing."
Alex nodded, throat tight.
"I'll do it," he said. "I'll work for it. I'll… I'll do whatever it takes."
The words felt huge coming out of his small chest, but they also felt right. Like locking up properly for the first time and feeling everything click.
Uncle Dave sat back, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"Then," he said, "I believe you can get there."
Just like that. No "maybe," no "we'll see."
"I've seen a lot of people talk," he added. "Not many follow through. But you… you got that look. Same one your old man had when he went to work at that mill every day. Stubborn. Might be a curse, but it'll get you through a lot if you point it the right way."
Alex swallowed the lump in his throat along with a sip of overly sweet soda.
On the TV, fireworks exploded above the stage as the first match's entrance music hit. The crowd roared.
"Eat," Uncle Dave said, shoving the popcorn bowl closer. "You need fuel for all this destiny talk."
They watched the card unfold: opening match, midcard, big grudge match. Alex soaked in every detail. The timing of tags. The way the camera cut to fans at just the right moment. The way a single move could turn the whole place from noise to silence.
By the time the main event rolled around, the house was dark. The main eventer's entrance theme hit, and the room seemed to pulse with it.
Alex leaned forward unconsciously, elbows on his knees, mirroring the man he'd watched in training montages. Sweat dripped from the wrestler's hair as he stood on the turnbuckle, title belt raised high.
"That," Alex said, almost to himself. "That's what I want."
Uncle Dave didn't say anything for a moment. He just watched the screen, then watched Alex.
"Okay," he said finally. "Then we make a promise."
"A promise?" Alex asked.
"Yeah." Uncle Dave held out his hand, palm up, between them. "You promise you won't quit on it when it gets hard. I promise I'll be in your corner the whole way. Videos, rides, boots, whatever I got. Deal?"
Alex looked at the big, calloused hand that had steered a truck across half the country, that had smuggled him under blankets to watch wrestling past his bedtime. Then he put his much smaller hand in it and squeezed.
"Deal," he said.
Uncle Dave's grip was warm and solid.
"Good," he said. "Now, speaking of boots…"
He let go and heaved himself up from the recliner with a theatrical groan.
"Stay put. I got something."
Alex watched, curiosity buzzing, as Uncle Dave disappeared down the hallway. The sound of rummaging came from one of the back rooms—boxes shifting, a curse or two under his breath.
Finally, he emerged holding… something.
They were boots. Sort of.
Scuffed black leather, too big for Alex by at least two sizes, the laces frayed and mismatched. The soles were worn almost smooth. One had a loose thread at the top.
"They're not fancy," Uncle Dave said, a bit sheepish. "Picked 'em up from some indie guy who owed me gas money. Figured I'd hang onto them in case I needed a Halloween costume. But then you started talking about headlocks and dropkicks, and…" He shrugged. "Every wrestler starts somewhere, right? Might as well start with these."
He set them down on the carpet with a little thump.
Alex stared like they were made of gold.
"For me?" he asked.
"For you," Uncle Dave said. "They'll fit better in a year or two. Till then, they're for practice. Poses. Imagining you're walking down that ramp."
Alex scrambled off the couch, nearly tripping over the edge. He grabbed one boot with both hands. It was heavier than he expected. He sat down cross-legged and tugged it on, his heel sliding around in the empty space.
"Careful," Uncle Dave said, chuckling. "Don't break an ankle in my living room. I can't afford the lawsuit."
Alex managed to get both boots on, the laces tied in sloppy knots halfway up. They flopped a little when he stood, but he didn't care.
"How do I look?" he demanded.
Uncle Dave leaned back, folding his arms.
"Like a champ," he said. "Now hit me with a pose."
Alex planted his feet wide, threw his arms out, tried to imitate one of his favorite entrances. It came out awkward and gangly, more puppy than predator, but the grin on his face could have lit the room on its own.
Uncle Dave whooped.
"There he is!" he shouted. "Future main event, right there in my living room!"
The main event on TV rolled into a near fall, the crowd roaring. In front of the screen, a skinny kid in too-big boots stood with his fists clenched, breathing hard, heart pounding out a promise with every thump: I'm going to be there.
The living room faded at the edges, the warm yellow light blurring into harsh white.
Alex blinked.
The boots under his feet dissolved into the weightless press of hospital sheets. The roar of the crowd slid back into the soft, mechanical beep at his bedside. The Ohio winter outside Uncle Dave's house turned into the featureless night beyond a hospital window.
He was back on his back, a twenty-something body failing him in ways that had nothing to do with bumps or long drives. His arm ached dully where they'd drawn blood. His chest felt tight, but not from running the ropes.
For a moment, the two versions of himself overlapped in his mind: the kid standing on worn carpet, drowning in cheap boots; the man lying still, an IV taped to his hand instead of laces around his ankle.
"I made it, you know," he whispered to the ceiling.
His voice barely stirred the air.
It wasn't the WWE title on a pay-per-view stage. But he had signed the contract. Flown to Florida. Trained in FCW's hot, rattling warehouse rings. Taken real bumps, worn real boots that hugged his ankles just right. He'd heard his name called in a building where his heroes had warmed up.
For a second, pride swelled up through the grief, unexpected and sharp. He had done something with that promise in Uncle Dave's living room. He hadn't just talked.
Then the weight of what hadn't happened settled over it. The debut that never came. The NXT TV cameras that never caught his entrance. The long road shows and WrestleManias that had shifted out of reach the moment his blood work came back wrong.
His eyes stung. He blinked hard, staring at the same blank tiles he'd been counting earlier.
Uncle Dave had believed him without hesitation. Uncle Dave had handed him those boots like a blessing.
If there's ever a next time, Alex thought, if somehow I get another shot…
The thought didn't feel ridiculous in that moment. It felt like a line being drawn, a connection between the boy in Ohio and the man in this hospital bed.
If there's ever a next time, I'm not just doing it for me.
Leo's grin flashed through his mind, pen scratching on paper as he designed someone else's entrance music like it was his own.
And behind that, Uncle Dave's hand, rough and warm, closing around his in front of a glowing TV.
"For you too, Uncle Dave," Alex murmured, so softly even he barely heard it. "I'll walk that ramp for you too."
The ceiling didn't answer. The monitor kept beeping. But somewhere deep inside the fog of fatigue, the promise settled in beside the one he'd made earlier that day.
Not just to wrestle again.
To wrestle for the people who had believed in him before there was any reason to.