The Struggle and the Joy We Fight For

“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.” - Jane Austen ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dust particles floated through the late-afternoon sun, a late-autumn haze hanging over the family property. The air, heavy with the scent of dry earth and cut grass, vibrated with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. Scott, shirtless, sweat slicking his torso, drove a sledgehammer into a colossal tractor tire. Muscles, rippled and taut, bunch in his arms, shoulders, and back with each descending strike. The rubber groaned, absorbing the blow, sending a dull tremor up through the hammer to his hands. He moved with a practiced grace, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. He flipped the tire. Its immense weight strained his frame, a grunt escaping his lips as he heaved, rolling it forward a few feet before dropping it with a shuddering thump. He repeated the motion, a relentless, primal workout. The gravel driveway, long and winding, stretched behind him, leading to their modest ranch house, its porch swing swaying gently in the unseen breeze. Beyond the picket fence, the small barn stood silently, a trio of ancient trucks rusting peacefully nearby. Later, the tractor tire lay still, vanquished for the moment. Scott moved to a stack of splintered railroad ties. He hoisted one on his shoulder, the rough wood digging into his skin, and began a series of lunges, crossing the field where withered stalks of last season’s corn still stood. Each step was deliberate, his core engaged, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the property line. His chest burned, his legs ached, but the discomfort was a welcome companion, a testament to his purpose. He wasn’t just lifting weights; he was lifting the weight of his own expectations, the weight of a friendship strained. The old Ford pickup truck, its engine a familiar rumble, crunched its way down the driveway. Emma steered it expertly, pulling to a stop beside the barn. She cut the engine, the sudden silence amplified by the faint clink-clink of metal coming from the house. Her eyes scanned the field, finding Scott, a lone, determined figure against the setting sun. His form, sculpted by years of discipline, moved with an intensity that tugged at her. She found her father on the porch swing, a worn baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He sat motionless, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling beside him. The clinking sound was his spoon stirring the last bits of sugar. He looked thinner, his face etched deeper with lines than she remembered from her last visit. “Rough day?” Emma’s voice was soft, concern in her tone. He grunted, pushing himself up slowly, joints protesting. “Every day’s a rough day when you can’t work your own land.” He gestured vaguely toward the field with his chin. “Your brother’s making up for it, though.” Emma watches Scott, now engaged in a brutal set of sprints, carrying two heavy buckets filled with rocks. His feet pounded the earth, his effort steady. “He looks… fierce.” Her father shifted, settling back into the swing. “He’s got something to prove.” “To Kerry? Or to himself?” “Both, I reckon.” He took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes distant. “That boy’s got a fire in him, always has. Just needed something to ignite it.” Emma’s gaze sharpened, a knot tightening in her stomach. “Is it healthy, though? This… obsession?” He snorted, a dry, dismissive sound. “Obsession? He’s training for a championship, Emma. Not baking cookies.” “It’s more than that, Dad. It’s Kerry. They’re best friends. After last week… the miscommunication at the end of the match…” She trailed off, remembering the frustrated scowl on Scott’s face during the broadcast. “He was so angry then. Hurt.” “He was.” Her father’s voice was flat. “But anger’s a good fuel. Burns clean, if you know how to use it.” “And does he?” She pushed off the porch railing, walking to the edge of the field, closer to Scott’s path. “He’s always been so straightforward. Black and white. This situation… It’s gray. Kerry’s position, his title… It’s complicated.” Scott passed them, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face. He offered a strained nod, a quick, tight smile, before turning at the fence line and sprinting back with the rock-filled buckets swinging like pendulums. “He’s starting to understand,” her father said, his voice softer now, watching his son. “Took him a minute. He thought Kerry was just… being selfish. But he’s figuring it out.” “What’s there to figure out?” Emma turned back to her father. “Kerry doesn’t want to lose. That’s it. But he couldn’t say he’d be happy if Scott won.” “And what’s wrong with that?” Their father’s eyes, though tired, held a spark of his old fire. “You think a champion just rolls over? You think he should be happy to lose his belt, his livelihood, his pride, to his best friend? That’s not a champion, Emma. That’s a pushover.” Emma blinked, surprised by the sudden intensity. “So you’re saying Scott should just… accept that Kerry’s gonna fight him like an enemy?” “No,” he corrected, his voice firm. “He should respect it. He should understand that Kerry’s pushing him to be his absolute best. To earn it. Not to be handed it. That’s friendship, in their business. Steel sharpening steel.” Scott dropped the buckets with a resounding clatter, his hands shaking slightly. He leaned over, hands on his knees, gulping air. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but his eyes, when he straightened, were clear, focused. He walked over, grabbing a water bottle from a cooler. “Hey, Em.” His voice was raspy, a little breathless. He drained half the bottle in a single gulp. “Hey, yourself.” She studied his face, searching for the raw anger she’d seen last week. It wasn’t there. Only a deep-seated resolve. “You’re working yourself to the bone.” “Got to.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Kerry won’t be taking it easy.” “He won’t.” Emma’s voice was quiet. “He wouldn’t tell you he’d be happy for you if you won.” Scott let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. And I was… pissed. I thought, ‘What kind of friend does that?’” He looked out at the field, the setting sun painting it in hues of orange and purple. “But then I thought about it.” “And?” Emma prompted, leaning forward. “And I think I get it now.” Scott met her eyes, his holding a new maturity. “He’s the champ. He’s worked his whole life to be where he is. He’s not just gonna hand it over because we’re friends. He can’t. It wouldn’t be right. To him. To the title. To the fans. Plus, I don’t wanna win it that way.” “So you’re not mad anymore?” Scott shook his head slowly. “No. Not mad. I respect it. I have to. It makes me want to work harder. To prove that I deserve to take it from him. Not just because I’m Scott, his buddy. But because I’m the best.” His father nodded, a flicker of pride flashing in his eyes. “See? What’d I tell ya?” “But what if you lose?” Emma’s concern was still evident. “What does that do to… everything?” Scott shrugged, a slight lift of his shoulders. “Then I lose. But I’ll know I gave it everything I have. And he’ll know he fought the best version of me.” He paused, a different kind of intensity entering his voice. “I don’t want him to hold back. Not an inch. That’s what I want from him. And he deserves nothing less from me.” He turned toward the barn, picking up a pitchfork. “Besides, I’ve still got chores. Dad, you want me to clear out that old hay?” His father protested with a wave of his hand. “Go on. I’ll get it.” “No,” Scott insisted, his voice firm. “You rest. I’ve got it.” He started toward the barn, the pitchfork a natural extension of his arm. “Got to keep the mobility up. Good for the core.” Emma watched him go, a strange mix of relief and renewed worry washing over her. He seemed to have found peace with the situation, a deeper understanding. But the sheer physical toll he was taking… She looked at her father and saw him beaming with pride as he looked toward his son. “He’s pushing himself to the limit,” she murmured to her father. “He always does.” “He has to,” her father replied, his eyes still following Scott. “Like I said, he’s got a lot to prove. To Kerry, sure. But yes, to himself, too. To that little boy who watched his mama fade, and promised…” There was a catch in his throat, but he straightened up and pulled it together. “...and promised himself he’d be strong enough to never let anyone he loves feel that kind of pain again.” Emma’s breath caught. The unspoken grief, a constant undercurrent in their lives, rippled between them. Her mother’s absence was something they’d learned to navigate, but it was a wound that never really closed. Scott was so young when she died. He had carried that loss differently, channeled it into a relentless pursuit of strength. “He just wants to make her proud,” Emma whispered, her voice thick. “He already does,” her father said, his voice gruff again, but with an unmistakable tenderness. He pushed himself off the swing, a slight wince on his face. “Now, I think I’ll go watch him wrestle that hay. Make sure he doesn’t break his back before the big match.” He walked slowly toward the barn, a slight limp in his stride. Emma stayed on the porch, watching the last rays of sun dip below the horizon. The rhythmic swish-swish of the pitchfork, the occasional grunt from Scott, drifted from the barn. The air cooled. Scott, in his quiet determination, was working through all of this in his own way - with the thoughtfulness of a simple but pure motive, and the choice to believe that in doing his best, in honoring his friend by showing the respect he would want shown to him, he was doing the right thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “It had long since come to my attention that people of accomplishment rarely sat back and let things happen to them. They went out and happened to things.” - Leonardo da Vinci ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve been thinking things through an awful lot, buddy. There are a lot of emotions running through me right now, and it isn’t always easy for me to sort through these feelings. I’ll be honest. When you suggested we train separately, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I never considered for one moment that any of this would be a problem. I thought you’d be happy for me. I thought you’d be thrilled, in fact. When you weren’t, I didn’t know what to do with that information. For over a year, I was by your side, accompanying you to ringside, supporting you every step of the way, bending over backwards to make sure you succeeded, or at least, making sure you had every fair chance to succeed. I know I haven’t been a professional wrestler as long as you have, but I know our business is full of people trying to take shortcuts or selfishly taking advantage of others to get ahead instead of working harder, training more, and working on their craft. That’s how I go through life. I have learned so much over the last few years. A golden opportunity fell into my lap when I wandered into the company of Vae Victis, and it’s been a little bit like going to the professional wrestling equivalent of Harvard. You took me under your wing when you didn’t have to, and I’ll never be able to repay you for that. We’ve had a hell of a good time together, too. We built a partnership that’s unmatched in PRIME, if you ask me. We built more than that. We built a friendship, a real friendship that should stand the test of time. I may not be the brightest man around, but I know enough to know that isn’t something you find every day. So often we see people teaming up or calling each other friends, only to one day see them turn on each other and rip it apart in the name of ambition, or, if you want to put a nicer spin on it, friendly competition. I never considered it, not once, and I guess that makes me naive. You caught me off guard, and I guess something like fear flashed through my mind. It certainly made me feel foolish. People get lost in this business. It’s a harsh thing, this life we lead, moving from one town to the next with the pressure of success hanging constantly over our heads. One false move and you disappear forever into the history books. Just another flash in the pan. People feel the tug of expectation, and they crumble under the pressure. Look at what happened to Hayes Hanlon. He came onto the scene like a lightning bolt, taking the company by storm, shooting to the top as fast as any one wrestler ever had before. But by the time he got in the ring with me, he was whining, complaining, looking at me like I was a joke, talking about the next match before ours had even started. When I made him submit, it all happened so fast. A single opening and a takedown into the figure four, and the next thing I know, there’s a cracking sound and he’s slapping at the mat. It was all such a haze, and when I found my way back in the dressing room, no one was more excited than you were. I couldn’t get the smile off my face that night, not just because I won and would be moving on to the next round, but also because my best friend was so proud of me. When I lost to Ivan, you were there, too. I was down, but I felt strong. A little more every week, I felt strong. You picked me back up, got me back on my feet, and I learned everything I could from that loss. It was a hell of a match, and it was close enough that it got me my very first number one contender’s match. The lessons I had learned prepared me well. Steve Harrison was tough, too, but I managed to do just enough to win. More lessons learned. Those lessons were invaluable when I found myself across the ring from Chandler Tsonda. He had just won the Almasy. He has his shot at the Universal Title at Colossus. But something had changed in you. We trained like we always do, and I was too engrossed in my preparation to notice it at the time, but you pulled back. Chandler Tsonda didn’t think much of me, but I beat him anyway. It wasn’t easy. It never is. Each and every time, I’m fighting for my life. Apparently, it was so devastating to his ego that he has simply chosen to pretend like it never happened ever since. Before the match, he practically patted me on the head, tousled my hair, and acted like he was doing a neighbor kid the favor of showing him the ropes. But I beat him. It was the biggest win of my entire career so far, and I don’t think that can be denied. Chandler Tsonda might become the Universal Champion, but he was beaten by Scott Hunter. He can live in whatever fantasyland makes him feel okay with himself, but it happened. It happened, and I expected you to be happy about it. But you weren’t. I didn’t understand it. I know I’m a slow learner, but I desperately want to learn as often as I have the chance. So it’s like I said, I’ve been thinking. And I’m starting to think I might have judged you too harshly. I’m not entirely sure yet. But I don’t think I thought things through from your perspective. I never listen to outside criticism. That’s one thing I know better than to do, but I heard someone say something last week that stayed with me. They said, ‘Scott Hunter’s standards for friendship might be unreasonable.’ So maybe I’m not being fair to you. I think you should have the right to properly defend your championship without feeling guilty. I think you can give everything you have to defeat your best friend and not be a jerk for it. I still don’t know what you really think about any of this. I guess I’m deciding to give you the benefit of the doubt, because I would want you to do the same for me. I’m choosing to trust you, I suppose, is what I’m trying to say. One thing is for sure: I will keep learning every lesson I can, train as hard as I can, and if I am capable of beating you for the Five Star Championship, that’s what I’ll do. Afterward, we’ll see what happens. If you win, I’m pretty sure I can be happy for you. I just have to trust that you’ll do me the same honors. We all have choices to make. But I only have control over my own. I’m choosing to trust you. That’s the person I want to be. I guess I’ll find out if you are the person I think you are, that I hope you are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. Sometimes they don’t have enough to fight with.” - Tamora Pierce ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The light in the office hummed, a flat, sterile sound that grated against Frank Hunter’s ears. The air, scrubbed clean of any scent but antiseptic, felt thin. His fingers, rough and weathered from a lifetime of wrenching metal and turning soil, traced the cool plastic armrest of the examination chair. A small tremor ran through them. Dr. Taylor, a man whose face was etched with the weariness of countless difficult conversations, offered a tight, professional smile. He carried a tablet, its screen glowing with stark, digital images. “Morning, Frank.” The doctor’s voice was soft. He pulled a stool closer. Frank grunted, a sound like gravel shifting. “Morning, Doc.” He stared at the images on the tablet. Swirls of gray and black, like storm clouds gathering. He knew what they meant. He’d seen enough of them. “The new scans came in,” Dr. Taylor began, his gaze flicking between the screen and Frank’s face. “We’re seeing… increased activity.” Frank’s jaw tightened. He knew “increased activity” meant the cancer was winning. He already felt it, a dull ache that burrowed deep into his bones, a constant, painful reminder of his condition. “How much activity?” He kept his voice flat, emotionless. Dr. Taylor sighed, a slow release of breath. “It’s spread, Frank. More lesions. Your spine. Your ribs. Even a few new spots in your pelvis.” He paused, his eyes, dark and heavy, met Frank’s. “The myeloma is advancing. Rapidly.” A cold knot tightened in Frank’s stomach. He’d fought this damn thing for over a year. Every treatment, every pill, every needle. He’d endured it for Scott and Emma. “So, what’s left?” Frank’s voice was barely a whisper. He watched the doctor’s mouth, waiting for the inevitable. “We have one more option. Aggressive radiation therapy.” Dr. Taylor spoke slowly, each word deliberate. “Localized, targeted. It’s a harsh regimen, Frank. You know the side effects. But it’s our best chance to halt this spread. To buy you more time.” Frank scoffed. “More time for what? To be a burden?” He shook his head, a slow, defiant movement. “I can barely get out of bed some days, Doc. The farm’s falling apart. Scott’s got his match coming up. Emma’s trying to keep everything together.” His eyes drifted to the window, to the distant, hazy Tampa sky. “Maybe it’s time to stop fighting.” The doctor leaned forward, his voice firm now. “Frank, we’re not talking about giving up. We’re talking about a treatment that could give you months, even a year, of a better quality of life. Time with your children. Time to see Scott, to watch him win.” Frank closed his eyes, picturing Scott in the ring. He heard Emma’s laughter, saw her determined chin. He couldn’t leave them. Not yet. “Scott’s match is next week,” he murmured, his eyes still shut. “I want to see that.” Dr. Taylor nodded, a flicker of something like hope in his eyes. “We can start after the match. It’ll be tough, Frank. But you’re tougher.” Frank opened his eyes, the weight of his decision settling heavily on his shoulders. He looked at the doctor, then back at the tablet. The storm clouds were still there, but now a faint, almost imperceptible sliver of light pierced through. He had to see his boy, see him thrive, see him win. After that, he’d decide.