The Clot

“Crawford at the top of the key, swinging to Batum…Batum buries another three! Portland is up by double digits!”

2012.

Before it became the Moda Center, it had been called the Rose Garden. Built in 1995, Portland’s primary arena was home to concerts, conventions, rodeos, circuses, hockey, and most notably, the Portland Trail Blazers.

The Blazers were off to their best home start since 1998, led by names like Jamal Crawford, LaMarcus Aldridge, and Gerald Wallace. The Denver Nuggets had fought hard to keep close by the second half, and an ankle injury to Blazers point guard Ray Felton offered a glimmer of hope, but nine three-pointers from Nicolas Batum; a Portland record -- shut the door quickly by the start of the fourth quarter.

“Let’s go, Blazers!” hollered Paul, clad in an old Shawn Kemp jersey from 2001; frayed and faded, leaping from his seat as Batum found the bottom of the net once again. The city of Portland roared as their team drove the final nail in Denver’s coffin. A bright moment for a city whose team had missed the playoffs for the better part of the 2000s, and hadn’t won the Finals since 1977. An electric spectacle on a grand stage.

One that a young Hayes Hanlon didn’t seem to care much about.

Gregory Hanlon, rising to his feet and clapping his broad carpenter’s hands, turned a curious, concerned dark eye toward his youngest child, aged seventeen.

“Hayes. Hayes,” the Father insisted.

The Youngest barely pulled his heavy, dead stare from his phone’s screen. Shoulders slumped, elbows pinned to his thighs, ignorant and uninterested in his surroundings.

“What’s the matter, son?” Hayes could barely hear his father over the raucous shrieks of the Trail Blazer faithful.

“Nothing, Dad. It’s all good,” he replied, annoyed.

The Hanlon Patriarch knew better, and opted to keep clapping.

“It’s just…”

The final buzzer rang throughout the arena, interrupting the young Hanlon’s admission. While the Rose Garden bellowed from their feet, Gregory chose to sitt down on the bleachers, shifting toward his son.

“It’s a girl, isn’t it ?” asked the Father.

The Son, overwhelmed, failed to respond.

“Listen,” Gregory said. “Women are like…”

“Dad. Don’t. Please.”

"It's alright, Hayes," the Father insisted, wrapping a hand around his son's shoulder. "Look, this is all part of..."

"DAD."

Gregory let loose his hand, releasing his arm from his youngest's shoulders. Hayes sat rigid. Insistent. Deathly quiet within the noise of the Rose Garden.

And then he felt the drip.

A heavy drop against his jeans. A warm flow trickling over his lip.

"Oh shit," whispered Gregory, digging into his back pocket.

Hayes blinked twice, and drew his forearm across his nostrils; a crimson streak painted from wrist to elbow.

"Dad? Dad??" 

"It's alright, Hayes," the Father insisted, pulling a red handerkcheif from his back pocket and pinning it to his son's nose. Gregory found Paul's dark eyes, gesturing toward the exit as he and Hayes stood from their seats. Gregory could feel the blood bleed through the cloth, and he made quick steps to help his son escape from the Rose Garden.

"You're gonna be alright..."

Moda Center.

ReVival 54.

Hayes Hanlon was not alright.

He stood outside in the Portland air; warm in the August night, as hundreds of fans billowed from the Moda Center's doors as ReVival 54 came to a close.

ReVival 54.

The homecoming.

With no main event to headline.

Not even a match.

Quietly, and hopefully hidden in the shadows across the street, Hayes scowled behind his dark mustache; hands shoved into his gray hoodie.

"She took that away from me," he whispered, growling under his breath.

He fought back the sheen glazing his dark eyes, and exhaled heavily through his nostrils.

"I'll never forgive her for that."

"So did you fuck her?"

Hayes rolled his eyes, chucking the old ice cubes from his glass before collecting a fresh handful from the freezer door.

"Jesus christ, 'Liv," he said into his phone, tucked between his jaw and shoulder as a healthy pour of gin found its way into his glass. "What the fuck do you think?"

"Look, if you need a manager so bad then I need to know about these things. PR and all that."

"I get that, but clueing my sister in on my sex life is fuckin'....weird."'

"You're fuckin' weird for fucking Vickie Hall."

"I DIDN'T FUCK VICKIE HALL!"

A silence in his Las Vegas suite; awkward in his white bathrobe. His eyes shot to the open balcony door. He wondered if anyone had heard him.

"Damn, alright," said Olivia on the other end. Hayes took a long breath, unimpressed with his own outburst.

"Sorry. Look, I didn't..."

His bare foot found something wet against the the kitchenette's white tile.

He peered toward his feet, eyebrows furled, to find a streak of red under his big toe. Just before another drop fell and splattered next to it.

"Fuck," he breathed.

"What? What's up, Hayes?"

"I'll call you back," he said, hurriedly, tossing his phone to the kitchenette's counter as more drops fell in rapid succession, landing on the tile, and his white bathrobe, staining it red.

"Shit..." he whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose, his mustache catching the oncoming flow as he shuffled to the bathroom.

"Shit."

"I'm soooo glad you decided to meet me, Hayes!"

