STILL I SMILE

Culture Shock Night 1

I sat hunched over, my head buried in my hands, sweat pooling slowly at my feet. Each breath felt heavier than the last, as though the air itself had thickened, pressing in from all sides. The room seemed to shrink around me, time stretching into something thin and suffocating, leaving me alone with the familiar, sinking weight of defeat.

It wasn’t new. It never was. And yet this one cut deeper than the others.

Not because of what was at stake; there was no grand title on the line, no career-ending consequence, not even the prestige of facing one of PRIME’s elite. That wasn’t it. What made it worse was what it was supposed to be: a step forward. A beginning. The first stride toward something I’d been chasing my entire career.

Instead, it ended before it ever truly began.

Maybe I deserved that. Running my mouth, puffing myself up like some yapping little dog, as if I’d earned more than an opening match against a newcomer. At this rate, I’d be lucky to stay out of the dark matches altogether. The main event? That felt further away than ever, like something meant for other people.

What stung most was that I had no one else to blame. I’d written the rules, crafted the stipulation, convinced myself it would tilt the odds in my favor. All it did was make me look like a joke.

Then again, maybe that’s all I’ve ever been.

The names echoed in my mind… Permascar Sortastar. Scarface. Even “Tony Two Books” had started as a dig before it stuck. They weren’t just nicknames. They were reminders.

Bzzzz Bzzzz Bzzzz

A sharp buzzing broke through the spiral of thoughts. My phone rattled against the bench beside me — again. Fifth time, maybe sixth. I’d stopped checking after the fourth.

Probably Cancer, again.

Ha!

Shake it off. 

It was just the Alias. 

Tomorrow you'll be in the main event, on night two when it matters. 

Everything he said was the truth. At least, that’s what I told myself.

But the reassurance didn’t stick. If anything, it only dragged my focus back to the loss, sharpening it, making it harder to ignore.

I needed air.

I grabbed my phone and pushed myself to my feet, but before I could take a step, the door swung open.

Ivan.

He filled the doorway, fresh off his victory, the Intense Championship now in his possession. Before the match, he’d promised to make an example out of Dawkins — payback for abandoning the Red Army. The kind of statement he’d deny if anyone ever brought it up later. Still, it had felt like more than a warning to Dawkins. With Jiles making his expectations clear about Hessian and I, it was hard not to take it personally.

Once a Bandit, always a Bandit.

“Congratulations on the win,” I said, lowering myself back onto the bench, already knowing my exit would have to wait.

“Victory was never in doubt, Comrade,” Ivan replied as the door shut behind him.

I managed a small smile on the right side of my lips, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. I struggled to shake the thought of his decision to exclude me from his Squad Goals team from my mind, but the bitter taste of betrayal still lingered in the back of my throat like bile, a constant, sharp reminder of trust shattered like a thin pane of glass.

Still, I continued to smile.

=-=-=-=-=

SUNDAY MORNING HANGOVER

I wake before I open my eyes. Consciousness seeps in slowly, like light leaking through a crack in the curtains—thin, unwelcome, impossible to ignore. My mouth feels coated, dry and heavy, like I swallowed dust in my sleep. There’s a stale, metallic tang at the back of my tongue, something sour that clings no matter how many times I swallow.

My head feels wrong — too heavy, too full — like it’s been packed with something dense and unmoving. When I finally shift, even slightly, the pain follows a beat later. It starts dull, then spreads, pressing outward from behind my eyes. Not sharp enough to flinch from, just constant enough that I can’t escape it.

My stomach feels uncertain, unsteady, like it might turn on me if I move too quickly. I lie still, testing the moment, trying to convince it to settle.

Don’t rush.

Don’t sit up yet.

Maybe it’ll pass.

It doesn’t.

The room feels thick, stale, like the air has already been used up. Light pushes through the window, too bright, too revealing. I can hear my own pulse in my ears, slow and heavy, like it’s reminding me I’m still here, whether I want to be or not.

Pieces of last night surface in fragments. Laughter that lingered on for far too long. Another Miller Lite I didn’t need or ask for. The empty promise of “just one more.” None of it comes together cleanly…just disconnected flashes, like something I almost remember but not as much as I should.

