Tingle and Spasm.

ReVival 87.

Hot air spewed from his nostrils like burning sulfur.

Sweat poured relentlessly from his brow as he waded through Argyle; a clamber, almost. An angered, crushed stagger.

Quick breaths and a terrible scowl were sign enough for stagehands and techs to get out of the way, lest they receive a heavy shoulder.

Dark eyes darted, pupils gigantic, desperate for escape.

Joe spotted him from afar. His smile, well earned after his victory over The Muse, dropped instantly.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Perhaps against his better judgment, Fontaine decided to step in front of the storm, making way down the hall to head him off.

“Hayes,” he said, putting a palm up to Hanlon’s chest. “Hayes, it’s cool, man. Take a breath–”

“Get the fuck out of my way, Joe,” his broad chest resisting Joe’s palm.

“You’re alright, man,” he reassured, backpedaling as Hayes continued to plod forward. “It wasn’t your night…”

Joe reached to place a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

And Hayes recoiled.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”

He drove a big palm into Joe’s chest, sending him to the floor.

Surrounding staff prepared to call Dam.

Shocked at his own action, Hayes remained wild-eyed and fuming. Joe pushed himself up to a sitting position, aware of his stable-mate’s state of mind, but stunned all the same.

And there it was.

A squeeze in the chest.

“Joe, I’m…I’m…”

He couldn’t get it out. His voice was gone.

A pressure around his heart. Fluttering palpitations.

Spasms in his forearms, and around his neck.

Tingling in the fingers, like static.

His vision shrunk. His breath quickened. Heart rate sky rocketed.

Legs weak.

He staggered as Joe pushed himself to his feet.

“Fuck,” said Fontaine. “Fuck. Hayes, are you okay?”

Hayes planted a hand to his own chest, as if trying to keep his chest cavity together. He placed his other hand against the wall for balance.

“Joe,” Hayes mouthed, barely a sound escaping his throat. “I…I don’t know what’s…”

Fontaine gripped a nearby staffer by the collar. “Go get Astrid,” he demanded. “GO!”

Joe put his hands on Hayes’s broad shoulders, guiding him to a nearby storage box against the wall.

“I’ve got you, dude,” Joe assured as Hayes sat heavily. Hayes kept clutching at his chest with one hand, and pumped his tingling fingers with the other.

“I’ve got you.”

I had my first panic attack when I was seventeen.

It was at rehearsal for a play. 'Grease.' I was playing Danny Zuko.

I had peeked out of the curtain, into the auditorium, and everything just felt...

...tight. Squeezed.

I still got out there, though. Still went on with the show. Still got a shitty review in the West Linn newspaper.

I don't know why I'm telling you that, Tom. Or why'd you care.

But I don't think it's a secret. I wanted to beat Daytona. So fucking bad. I wanted that chance to match the Wrecking Ball.

But I came up short. As is the theme, lately.

I wonder how often you've peaked out into the auditorium.

And felt the same.

“Okay. Walk me through what happened. What you were feeling.”

Hayes stuffed his hands into his gray hoodie. It was a question he wasn’t ready to answer. A week had passed since his loss to Daytona Diamonds at ReVival 87, and the scene in Argyle shortly after.

But Doctor Neilsen had a warm air about him, though. Older, clean shaven. Short brown curls, graying. And a somehow familiar pair of brown eyes. Like their concern was absolutely genuine. The office was comfortable; a simple desk, green paint on the walls. A leather chair to try to relax in. Hayes curled his lip, head shaking slowly back and forth.

“I thought I was having a heart attack,” he admitted, flatly.

“That’s more common than you think,” Dr. Nielsen replied with a weak smile. “You’re thirty years old?”

“Just turned thirty-one. In April.”

“Right,” Nielsen corrected himself. “No history of heart disease in the family? Diabetes? High blood pressure?”

“No, nothing like that,” Hayes said, honestly. “Maybe some high blood pressure on my dad’s side, but not much to point at.”

Ben Nielsen nodded, and made a note.

“It was the…spasms. The tingling in my fingers…”

Saying the words brought him right back. Instantly. To the staggered walk from the ring. To shoving Joe to the floor. To the static in his fingertips and the pressure in his chest.

Anxiety was a very familiar feeling to Hayes. He’d carried it with him from West Linn, Oregon to Las Vegas, Nevada, and held onto it through most of his first year with PRIME. Episodes flared in high school, college, and Pacific Northwest Wrestling.

But what happened in New Jersey, at ReVival 87 in Newark, was different.

“That’s what–”

“Scared you?” The doctor asked, finishing the sentence for him.

Hayes exhaled.

“Yeah.”

“What did you think was going to happen?”

Hayes looked to the floor, but didn’t reply.

“Hayes?” asked Nielsen.

“I–”

Hayes looked up from his chair, with a vacant, somber gaze.

“I honestly thought I was about to fucking die.”

