GIRLS DIG HIM

SUNDAY NIGHT HEAT, JULY 15TH, 2001

“Wakey wakey, Y2J. It’s final practice time. Up you get.”

Jericho groaned and rolled over.

“Come on,” Angel called, shaking him gently. “We gotta hit the gym.”

“No,” Jericho muttered sleepily. “You ga…I go no match tonight. Ga later.”

“Come on!” Angel cajoled him. “I need you. You trained with Lance. You know how he thinks. I had to give back all my ECW tapes so now you’re the only advantage I have. Please?”

“Go away,” Jericho groaned. “I’m not getting up for Lance Storm.”

“Okay,” Angel sighed.

For a moment Jericho thought she’d left him alone, but she suddenly ripped the blankets down the bed. He sat up, startled.

“Man, Rogue. What if I was sleeping naked?”

“I’m sure I’d be suitably impressed,” Angel smirked. She held out a T-shirt and track pants. “Hide your shame. Let’s go.”

Jericho snatched the clothes from her hands, grumbling under his breath.

“You owe me, baby.”

“So add it to my tab,” Angel shrugged. “Come on, get moving.”

Jericho got to his feet, scowling darkly. “This is the last time I room with you.”

Angel stared at him endearingly, eyes wide. “I love you.”

“Shut up,” Jericho muttered, pushing her away. “Where’re my shoes?”

Angel retrieved them like a faithful little puppy.

Jericho shook his head as he put them on and worked the laces. “Benny used to put up with you like this?”

“Are you kidding?” Angel cried. “If we weren’t already at the gym by…what…six ten, he’d have my head.”

“You never slept in?” Jericho frowned.

“Never,” Angel confirmed. “Oh wait, that’s not quite true. When we were fucking each other...”

“Oh, look at that,” Jericho cut her off loudly. “I’m done. Let’s go.”

Angel grinned and ducked out the door ahead of him. “Well, you did ask.”

“I know,” Jericho replied. “And I’m now very sorry I did. Now, let’s get to the gym and see what I remember about Mr. Storm.”

* * * *

“Okay,” Jericho said patiently. “So, what do we have to worry about here?”

“The superkick and the half crab,” Angel replied quickly. “No problem.”

“He’s also got one of the best standing dropkicks in the business,” Jericho added.

“Superkick, half crab, dropkick; I got it,” Angel smiled.

“And one last thing. If you toss him out make sure he really goes. He can kill you with that springboard crossbody he does.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Angel nodded. “That’s a decent move. So that’s that then. I think I’m ready.”

Just then the door opened and in walked Jeff Hardy, toting his gym bag on one shoulder and his newly won hardcore title on the other.

“Hey Chris, hey Angel,” he greeted them, dropping down to his haunches to see what he could find lying around the ring.

“Hi junior,” Jericho replied, accepting Angel’s offer of a water bottle. “Getting in some hardcore training?”

“That’s right,” Jeff nodded, locating a broom and slapping it thoughtfully against his hand. “I’m fine in the air and with ladders. I’ve just gotta get this weapons thing down if I intend keeping this title, no matter how weird it is I got it in the first place. I mean, who would have thought Edge, of all people…”

“Yeah? Well, you can do it elsewhere,” Angel snapped, cutting him off.

“I’m sorry?” Jeff frowned.

“You heard me. Move your ass. I booked this ring and it’s mine until eight-thirty, so get the hell out.”

Jeff was absolutely speechless so Jericho said it for him.

“What’s going on, baby?”

Angel slammed her hands down on her hips, glaring furiously over at Jeff. “You know, I really expected more from you. Everyone’s always saying how sweet and thoughtful you are, but that’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

Jeff was still having trouble getting his thoughts straight. “Is this…about me winning the hardcore title? Listen, Angel. I know you want this title, but listen, the chance came up. I had to take it.”

Angel gave him a disgusted scowl. “No, it’s not about the title. And it’s not like you really won it anyway. If it wasn’t for Edge you wouldn’t even have it.”

Jeff let that one slide. “Then what’s it about, Angel? Is it about Trish?”

“Bingo,” Angel spat. “I guess you’re not as dumb as you look after all.”

Realization hit Jeff and a small smile crept across his lips. “You’re upset because me and Trish have been spending time together? Don’t worry about it, Angel. We’re not…you know, together or anything.”