I swallow and immediately regret it. My throat feels raw, my body unsteady, like it hasn’t fully come back online yet. Every small movement feels like a decision with consequences. Even breathing feels deliberate.

And underneath it all, there’s this strange stillness. Like I’m stuck — waiting for the world to catch up to me, or maybe for myself to catch up to it. Everything outside keeps moving, untouched, while I stay here, held steady in the quiet aftermath trying to feel like myself again.

That's when I hear her voice, a soft whisper floating in the wind that I registered as the thunderous roar of a storm.

“Antonio,” she repeats slightly louder than before, as I force my eyes to flutter open. Standing there at the edge of the bed with a mug in her hand, the aura of an angel sent down to carry me up into the heavens – hopefully putting an end to my suffering – is the mother of my child.

“I'm up,” I answer with eyes half open, attempting to push myself onto my elbows.

Victoria and Olivia had agreed to join me in Mexico City for the weekend, and so far Friday afternoon had been the only day that I was tolerable to be around. Caught up in my inability to defend the Alias title, along with the knowledge that Ivan had decided not to pick me for his team; because he felt he had a stronger opportunity to win with the choices he made, had dampened my spirits so much I couldn't find a way to enjoy myself.

It sucked, and I found myself apologizing to my daughter constantly, even though she said she understood. The thing is, I didn't want her to understand and give me a pass for the way I was acting. She deserves better than that, so does Victoria.

They deserve better than me.

“Someone was out way too late last night,” walking over to my left side as she speaks, Victoria flashes a smile that could launch a thousand ships.

“Sorry,” I offer another apology.

“It was already late when the show ended,” she replies, placing the mug on the nightstand. “Olivia actually fell asleep on the ride back to the hotel, so she doesn't even know.”

It feels like a hammer is pounding against my temples. “Is that coffee?”

She nods, answering softly. “Two creams and four sugars, just the way you like it.”

I realize now more than ever that I don't deserve them.

Still, I continue to smile.

=-=-=-=-=

OUR INTENSE CHAMPION

At the Argyle position of the TD Garden, everything is loud…too loud. The crowd’s roar of disapproval crashes through the curtain in waves, as the Soviet National Anthem blares through the arena. The production crew moves with practiced urgency like an army of soldier ants, while the rhythm of the show marches forward without hesitation. Out in the arena, it sounds like the celebration is already in motion, as the boos from the crowd increase in volume.

Tony Gamble stands just off to the side of the curtain, exactly where he’s supposed to be.

He looks the part. Slicked-back hair still sharp, posture straight, wearing the brand new ‘OUR INTENSE CHAMPION’ shirt with Ivan's scowling face on the front. From a distance, there’s nothing to question — he’s ready, composed, another piece falling into place for the moment waiting outside. No one gives him a second glance. No one slows down long enough to read into anything lingering just below the surface.

Because beneath it, something is definitely off.

His jaw tightens just slightly, the kind of movement that disappears as quickly as it happens. His fingers curl and uncurl once at his sides, before going still again. He keeps his eyes forward, fixed on the light bleeding through the curtain, concealing the desire to match the energy of the unhappy crowd roaring as the pyro explodes.

“They don't want a celebration,” The Grin says under his breath, so quiet it’s swallowed up by the noise around him.

No one hears it.

No one’s meant to.

Nearby, Ivan Stanislav stands in the red glow peeking in through the slight gap between the curtains, the title somehow firmly wrapped around his waist like it’s an extension of him. He soaks in the reaction from the crowd, ignoring the sound of their displeasure, completely locked into his moment. If he senses anything from Tony, he doesn’t show it. Why would he? Everything is going exactly as planned.

A stagehand signals. Timing is tight.

The music swells again.

Tony shifts his weight forward on instinct, falling into position like he’s done a hundred times before. From the outside, it’s seamless — just another step in the choreography, another ally joining the celebration.

But as he moves, there’s a fraction of a second — so small it may as well not exist — where he hesitates.

And no one notices.

Not the crew.

Not the Masters of the Moscowverse or Speedy Riggs.

Not even Our Intense Champion.

