“Goodbye?”

He stops and glances back at me.  He looks so sober; his Deadman Inc. knit hat is low over his brow, but I can still see his green eyes, dim as they are.  Maybe he didn’t drink as much alcohol as I thought; that, or he drank more than I thought.

“You…you do what you just did and expect to leave, just like that?”  I can’t believe it.  I’m so shocked I even contemplate using a few well-chosen, semi-profane adjectives, but I decide against it.  Instead, I simply fling my arms out and exclaim, “What the heck’s the matter with you?”

I remember placing my hand on his shoulder and feeling his heart speed up, and the thrill of it rushes into me now.  The private sensation it gave off, knowing that my touching him made him…it makes me feel…

What the heck’s the matter with me?

Taker heaves him a long breath, then breathes out through parted lips.  “Well, Kurt,” he starts, then…hesitates.  Hesitates?  Why in the world does he hesitate?  It seems to last forever, but the next thing I know, he’s turned to face me completely.  “You’re the Fed’s Olympic know-it-all,” he says in a subdued tone.  “Why don’t you tell me?”

I stare at him as my mind wanders.  What in the world is the matter with him?  I’ve never seen him like this.  Taker has never…well…he’s never come close to me like he did before, without doing something rude like shove me or growl obscenities or, well, strangle me.  But he…he touched me—softly—on the waist, and he steadied me.

Not to mention my attitude when he got closer.  I actually whimpered!  Whimpered, by George!  I begged that he not hurt me—it was out before I even realized I had thought it.  I’d already told myself that there was nothing for me to fear from him, but…I guess I didn’t even believe myself.  But then, Taker was proving himself to be very unpredictable lately.

His lips were very soft…I guess I almost expected him to be…well, just like he is.  Coarse and rough and cruel and just very not worth touching in that way.  And, at first, it hurt…but then…he stopped being rough, and then…then…

“If you’re just gonna stand there and contemplate, boy,” comes the growling tone of the Undertaker, “I’m out.”  I glance up just as he whips around.

“No—wait!”  I slap a hand over my mouth.  What the heck’s the matter with me?! 

“Good God, are you looking for an ass-whipping?”  Taker looks downright exasperated—which is just plain stupid, since he’s the one being all confusing.  “What the hell do you want?”

“I—I just wanna talk!  Not about apologies,” I quickly insert when I see his eyes narrow, “but about…well…good grief, Taker, you just kissed me!”

Taker steps toward me, and for a second I think I see a real smile stretching over his lips.  But then I blink, and it’s gone, and he’s nodding and turning around again.  “It’s called, ‘temporary release,’ boy.  Don’t read into it.”

I stutter, utterly mortified at his carefree attitude over something so intimate.  I mean, yeah, it could’ve been one of those friendship lip-kisses that foreign men give each other, but I don’t ever recall the Undertaker saying goodbye to other wrestlers like that.  “You can’t be serious!”

“You see me laughing?”  Taker kept walking.

I start to follow, but hesitate.  He’s going deeper into the darkness.  I don’t even remember this part of the arena.  It seems cold and clammy and dark and…dangerous.  I gulp and step back.  I suddenly wish I had my Olympic gold metals with me.

 

“What’s the matter, boy?”  Taker’s turned around again, and this time, he’s actually grinning wide and opening his arms.  “Scared of the dark?”

I scowl at him.  “No; that’s not it at all!  I…just…”  I say the first thing that’ll get me out of here the fastest.  “I just don’t think this conversation is worth continuing, especially since it’s so one-sided!  Good night!”  I twist on my heel and storm off, trying to appear as irritated as I can.

 

 

The next day, it’s a new town, a new arena.  No biggy; luckily, it’s a lot brighter than the last, so I don’t have to worry about being lured into any dark areas.

I sigh as I slip on my singlet, then reach for my kneepads.  Last night seemed so surreal.  Nothing led up to anything, but everything happened, and now I don’t know what to do.

Taker’s lips on mine were real.  That much I know.  He rubbed my waist and did have his…his tongue inside my mouth, and I hated it.  Yeah, I hated it!  It’d been awful!  I felt so filthy and dirty and everything, and just when I decided that I’d just have to do something blatantly wrong to get him off, he took his tongue out and…and then I realized the kiss wasn’t so bad.  Okay, so it felt good.

I shudder and adjust one of my kneepads.  The way he initially said goodbye…it was as if he was never going to see him again—which was ridiculous!  We see each other all the time!  Heck, I’d seen him today, and we were only a foot or two apart.  Vince was briefing us over something—usually I listen, but today I couldn’t help but watch Taker as he swayed into the room…

He sways his hips.  It’s not noticeable to the untrained eye, and I’m even sure lots of wrestlers haven’t noticed…but I have.  He was walking into the room without his coat on, and he was doing that clench and re-clench thing with his hands, and a little bit—just a little bit—I could see his hips swish from side to side.  It was barely noticeable…but it was so…

I complete tying up my boots and march out of the locker room.  This is terrible.  He’s the American Bad…Apple, for decathlon’s sake!  Besides, the kiss meant nothing to him; why should it mean anything to me?  It doesn’t, that’s why!  It was just skin touching skin, like a punch…only, gentler.  And, softer.  And, using lips.  And…

“Knock it off, Angle!”  I shake my head as hard as possible and speed up.  I should talk with Mr. McMahon about this.  Maybe he’ll give me some fatherly wisdom.  He’s great with his own kids; maybe he’ll be nice enough to help me with my problems.

I walk into a break in the hallway, where in one corner are a stack of large, metal barrels.  In front of me, I have two hallways to take, as well as a shut door on my right side.  I pause here to catch my breath and try to focus my mind long enough to remember how to get to Mr. McMahon’s temporary office.

“Yo, Angle!”

“Yeah—”  I turn to my right—and a sensation of a pole spears me right in the gut.  Spears?…spears…  Blond hair floods my vision, just before everything flashes white—and bars upon bars of metallically crushing pain stab my back.  The pole has left my stomach but is now replaced with jagged edges of barrels landing on my thighs and my gut and my arms.  I struggle to break free from the collapse, and I stretch out to a grinning Edge for help—a cornered weight drives into the back of my head, but I shake my vision back just enough to see blond hair fleeing…and the blackness surrounding the jean-clad, slightly swaying hips as their owner swiftly approaches me…