“Oh nice, Jeff, real nice,” Angel spat. “I don’t believe you. Trish is my friend, one of my best friends and now you stand here denying the fact you’re even together?”

“Well, we’re not,” Jeff replied carefully. “It was just a kiss.”

“Oh, whatever, Jeff,” Angel blew it off. “What I can’t believe is your attitude. I mean that shit on SmackDown? At least Matt had the decency to look genuinely shocked and regretful. Nice to know someone in the family is a gentleman.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Jeff blurted, patience finally blown. “What are y’all trying to say? Because I really don’t see what I’ve done wrong.”

“You don’t remember?” Angel cried. “That’s even worse, Jeff.” She exhaled loudly, angrily. “Fine. Let me refresh your memory. Pretend I’ve got long blonde hair and dimples.” She stepped up to Jeff and leaned in, kissing him softly on the lips. “Pleased to meet you,” she cooed before stepping away and reforming her furious expression.

Jeff was dumbfounded. “That?” he stammered. “That thing with Torrie and Stacy? Angel, I swear me and Matt didn’t know. They came up behind us while we were watching Lita and Trish. We had no idea. We…”

“Save it, Jeff,” Angel cut him off. “Maybe I’d believe that they cornered you, that two strong guys like you and Matt couldn’t have stopped it from happening, but that flew out the window when you said what you did. Trish is a good person, Jeff. And she deserves better than that. Oh, you don’t remember what you said? Jerky, be Matt for a moment while I’m Jeff. You say, ‘What was that about?’”

Jericho raised his hands. “I’m not…”

“Fine,” Angel snapped. “So, Matt said ‘What was that about?’ And you, Jeff. What did you say? ‘Matt, girls dig us’. Girls dig us! Well, guess what, Jeff? I’m a girl and I sure as hell don’t dig you. In fact, I have never, ever thought lower of you than I do right now. Do you hear me?”

Jeff looked devastated. “Angel, please. Let me explain.”

“You can’t explain. You said what you did and in the process you showed complete lack of respect for every woman on earth, but especially Trish. Just because she put up with degrading shit from Vince McMahon doesn’t mean you’re allowed to do it to her, too. Smarten up or you’ll lose her.”

“I don’t want her!” Jeff cried, exasperated.

“That’s it!” Angel growled. “I’ve had it with you. I’m busy tonight, but tomorrow, on Raw, I want your ass. I want your title and I will destroy you. For Trish, for every other woman who supposedly digs you. I will end you, Jeff Hardy. End you.”

“Angel, please,” Jeff sighed.

“No, Jeff. We’re done. Come on, Jerky. I feel like ending training after all. Jeff obviously needs the weapons practice more than I do.”

To prove it, she picked up her kendo stick and spun it around before taking a big run up and leaping, bouncing off the top rope into a somersault and landing right in front of Jeff, who’d stepped back to give her more room. She swept her stick around, changing positions with him and forcing him backwards until his back slammed into the ring post. She pressed her stick against his throat, glaring at him furiously.

“See you tomorrow, stud,” she spat, finally releasing the pressure of the stick, spinning it around again and tucking it under her arm.

Jericho stepped down after her, carrying a gym bag and a water bottle, and Jeff could do nothing but watch, absolutely speechless, as the two of them walked away.

* * * *

Knock, knock, knock.

‘Boy,’ thought Trish, leaving the clothes she’d laid out so that she could answer the door. ‘Even that knock was depressing.’

“Hi Jeff!” she cried cheerfully.

Jeff blinked at her and the fluffy white robe she was wearing. “Hi Trish. Can I come in?”

“Of course!” Trish enthused. “Come on in. I was just choosing an outfit for the day ahead. Hey, maybe you can help me.”

“Uh, sure,” Jeff replied uncertainly, following her into the room and flopping down on the bed, not even noticing the various pieces of clothing flying up around him.

“What’s wrong, Jeff?” Trish frowned sympathetically. “You look positively…distraught. That’s a good word, eh?”

Jeff sighed. “I fucked up, Trish. I really, really fucked up.”

Trish bit her lip. “How, Jeff? What happened?”

Jeff sighed again. “Angel wants to fight me tomorrow night. She wants the hardcore title.”