The moment passes, swallowed whole by the spectacle, as Tony steps forward when Kenny and Randall walk out onto the stage with shirt cannons in hand.

Still, The Grin continues to smile.

=-=-=-=-=

IN MY FEELS

The kitchen light hummed softly overhead, steady and warm. The air felt calmer than it used to in moments like this, less brittle, less guarded. Olivia sat across from him, her hands curled loosely around a mug, the ceramic warming her palms. Her posture was relaxed in a way it hadn’t always been, no guarded edges or invisible armor. Just presence.

“You don’t have to work so hard to say it,” she said gently, her voice like a quiet current beneath the stillness.

Tony gave a small, nervous huff, rubbing the back of his neck. “I do, actually. I’ve been rehearsing this in my head for days, and somehow it all sounds worse out loud.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “That’s because you’re trying to make it perfect.”

“I’m trying to make it right.”

The words settled between them, not sharp, but deliberate — like stones placed carefully in a path.

He looked down at the table, tracing one of its shallow grooves with his thumb, then lifted his gaze back to her. “I know you’ve already forgiven me… for when you were a kid. For not being there.”

“I have,” she said, steady and certain, her eyes clear. “We’ve talked about that.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, though something in his expression lingered, like a shadow that hadn’t quite learned how to leave. “But I still carry it. And I think sometimes… it bleeds into the now. Into how I’ve been acting lately.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him with a patience that felt earned. “You mean shutting down on me and mom in Mexico?”

He winced, but nodded. “Yeah.”

She didn’t look angry, only attentive, like someone listening for the deeper note beneath a melody. “You haven’t disappeared. You’re still here. But you go quiet, and I can tell something’s wrong.”

“I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” she said, her tone warm but firm. “I’m choosing to be here.”

That seemed to land somewhere deep. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders lowering as if he’d been carrying something unseen.

“It’s just… things aren’t great right now,” he admitted. “I’ve made a bunch of mistakes. Agreeing with Hessian to join the Red Army, mostly. But it’s gotten bigger than I expected, and losing the Alias title just brought everything crashing down. I’ve been trying to fix it on my own, but…” His voice trailed off, like a thread slipping from his grasp.

She listened without interrupting, her gaze steady, anchoring.

“I think part of me still believes I have to earn my place here,” he continued. “I feel like I’m not living up to your expectations, and with the way I was feeling after losing to Christie… I was afraid that I would say or do something that might make me come off as a jerk to you and your mom. And when I'm going through things like that, I don't feel like I should get to show up as your dad. Not fully.”

Her brow softened. “That’s not how I see it.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I’m starting to understand that. But it’s… hard to unlearn.”

She leaned forward slightly, the movement small but intentional, like a bridge being built. “You don’t have to be fixed to be present.”

He looked at her then — really looked — and something in his expression loosened, like a knot finally giving way. “I’m not used to that kind of grace.”

“Well,” she said, a hint of warmth brightening her voice, “get used to it. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The words settled softly, but they carried weight — the kind that steadies rather than burdens.

“I don’t want to keep worrying you,” he said.

“You’re not worrying me by being honest,” Olivia replied. “You worry me when you shut me out and try to do everything on your own.”

He nodded, absorbing it, letting it sink in like rain into dry ground.

“I guess I thought if I could just solve it first, then come to you with everything cleaned up… it would be easier.”

“For who?” she asked, gently.

Gamble hesitated. “For you.”

Olivia shook her head, a small, knowing motion. “It doesn’t make it easier. It just makes it lonelier. For both of us.”

The truth of it lingered, quiet but undeniable.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer now. “Not for the past. I know we’ve worked through that. But for now. For shutting you out when I shouldn't have.”

She reached across the table, her hand resting over his. The contact was simple, but it carried a quiet certainty — like roots finding one another beneath the soil. “You’re letting me in right now, Dad.”

Tony glanced at their hands, then back at her. “Yeah, I am.”

“And that’s enough for me,” she said. “We don’t have to solve everything today.”

Outside, the evening stretched itself across the sky in hues of amber and fading blue, the last light slipping gently through the window. Inside, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, as if something long clenched inside him had finally begun to soften.

“I don’t even know what the next step is, honestly.”

