Barbells & Suits

Simple beginnings do not guarantee simple ends…

The clang of metal echoed through the gym as Paige slammed another plate onto the bar. Locking it in place with a bright orange and yellow clamp. Her candy-red hair bobbed as she moved, tied back in a high ponytail to keep it out of her eyes. Her bronzed skin glistened under the commercial lighting. 

Only a few other regulars were around at this hour. This was her preferred time because it allowed her the space to train without fighting other members to get onto machines. Or worse, doing her program out of order. No lingering eyes seeking an empty squat rack. 

Paige exhaled slowly, lining herself up under the bar. Taking hold, letting the weight press up against her shoulders before she took it. She stared at herself in the mirror, then braced and lifted the bar.

She focused, inhaled, steady and controlled, before sinking down into a deep squat. Weight pressing into her shoulders was a familiar, welcomed burden, something to be reveled in. Then, with a powerful burst, she powered the weight back up and repeated the motion eight more times before finally reracking.

This place was her sanctuary. Her workshop. The place where she forged her body into something that could endure anything.

Being a performer and an athlete allowed her to revel in her training and building her physique. The routine and repetition was seen as discipline.

It allowed her to benefit from her preferred structured rituals and mundane systems.

“You're always here so early,” came Thomas's voice, cutting through the steady rhythm of her workout.

She glanced back over at him, still holding the bar despite it being racked, and gave a nod to the tall man in a pale gray suit.

Her manager leaned against a steel beam that had a fire extinguisher hanging from the other side of it. He looked out of place amongst the racks, weights and punching bags, but the expression on his face was familiar and welcome, a mix of amusement and mild exasperation.

She released the bar and glanced down at her fitness watch, checking her heart rate and the time simultaneously.

“Got to stay sharp,” she half yelled, realizing only after the fact that her headphones were still blaring music, pulling them down around her neck.

Then she bent down, grabbed a white towel from the top of her gym bag and wiped the sweat beading down the sides of her face and chest.

“What's got you up and out the door at dawn? Thought you'd be at home nursing a hangover from schmoozing sponsors last night, Thomas,” she said with a half laugh, wiggling both brows.

Thomas just pushed off of the post, shaking his head. Holding his nose up, he slipped into a well-to-do tone. “I'll have you know I'm a professional,” he said, sauntering forward, holding up his coffee as if it were some sort of staff. “No hangover, just business. Speaking of which, we need to talk about tonight.”

Paige tossed the rag back to her well-seasoned gym bag. Arching a brow as curiosity piqued while she began reracking the plates.

“Yeah, it's a meet and greet. Pretty straightforward, right? Smile, sign some autographs, shirts, and do some selfies. What's the catch? Seems like the standard protocol.”

“No catch,” Thomas said, though his tone suggested there clearly was.

“Then what is it?" she said, tossing her bag on the block, rummaging through it.

 He took another sip of his coffee, gaze flickering to her hands as she began to wrap them for some bag work. Thomas gave a shrug of his shoulders.

“They’re expecting a large crowd. Lots of eyes. Keep your energy up, charm them a little, sell the brand.”

Paige snorted. “Right, because I'm the poster child for charm.”

Thomas chuckled. “You got more charm than you think, Red. Just don't scare off the newbies.”

“No biting. Got it,” she said sarcastically, causing him to give her a roll of his eyes as he paced behind the rack.

Paige just mimicked him, rolling her eyes right back at him, but couldn't help the faint smirk that tugged at her freckled lips.

“So you came all the way down here to tell me there’s something you're worried about but don't have anything solid to go on?" she said starting on the next hand.

"Kinda. Rumor mills with nothing substantial, unfortunately,” he said with a disappointed sigh. 

Annoying as he could be with false alarms, Thomas had been in her corner for years. Half manager, half big brother, and the occasional overbearing mother hen.

Thomas hesitated again, and she finally paused after a few practice swings, dropping her shoulders and looking at him.

“Spit it out, dude.”

“Just keep your eyes open tonight. Promise me, okay?” His tone dropped, losing its natural smooth flow. “People are on edge. New faces asking the wrong kind of questions lately. Probably nothing, but I just want you to be ready.”

“Trouble? Another private investor trying to take a street fighter crew pro or something?” she said, shifting her weight onto one leg.

“I don't know yet,” he said, running a hand through his platinum-blonde thinning hair. “But you're smart. You'll notice things before I do. You always tend to.”

“Fine, yeah,” she said with a short laugh. “I'll keep an eye out, Thomas, but respectfully, last time you got one of your feelings it was heartburn. If this is another one of your dramatic hunches, you're buying me breakfast tomorrow.”

“Deal,” he said, though the tension in his shoulders lingered. Checking his watch, he straightened. “All right, I'll let you get back to it. I've got others to check on. Don't burn yourself out. You got to be that firecracker by this afternoon. I know this one runs a little late for you.”

“No promises,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

As he started to walk out, he just laughed and gave a half-hearted wave with his free hand.

His gray suit disappeared heading toward the front.

Paige got back to work, picking up her gym bag, she moved over to one of the hanging speed bags and began throwing timed punches, the chain rattling overhead in time with each swing of the bag.

Thomas disappeared through the front doors, already digging out his phone as he headed back to his car. 

He never noticed the man across the street. 

Still as a statue standing in the shadows just outside the morning light. 

Watching him go with a grin on his lips. 

Maybe Paige would have skipped the event if she'd known. 

—

That evening, the event was in full swing. 

The venue was a worn-in old city bar with two stories and more personality than solid structure.