“Simple,” Trish cooed, catching sight of her black leather miniskirt and picking it up. “Refuse the match. They said the twenty-four seven rule’s gone, so that means you only have to fight who you want to fight.” She undid the robe and let it fall to the floor, leaving her in just her underwear – matching lemon colored bra and thong panties.

Jeff just shook his head. “No. I have to fight her. She’s demanded the match. She thinks she’s protecting your honor or something.”

“My honor?” Trish giggled. “Why would she do that?”

Jeff sighed once more. “Because I said that girls dig me.”

Trish’s eyes widened as she pulled the skirt firmly over her hips. “But girls do dig you, Jeff. You’re gorgeous.”

“Angel doesn’t dig me, Trish,” Jeff muttered. “I think it’s time to face facts. This plan isn’t working.”

“Are you kidding?” Trish cried. “Of course it’s working! Look at me.” She patted herself just below the bra, making her breasts bounce a little. “Everyone thinks something’s going on between you and me. So, when Torrie Wilson kissed you on SmackDown, I should have been furious. Only I wasn’t. I was mad at Stacy for kissing Matt. I mean, what was that blonde slut thinking?”

Jeff raised his eyebrows but let her continue. He wanted to know where this was going.

“But who got angry? Angel got angry. She got angry enough to challenge you to a match. And why? I never told her I was hurt by what you said. I never even spoke to her about it. So that means she’s acting on her own. She might be using me as an excuse, but trust me, Jeff. It’s all about her. She’s jealous, Jeff. And soon she’s going to work out exactly how jealous. You’ll see.”

“I don’t know, Trish,” Jeff sighed. “It all seems a little…well, hopeless. I’m still going to have to fight her tomorrow night in a hardcore match. How am I going to do that?”

Trish gripped him by the shoulders. “Trust me, Jeff. Have I ever let you down? Well, have I?”

“No,” Jeff was forced to admit.

“So don’t worry about it. She’s fighting Lance Storm tonight. Maybe she’ll get hurt and you won’t even have to fight her tomorrow.”

Jeff stared at Trish incredulously. “I don’t want Angel to get hurt.”

“Well, I don’t know, Jeff. Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe she’ll decide she hates Lance Storm so much she’ll forget all about you. But now, I need you to help me with something really important.”

“What’s that?” Jeff frowned.

Trish smiled sexily at him and held up two tank tops. “The white or the teal?”

* * * *

Lance Storm glowered at the crowd as he picked up the microphone.

“If I can be serious for a minute,” he started. “I feel I must inform you all exactly how vehemently opposed I am to this match. It has been forced upon me for no other reason than that I invited my opponent, Angel Torres, the so-called Rogue Angel, to join the Alliance. I simply tried to talk to her, to encourage her with a few inspirational words…”

At that moment he was cut off as Angel’s music roared from the PA system. She stepped out onto the stage, confident smirk in place and microphone in hand.

“Lance Storm!” she cried. “Lance, Lance, Lance. When are you going to get it? You are boring!”

Lance scowled and raised his own microphone again. “My words are irrelevant. What matters…”

“Shut up, I’m talking,” Angel cut him off. “And you’re damn straight you’re irrelevant. And the simple fact that you think I’d be interested in joining the Alliance tells me you’re not just irrelevant, you’re also an idiot. What does this shirt say?” She pointed to her cropped baby tee, which was a spoof of the standard ECW shirt.

Lance squinted. “It says ‘WWF’nF’.”

“That’s right,” Angel nodded. “I’m proud to be a WWF superstar. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. ‘Cause not only are we sexier than you, not only are we more entertaining than you, but you know what, Thunder? We’re more talented than you, too. Because, unlike in the Alliance, we in the WWF are not all about the money. We’re all about the wrestling. I will never leave the WWF. Never.”

Lance cocked his head slightly. “You think you’re a better wrestler than me? Well, perhaps you should know something. The call me the straight shooter.”

Angel pursed her lips, giving a slow nod. “Enlighten me, Lance. Should I be impressed?”

Lance angrily threw his hand to his side. “I trained at the Hart Family Dungeon.”

Angel shrugged. “And I trained with someone who was the greatest wrestler the Dungeon has ever seen. What’s your point?”

Lance focused his steely green eyes on her. “Well, maybe you should step down here so I can teach you some respect.”