“Then we figure it out,” she said simply. “Together, or at least… not separately.”

He nodded, a quiet gratitude settling into his features. “I can do that.”

A stillness followed, but it was no longer heavy. It felt like the pause between waves, expectant, alive.

“You know,” his daughter added, a soft smile returning, “you don’t have to keep apologizing for who you have to be in front of everyone else.”

He lifted an eyebrow slightly. “No?”

“No,” she said. “It’s much more special that I know who you really are, and that I get to keep it all to myself.”

That lingered in the air, luminous and gentle.

“I really want to be someone better… the father I should've been all along,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “I can see that.”

This time, when he smiled, it reached his eyes.

The distance between them, once vast and echoing, had quieted into something smaller, more human. Not erased, not forgotten, but softened.

Tony Gamble felt at ease for the first time that evening, the tension in his chest loosening its grip, unwinding thread by thread. There was a quiet refuge in this space between them; in the steadiness of her gaze, in the warmth of her hand still resting over his. Here, in front of her, he didn’t have to be the man shaped by his worst decisions, didn’t have to brace himself against judgment or wear the armor he’d grown used to carrying. For a fleeting moment, he could simply be himself… he could be real.

And yet, somewhere beneath that fragile calm, he knew it wouldn’t last forever.

The world beyond this kitchen would still be waiting for him, sharp-edged and impatient. There would come a time when he would have to step back into it, to face the consequences he’d set in motion, to wear again the version of himself others had come to expect.

The Grin.

The man who thrived on making wrong choices, who disappointed, who frustrated — the asshole everyone loved to hate.

Still, Tony continued to smile.

=-=-=-=-=

THE YELLOW PAGES

“Congratulations.”

That grin.

“Not on your stellar performance and victory at Culture Shock night two, but on your upcoming performance in our match at Revival Eighty Six.”

The one that never fades.

“But it hasn't happened yet, you might be wondering.”

Fresh off a victory on night two himself.

“Well, you don't have to be Anna Daniels to know what's about to happen, especially when the writing on the wall is as clear as the ocean surrounding the Bahamas.”

Tony Gamble.

“You're the young up and comer, Blaze. Hot and Ready like a Little Caesars pizza, probably on your way to an Intense title opportunity if you play your cards right.”

The Permascar Superstar shrugs his shoulders slightly.

“While I, on the other hand, am the nostalgic signing that has run out his welcome… but just doesn't know when to walk away.”

If he could frown he would, but alas, he cannot. Which, in and of itself, also makes him want to frown. A vicious cycle, for sure.

“I remember when I was first signed to PRIME, sitting across from Taum Pham and assuring him I was worth the Gamble. It was corny, I know, but next thing I know I am scheduled for a tag team match with El Vice against Seek and Destroy.”

The people that might recognize either of those names could probably be counted on one finger, but it was over twenty years ago.

“It was a roller coaster of a ride, but I fought my way through the storm and never gave up. Eventually, I found my footing and made a name for myself, not only beating some of the biggest names in the sport but also earning a spot that will forever be written in the hall of fame.”

An accomplishment that can never be taken away, even if Devin Shakur did everything in his power to make people believe Tony never existed.

“But I did all of that over ten years ago, when I was young like you. That's why I can congratulate you now, before our match has even begun, because as much as I wish… and Anna Daniels claims… the clock cannot be rewound. Time keeps marching forward, and it is becoming a struggle to keep up.”

A beat passes.

“It might sound strange, coming from someone like me, but my record recently speaks for itself and it's not something I'm proud of. Beck said it best when he said Soy Un Pear Duh Door, because I am that Loser people talk about in hushed tones when I'm around. They call me washed up, a shell of what I used to be, and I know they're not wrong.”

He nods subtly, as the right side of his lips reach up to grab his cheek.

“So this is your chance to shine and prove yourself to Troy. Take that next step in your ascension to bigger and better things, Blaze, because if anyone knows anything about me… it's that I've never been a liar.”

That may not be entirely true.

“I don't plan to become one now either, but the ball is obviously in your court so please don't suck.”

Ha!

“Now that I've said it out loud, I feel like you're definitely going to shit the bed… damn.”

Still, Gamble continued to smile.