Cow Palace, San Francisco

ReVival 52

"...sure," he replied, uneasy in the backstage locker room. Vickie trotted over to his bench, sitting close. Uncomfortably close. It had been quiet night for Hayes, thankfully so after his loss to Clay Byrd two weeks prior. But to find Vickie Hall seeking him out? Unexpted to say the very least.

"Look," she said, reaching out to touch the top of his hand. "I think we need to start over."

"Start what over?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. "What, exactly?"

"Oohhhh, you knowww," she replied, exxageratingly coy. The whole thing with you and Jarryyyy way back whennnnn, and when you got beat by Jonathan-Christopherrrr..."

"You mean when you and your idiots put a nail in Jared's chest?" he shot back. "And when you punched me in the fuckin' nuts?"

"Those details aren't important, Hayes!" Pretty Pink said, nearly shrieking, waiving her hands almost frantically. "What's important is making sure youuuuu are goooddd!! So..."

She fixed her posture, and placed her hand on his forearm once again.

"Are you? Good?"

"I'm real good," he snipped, pulling his hand away.

"Really?" she asked, tilting her head awkwardly, crossing her hands in her lap. "Really, Hayes? Are the Glue Guys treating you that well?"

"We're fine," he snorted, fixing the cuffs of his black dress shirt. "Best decision I've ever made."

"Are you sure?" she insisted, those bushy eyebrows lifting. "When was the last time you had a main event? Or even a title shot..."

"Shouldn't JCH be worrying where you are?" Hayes deflected. "Shouldn't you be running back to your, what is it? Awesome Life Partner?"

"Amazing Life Partner,": she corrected sharply

She fixed her posture, breathing into her nose.

"And he's fine. Don't worry about Jonathan-Christopher."

"So...what?" Hayes asked, holding his hands out. "What do you want?"

"Oh. OH!" she exclaimed, her teeth smiling wide before leaning in close. "Hayes!"

"Isn't it obvious?"

The stream of bright crimson pouring from his nose was like a faucet.

Leaning over the white porcelain sink, Hayes had no idea what to do. It wouldn't stop. No matter how many times he pinched off his right nostril and snorted through his left, the stream just. Wouldn't. Stop. 

How much blood could pour out of a nose?

How much longer before he passed out?

"Stand up tall, Hayes. Don't lean over."

Curious eyes shot toward Gregory and his youngest son as Hayes held his father's handkercheif to his nose, tilting his head back slightly."

"How much longer, dad?" he asked, his voice nasally. The front of his Trail Blazer's shirt was stained in blood.

"Give it another five minutes," said his father, waving people away in the Rose Garden's parking lot. "Just stay standing."

"Hold it tight and stand up tall."

Hayes lifted his head from the sink, pinching his nostrils tight.

The sink was a splatter painting using only shades of red. An awful, bloody mess. His bathrobe would turn pink in the wash. The cleaning crew would have a lot of questions.

He heard his father's voice, however, and stood tall, holding his nostrils tight. He tried to relax, and breathe.

But there was metal in his mouth. The blood had to flow somewhere.

He spit into the sink. Dark red. Pinching his nose wasn't going to stop what was coming.

Another spat, his lips stained. It wasn't getting better.

"Fuck," he breathed to himself, nasally and awkward. Whatever needed to come out, was coming out.

So he gave up.

Leaning back over the sink, Hayes let go of his nostrils and pushed air through them, as hard as he could. He felt a gelatinous mass rush through his sinuses and out of his nose, smacking against the porcelain.

He fought hard to catch his breath. His eyes watered. His dark, messy mustache was combed with blood.

But the nosebleed had stopped.

Dabbing his eyes with tissue, he looked into the sink, his breath catching up.

Inside sat two large, dark clots. Slipping down the porcelain slowly, like jelly from the jar. Each of them the size of his palm. A messy, disgusting, concerning image.

But he could breathe.

A grotesque experience, but an enormous relief had followed. A pressure lifted inside his skull.

"Jesus fucking christ," he gasped.

Sure the bleeding was over, he pulled the bathrobe off his broad, tired frame, moved toward his shower, and turned it on.

"I'm not joining the Love Convoy."

Vickie Hall stared at him like a silent, crazed mannequin.

He stared back, secretly afraid, muscles tense in case she transformed into some sort of succubus.

Her stare was...terrifying.

"Hayes...." she finally whispered. "Think about your future here..."

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," he said abruptly, hands slapping to the wooden bench and standing up quickly. "You should probably go."

"Haaaaayes"

"Go," he insisted, pointing to the door. "We're done here, Vickie. Go find some other fucking simp to join your circus."

A death glare followed. But more unnervingly, a weak smile.

Pretty Pink stood, and dared to press a hand against Hanlon's broad chest.

"Some day, Hayes," she said.

"Some day."

"Hey, 'Liv? I'm sorry. It...it happened again?"

Hayes, with his hair wet from the shower, paced inside his Las Vegas suite.

"Holy shit, seriously? How long has it been?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Years since it was this bad."

"Were there more clots?"

He nodded to himself before replying to his older sister.

"Yeah. There were."

"Jesus, Hayes, are you going to go see someone?"

"I don't know, probably. But hey, 'Liv? I know I've been pushing you a little bit, but I'm serious..."

Reluctantly, Hayes collected his glass of melted ice, pitching it and retrieving a fresh handful from the freezer.

Ashamed, he found the bottle of gin, and poured heavy.

"...it would be really good if you were here."