“Hey, that’s fine with me, Lance,” Angel enthused, starting down the ramp. “Thunder Storm, let’s get it on!”

She threw the microphone to the ground and raced towards the ring.

Lance stood back as they sized each other up, circling slowly. Angel watched him coolly, trapping his serious blue-green eyes with her own cold ones. They locked up, hands on each other’s arms, when Lance sunk his boot into Angel’s stomach, forcing her to her hands and knees. He didn’t let up, kicking her a few times, then going for a couple of hard rights to the face before grabbing her wrist and forcing her to her feet. He sent her for an Irish whip and tried for the shoulder block on the return, but Angel ducked out of it and hit the other ropes. On this return, Lance grabbed her and lifted her for the powerslam, but she simply twisted around and flipped him over with the headscissors takedown.

Suddenly Lance found himself in the corner, with Angel glaring at him and slowly shaking her head.

“No!” he called, raising his hand, but Angel didn’t care. Bam! Knife-edge chop. Bam! Another. While Lance was reeling backwards, she grabbed him by the trunks and forced him up top. She climbed up after him, raised an index finger to the crowd, then hooked her legs around his neck and slammed him down against the mat in the hurricanrana.

Lance was dazed, but Angel was on him quickly, figuring she could whip him easily now. She figured wrong as he reversed and her back slammed against the turnbuckles in the other corner. Lance ran at her for the clothesline, but she gripped the ropes and got her feet up, slamming them into him and forcing him backwards. She leaped up top and bam! Missile dropkick. Lance was on the ground. Armdrag, armdrag, cover.

“One!” counted the ref. “Two!”

Lance kicked out emphatically.

Angel leaped to her feet and began ping-ponging herself between the ropes. Headlock takedown was always good. She jumped over Lance’s fallen body on the first crossing, then set for the takedown, but he leapfrogged her. Suddenly a voice hit her.

“Stay back. He’ll go for that standing dropkick.”

Angel grabbed the ropes and stopped still, watching in amazement as Lance Storm went for his standing dropkick and fell harmlessly to the mat. Unbelievable.

Embarrassed, he was up quickly and running at her, but she simply raised her arm and dumped him from the ring and onto the ground below.

Angel sprinted across the ring, bounced off the ropes, then raced to the other side. She leaped, springboarded off the top rope and catapulted herself around in the somersault plancha. Bam! Lights out for Lancey. Angel reared back on her knees, arms in the air as the crowd went wild. But this wasn’t falls count anywhere and she had to close it out. She got one handful of tights and one of the back of his neck and forced him into the ring. He rolled numbly and stayed there. Angel jumped up onto the apron, eyeing him carefully.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Get up.”

Finally, he began to rise and she pushed down on the top rope, propelling herself up. Frankensteiner. He crashed against the deck and she had him pinned.

“One! Two!”

Somehow Lance kicked out. Angel scowled and jumped up, grabbing him by the forearm and sending him for the Irish whip. He hit the ropes and flew back…right into the waistlock. Bam! One German. Bam! Two Germans. Bam! Three Germans into a bridge.

“One! Two!”

Again only two. Frustrated, Angel sank her boot into his side a few times as she found her feet. How resilient was this Lance Storm? Before she could lose her cool and her focus, she again forced him up and whipped him into the corner, intending to go for another hurricanrana and then maybe the Stairway. But as soon as she leaped, Lance grabbed her and spun her around so that she was sitting on the top turnbuckle. He punched her in the gut a few times, then set her feet outside the ropes, ready for the superplex. He climbed up in front of her, hooking an arm around her neck, but as soon as he grabbed for her pants she flew over him, locking her arms as she went, carrying him into the huge sunset flip.

“One!” counted the ref. “Two!”

Again Lance kicked out.

“Stay down!” Angel shrieked, grabbing him and slamming him against the canvas before making the lateral press.

“One!”

This time only one.

Angel snapped, hitting her combination punches and a few kicks as Lance struggled to his feet. She grabbed his arm and whipped him furiously, but he countered, cracking his knee to her stomach. He grabbed her by her pants as she tried in vain to struggle free and threw her sideways across the ring, causing her abdomen to smash against the ring post. Angel screamed in agony and Lance Storm grabbed her by the hair and slammed her down, then made the cover.