Doctor Nielsen offered an understanding nod, and tapped his pen to his chin. He stood, walking around to the front of his desk and sitting against it.

“You know,” he said. “While the symptoms are always a little different, there’s always one shared feeling.”

Hayes knew the answer before the doctor could reveal it.

“Impending doom,” Nielsen said, lifting his eyebrows cheekily.

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Hayes, already wanting to squeeze his fingers together.

“And what’s that?” asked the doctor.

“You’re going to tell me I had a panic attack.”

A quiet nod.

“That’s exactly what I was going to tell you. Why doesn’t that surprise you?”

Hayes snorted. “Because I’ve had them before.”

Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Were you going to share that?”

“I don’t know. This one just felt…different. Like it was wrong. When I was younger I would get short of breath, or feel my chest get tight. But the spasms, the tingles. That made me feel like a clot was going to push into my brain or something.”\

“And that, my friend, is what we call ‘cortisol,’” Nielsen declared. “You’re into your thirties now, and from everything you’ve shared; the work pressure, the lawsuit from these podcasts guys, your…extra curricular activities.”

Hayes exhaled sheepishly. He hadn’t even mentioned the video. He wondered if the doctor knew.

“Your body, your brain, is in fight-or-flight mode. Probably more often than not. You let that build up enough? Especially after a big match, dehydration, maybe shitty sleep? That’s a perfect recipe for a panic to set in.”

Hayes had little to offer in response.

“Trust me,” Ben smiled. “All of this is far more common than you think.”

That provided at least some measure of comfort.

“Still,” said Dr. Nielsen with a finger in the air. “I think you could benefit from a prescription.”

He collected a small pad of paper and started scribbling, then tore a sheet and handed it to Hayes.

“I’m writing you a script for Alprazolam,” he said. “It should help in the short term, would you find a little balance with everything else.”

“What's ‘Alprazolam?’ I've never heard of it.”

“That's the fancy chemical name,” said the doctor. “Most people know it as ‘Xanax.’”

Hayes recoiled, and felt his chest tighten.

“I…I don’t think…” he stammered.

A drug abused for so long. A little white bar he’d conquered years ago. His mind raced to high school. College. To all the times Paul provided it to him to keep Little Brother from spinning.

“Hmm?” the doctor queried.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

Paul sat quietly in the front seat of the rental car.

His own pair of dark Hanlon eyes gazed out in front the health clinic, waiting for Little Brother to emerge.

Shaking his long hair loose, he thought back to the night of ReVival 87.

A phone call from Astrid Fihlguud.

Texts from Joe Fontaine and Cecilworth Farthington.

Racing to the hospital.

Finding Hayes on the verge of hyperventilation. A sight he'd seen so many times before.

He checked his phone. Paul had been reaching out to lawyers for the last two weeks on his brother's behalf. Danny Spanke and the "Hard Bod Pod" crew had every intention to move forward with charges against Hayes, and Paul wasn't about to give them a lay-up.

But that would take time.

For now, Paul just wanted to see Hayes stroll out of the clinic under his own power. And after some time, he did.

Paul smiled behind his heavy beard as Hayes stepped through the doors and into the parking lot, stepping across the pavement toward their car. He tried to hide that smile as Little Brother climbed into the passenger's seat.

"Cancer? Malaria?" Paul joked, poorly.

Hayes held up his script. Paul knew what "Alprazolam" meant.

"Panic attack," Big Brother stated.

"Yeah," Little Brother confirmed.

"Well. We've been here before."

"I know. I'm just scared of--"

Hayes flicked his prescription with his middle finger.

"--this."

Paul sighed, and clapped a hand to his brother's shoulder.

"Don't worry, bro."

He pressed the button to ignite the car's ignition.

"I think I can help you handle it now."

Truthfully, Tom? I don't know how I feel about this match. I've beat you before. There's nothing on the line.

But I wish there were. That's when I'm at my best. Usually. Daytona shit all over that trope.

But this match? It feels like...nothing. 

If I win? It's expected. It doesn't change much for either of us.

And if you get me? You could consider that big win. But my loss would just carry on the theme from the last two years. Maybe that's expected, too.

I just don't know if I care that much anymore, Tom. I really don't.

A few years ago, if I had lost to you? It might have crushed me. But if you manage to pin me this time around? I'm really not sure if I'd care that much.

I already missed my latest shot. I doubt I'll get another one any time soon.

So good luck. I'm honestly not sure what version of me you'll get at ReVival 89. 

I might be so apathetic that you'll be able to bounce around and pin me clean.

Or.

I might be pretty fucking pissed off.

And I'll absolutely fucking bury you.

I guess we'll see. 

In the meantime, I'll try not to have another panic attack. I'll hydrate, and sleep, and keep the extra curriculars at bay.

But man, all that shit adds up. And I'll either let it swallow me whole...

...or I'll have to take it out on someone else. 

I wish I could say I'm sorry that you're next in line.