The place was local in every sense of the word. It had community heart, and brick walls wrapped in bold urban murals painted by street artists. The whole neighborhood knew it, cherished it, and protected it.

Cracks ran deep in old asphalt that lay like a broken map in the parking lot. Small weeds thrived, growing up through the openings in the parking lot and sidewalk alike. Swaying in the night air like they were dancing to the bass inside. The thrum of music within felt like a pulse of life in the busy city block.

Best of all for Paige, it wasn't too far from where she lived. Which was a real benefit for her hooptie of a car, named after a diva, which was actually able to make the journey without a cooling-off pit stop or a brake pedal getting stuck.

Inside, the bar was electric with the energy of the event that had been going strong since early afternoon, the kind that only came from a successful event for a small venue. The front door, heavy, deep-green metal, was propped open with a solid wooden block cut at an angle. It was dinged and scuffed like so many of the other things in the place. The air smelled like stale beer and tanning spray with hints of too much perfume. The two stories carried chatter of fans mixing with the pulse of music through the overhead speakers.

Meanwhile, busy tables were ordering themed cocktails or pitchers of beer, along with appetizers that were being slung out of the kitchen at a steady pace. Fans enjoyed themselves, exchanging excited banter about their various favorite feuding fighters. Waitstaff and runners alike kept on their toes, keeping the busy crowd happy and benefiting from the lubricated fans leaving behind generous tips.

Paige the wrestler stood in the center of it all, an undeniable presence even in the crowd. She wasn't one of the Panda Twins or a headliner. Not yet. Her fame lived in the borderlands of the circuit, big enough to draw a crowd, small enough to still carry her own gym bag.

This was where performers like Paige earned their keep for the brand. Her merch didn't sell in kiosks, but it flew off folding tables. Fans loved wearing freshly signed t-shirts while posing with their feral fighting favorite, their passion and admiration palpable.

After being funneled upstairs for purchases of their favorite flair and merchandise, they could then come down and meet their favored fighters.

Other fighters from the same circuit were lined up with her at long, outstretched event tables with branding backdrops hanging behind each one. 

A woman approached, the next in line for Paige, dressed in a nice silken layered black dress that gave a Gothic Chic Victorian vibe. Her eyes were striking bright blue, highlighted by a smokey eye and glued on Paige.

Paige stood, leaned forward and extended a hand. Drawn to the black and green glittering hue on the woman's nails, shaking her hand. 

Her own aesthetic, a contrast of vivid color, Paige skirted around the table in a playful waddle. She was a flash of cherry-bomb red hair pulled up into ratted buns, a shredded merch shirt cut and tied to fit her with cutoff jean shorts that stopped halfway down her upper thigh in frayed, worn edges. Signature rocket-red sneakers and bold makeup finished the signature look.

“Dang, you are stunning. I love your vibe,” Paige said, giving the gothic fan a once up and down, adding a small small golf clap as the woman twirled and blushed.

The pair spent the next several minutes conversing and taking selfies, though from the outside perspective, it looked like Paige was the fan meeting her idol, not the other way around.

Lines had been long all day, and things were finally wrapping up. The music switched as a local DJ took over, shifting from the thumping bassline arena music to a classic about shaking off hate and flipping the energy in the room.

The staff moved quickly behind the bar, slinging out last-minute orders as the celebration ramped up with the weekend coming to a close. The bar was a mix of energy as people decided between staying and going.

It was getting late, and Paige, as always, had training in the morning. Everyone that knew her knew she wasn't a night owl. While others on the circuit lingered, reveling in their beer and wine, she stuck with water to the event's end.

A few of the other fighters were already making their big grand exit in sleek black self-driving SUVs, perks of LA gigs as they headed out to afterparties. They loved the dramatic goodbye moment, waving at fans, soaking in the flashes of camera phones.

Though not all were as wrapped up in the excitement of the day's festivities.

In the corner of the first floor, it was darker than usual and much quieter. The aged wooden boards creaked from an occupied stool positioned just under a speaker that no longer worked. A bourbon sat on a faded laminate round tabletop with one of the event napkins tucked beneath it, untouched.

His piercing gaze tracked Paige from afar, sharp features partially hidden beneath the shadow of his short-brimmed fedora, bowed and buttoned with a bright red feather arranged with several speckled copper pheasant feathers.

Something inexplicably cold and ruthless clung to him as he watched Paige.

Paige leapt down off the stage with a powerful thump before nonchalantly checking her watch. Her fiery red hair took on a neon hue under the bright stage lights as she helped the staff break down her section. Though she gave up on helping after a backdrop flopped on top of her instead of folding up neatly into the rectangular tube. She had to be rescued.

Thomas had insisted she had just been pulling on it wrong. She, however, loudly asserted that the item had targeted her unjustly.

Slinging her duffel bag up over her shoulder, she fist-bumped her manager, Thomas, and bid him a good night, letting him know that he owed her that breakfast and she expected to see him at the gym at 5:30 sharp.

He begrudgingly agreed, and they parted ways as he went off to micromanage some other part of the event's wrap-up.

High-fiving a few more fans, she photobombed a selfie and disappeared out the back, pulling up the hood of her red jacket with ‘Paige’ bedazzled on the back.

Some athletes were at the front door with their entourages, trying hard for that A-lister vibe. Most enjoyed the attention. They craved the scene and the flashing cameras, savoring the spotlight, feeling like they had made it already.

The influencer plague of her industry, as she called it.

Paige did not. This was all simply a side effect of the job when required.

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