“One! Two!”

She had the presence of mind to kick out. But the punishment wasn’t over as Lance picked her up and again cracked her stomach down across his knee. He didn’t give her a moment’s peace, grabbing her by the hair and Irish whipping her, then catching her on the return with yet another knee to the abdomen that spun her around and turned her inside out. Now he made the cover.

“One! Two!’

Angel leaped with all she had, slamming him face first into the canvas. She trapped his arm and threw her hands into his face. Crippler crossface. He was going to tap, dammit, and he was going to tap now.
Unfortunately, he was near the rope and didn’t have to crawl far to get it.

“One! Two! Three! Four! Break the hold. Fi…”

Angel just jumped up in time, glaring furiously at the ref. All of a sudden, Lance rolled her up and had her pinned.

“One!”

She kicked out. Even half-dead with busted ribs, he’d have to do better than that.

Lance picked her up and Irish whipped her, then ducked his head for the backdrop. Angel saw it coming a mile off, but instead of kicking him, flew over the top in another sunset flip rollup.

“One! Two!” Lance pushed her forward into the ropes and she bounced back, right into a small package.
“One! Two!”

Angel just managed to kick out. She stared skeptically over at Lance as they both picked themselves up. Lance stayed on his knees as Angel approached him, grabbing her and pulling her down for the jawbreaker. She squeezed her eyes shut involuntarily at the pain and suddenly felt him grab her and send her for another Irish whip. She opened her eyes just in time to grab the top rope and bounce off the middle one, flipping herself over in the Asai moonsault and crashing into Lance. Unlike the two times he’d picked it with Jericho this week, he didn’t see his one coming and slammed back against the mat with a heavy thud.

Angel leaped to her feet and stood over him. She could cover him or…that was a damn great idea. She broke into a sick little smile, rolled Lance over onto his stomach, grabbed one of his legs and locked on his very own submission move, the half Boston crab.

Lance roared as pain shot through his lower back, the same area the crossface had attacked earlier. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t lose to his own move. And so he crawled and crawled, and crawled and crawled, and finally got the ropes.

“One! Two! Three! Four! Break the hold!”

Angel threw Lance down and bounced to her feet, glaring furiously at the ref.

“He had the ropes!” the ref informed her.

“Fine,” Angel muttered angrily, turning back around. Smack! Lance’s boot crashed into her face in the superkick and she was down.

Lance didn’t hesitate in making the cover.

“One!” counted the ref.

Angel was barely conscious. She knew she should kick out, but she didn’t know if she could.

“Kick out!” called Benoit’s voice.

“I can’t!” she moaned.

“Two!”

“Kick the hell out!”

“Okay!” Angel kicked out just as the ref said “Three.” That had been a very, very, near fall.

Lance knew it too, pulling her to her feet so violently her shoulder almost popped. He sent her for yet another Irish whip, intending to finish this with a high impact clothesline. He didn’t count on Angel slipping between his legs and hitting the standing dropkick. Before he knew it, she’d grabbed his head and carried him over in the tornado DDT. Angel stood over his fallen body and spread her arms. It was time to close this out. It was time to climb the Stairway.

Bam! Bottom rope moonsault. Bam! Second rope moonsault. Jump up top. Jump around.

“Lucha libre!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Crack! Something hard crashed across her back, forcing her off balance so she fell down, crotching herself on the turnbuckle. Lance Storm was in front of her, hooking an arm around her neck and grabbing her pants. Bam! Huge superplex. He made the cover.

“One!” counted the ref. “Two! Three!”

The bell rang, Lance’s music played and still Angel lay there in absolute agony. She was completely spent. But she had to drag herself up, had to see what had happened. She crawled forward until she found the ropes and used them to haul herself to her feet. There they were, backing up the ramp. Lance was scowling, but his savior was grinning, Grinning and holding up a steel chair for Angel to see. Grinning, holding a chair and wearing a WCW T-shit and baggy jeans. Gregory Helms. He’d returned her favor from more then a week ago. He’s made her lose to Lance Storm, a man she’d vowed to defeat. Her singles record should stand at twelve and four, but instead it was eleven and five. Angel glowered at him and shook her head.

“You’ll pay for this, mother fucker,” she spat. “Mark my words, Gregory Helms. You will pay.”