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Time’s a-ticking.
The eerie reminder rang in AJ’s head almost as often as the beat of a heart, the sigh of a breath. He wanted to believe that it was impossible his career could flatline on Saturday, but with the contract signed for a career match, the dreadful possibility — however small — existed.
In the meantime, all AJ could do was soak in each and every moment, build some hot momentum, and maybe check off a goal or two from his career bucket list. His match with Shinsuke at Saturday Night’s Main Event was extraordinary, but he could still up the ante. There was still time. For example, starting one last reign as the World Heavyweight Champion sounded like a pretty good way to end a frigid Monday night in Toronto.
The two may not have had a singles match in twenty-odd years, but AJ knew Punk well enough to get what he wanted. One wry jab in the middle of the ring, and suddenly “Cult of Personality” was blaring and the champ was striding down the ramp. To be fair, the jab was barely a jab — nobody was phenomenal like AJ, and that included Punk. The truth didn't detract from Punk's greatness. He was just different.
AJ’s mind was dashing a mile a minute once the match was made official: a main event challenge for the World Heavyweight championship. He smiled humbly, calmly as his buddies backstage patted him on the back, but for the first time all week, he desperately needed the clock to hurry up.
The show couldn't possibly drag any slower, and after much huffing, puffing, and psyching up, he found himself sitting on a crate in a quiet corridor, half-heartedly watching a tiny monitor and fiddling with his newest pair of wrestling gloves. Having been worn for just a handful of matches, they were still as firm and crisp as a pair straight from the box. Sliding them over his fingers, he could only think of how much they could be worn in, how the contrast colour was a little different, a little brighter than usual: a fresh sky blue. By the time he took his final bow from wrestling, the logos on the palms would be flaking. Many chapters remained to be written in his career; he just had to get through Saturday first — and before that, he had a championship to win. Good times were on the way.
A distant cry slashed through AJ’s rumination: a husky, furious, “Fucking fuck!”
The voice belonged to Punk, ever the rabble rouser, but oddly enough, AJ heard no impassioned response. After waiting a few silent seconds, he hopped off his perch and headed towards the garage, the source of the scream. Intuition would have usually steered him away from the sound of needless drama, but with their title match so imminent, AJ was inclined to investigate Punk's cry.
Amid the grey clutter, the crates and folding chairs, the champ’s tall figure was easy to find. He stood alone, panting against the concrete wall, his cheeks red as the exit sign above him, his hands shoved deep in a puffer coat. The main event was less than two hours away, yet his appearance showed no signs of preparation.
“You okay, man?” AJ asked from a distance.
Punk’s hazel eyes opened, confused for a blink before he found his upcoming opponent. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, man. Yeah.”
He hesitated to say more, though his jaw hung open, breathing shallowly. The nearby stadium cheers were subdued to a happy hum from where they stood, scarcely filling the awkward silence (not to mention the awkward distance). AJ smiled uncertainly and stepped closer, but before he could speak, Punk twisted with a full-body shiver.
“Geez, it’s fucking cold out there!” Punk finally admitted, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls.
The apprehension melted away as AJ snorted. “Huh? Is that it?” he giggled, “The Chicago-made man can't handle the Canadian cold?”
“Have you been out there?” Punk huffed.
AJ shrugged dismissively. He had been strategic in avoiding the brutal outdoors since leaving Montreal on Sunday morning.
Punk rolled his eyes and leaned into the door behind him, pushing it open. The threshold, leading to a lifeless parking lot, invited a thrush of icy wind that attacked AJ like a million freezing needles.
“Mercy! That ain't fair!” AJ yelped, hugging his arms over his bare chest. While Punk was bundled in his puffer coat and jeans, AJ only had his spandex tights and gloves to protect him.
Punk snickered at AJ’s reaction as he stepped forward, allowing the door to fall shut. The vicious wind abruptly cut off, but AJ continued to rub his arms, a desperate attempt to generate some warm friction.
“You see what I mean?” Punk chuckled, flashing his trademark supercilious grin. “I was barely out there a minute before my fingers froze over. I forgot my tape in the tour bus.” He produced a roll of tape from his pocket, but his pink, trembling fingers nearly dropped it.
“Aw, shoot, man. You are freezing,” AJ sighed. “You want my gloves to warm up?”
Punk's eyes widened, his brows raising incredulous lines on his forehead as he hesitantly pointed to AJ’s gloved hands.
“Those?” he squeaked.
AJ chortled at the presumptuousness. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I mean my winter gloves. They're in my locker.”
“Oh, right. I’m okay, though—” Punk started to say, but before he could utter some needlessly polite nonsense, AJ took his hands in his and started rubbing them together. They were frigid and stiff as ice, but the gentle friction quickly loosened them up, just as it had warmed AJ a minute prior.
Twenty years ago, he never would have been so familiar with Punk, never would have reached for his hand or even sought him out in the first place, but the guy had a way of inspiring brazenness in others. Now that they were something like friends, AJ was emboldened to be more hospitable than he would have normally been to an upcoming opponent. That was the power of CM Punk.
“Dude, it's not that deep. I'll be fine,” Punk said, though his creeping smile betrayed him and he didn't retract his hands. This smile wasn't proud, but sincere, softening the usual sharpness of his portrait.
“You’re not hinging on any excuses when I beat you up tonight,” AJ teased. The words slipped from his mouth before he could filter them.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Punk casually nodded, following AJ’s lead. “Well, the same goes for you, Mr. Saturday Night Main Event. No excuses, ‘cause I'm gonna win.”
Feigning offense, AJ released Punk's hands, but neither man could suppress their smile.
“Alright, alright,” AJ clicked his tongue and raised a solemn hand. “I'll promise you this. If you beat me tonight, I'll let you wear my legit gloves come Monday.”
“Wow, how sweet of you,” Punk hummed. He was still rubbing his rosy hands together, seemingly soothed by the motion.
“Too sweet, really,” AJ tutted. As their coyness filled the air, warming the cool, dim garage, he couldn't help but speak in motto, corny as it was.
A brief, tender silence fell over the pair. Being promised a match with Punk just to find friendly wrinkles around the hazel eyes he had first encountered decades ago, eyes he used to hate, AJ had never felt so simultaneously spry and weathered. The vigor prevailed — after all, he would never be this young again. Punk, soaring on the same wavelength, extended his pinkie for a promise that AJ happily obliged.
“Well then, with all this on the line, I'd better start getting ready. It's almost clobbering time,” Punk said, tapping a finger to his wrist.
After another lingering moment, heavy and warm with unspoken fondness and electric excitement for their upcoming match, the two parted ways, with Punk rhythmically tossing his tape up and down as he strolled towards the locker room.
AJ, rooted in his place, took a long, pensive look at his pristinely gloved hands before beginning to stretch for the second time that night. Just like that, he was back to counting down the seconds. Stretching. Breathing. Waiting. The clock continued its faithful stride, and AJ wondered if he had ever been so excited about the future, so unafraid of what it dared to bring.