Page 7 of Glorious Ruin
“I’m trying to connect with it now,” Silas continued, looking out at the reporters. “I don’t speak the language. I didn’t grow up in the culture, and sometimes it feels like I don’t have any right to claim it. But being here, feeling the energy of this place, I want to earn my spot here. To make this island proud on Sunday.”
The reporters loved it. I could already picture the crowd on Sunday night and the signs they would hold up in support. The citizens here loved him, even if he lived in total denial of it.
“He’s good on the mic.”
My jaw locked as Cora stepped up beside me, dressed in a very strappy, very short,very deliberatedress. She leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms.
“He’s the number one contender,” I said flatly, my eyes on Silas. “He’s supposed to be.”
“Sure.” Cora hummed before pushing off the wall and crowding my personal space. Her voice lowered while giving me a knowing, suggestive look. “You know, Cal, it’s Friday. You don’t have to play ice-king with me. The boys talk. I know I’m most definitely your type.”
My skin crawled. I turned my head to look at her, and my patience completely evaporated. It rubbed me the wrong way to know the locker room still gossiped about who I was before Silas came back. That man had been completely lost; he was nowhere near who I am today. I dropped my voice into a dangerous register. “You heard wrong.” “Oh, really? What’s your type then?”
I looked back at the stage and watched as Silas ran a hand through his hair, laughing at a reporter’s question. For the first time in my career, the heavy, suffocating cage of us always hiding felt like it was crushing my ribs. I was tired of the game. So fucking tired of concealing the best thing that ever happened to me.
“Stubborn, funny, with a smile that could light up a room,” I mumbled under my breath before snapping her way. "Look, Cora. I’m seeing someone. So back off.”
Cora stared at me for a total of three seconds before she laughed, assuming I was just playing up my “untouchable heel” persona.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, right, you’re seeing someone. Someone I’ve never seen around the arena. You never bring her to the after-parties, and you sure as hell don’t post—”
Coldly, I cut her off. “They prefer their privacy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, whoever she is, she’s keeping you on a tight leash.”
By noon, the press antics were over, and I was able to step out into the vibrant, sun-drenched streets of Old San Juan with Lena. I would rather have been walking these streets with Silas, holding his hand, but the island was crawling with dirt-sheet media.
“You’re pining,” Lena noted as she sipped an iced coffee. “It’s gross. But if it makes you feel any better, I know he’s miserable, too.”
I opened my mouth to tell her to shut up, but my eyes caught something on the table of a local artisan stall, and I stopped. Set atop the woven cloth was a rustic white stone pendant, strung on a dark brown, suede cord. Carved deeply into the stone was a striking, fierce sun with a face.
“That’s El Sol de Jayuya.” The older vendor smiled warmly. “The Taino Sun. It’s a symbol of the island. Of life, strength, and longevity.”
My chest tightened. Golden. Sun God. A symbol of life and strength. Those were the things that came to mind when I thought about Silas. He wanted to earn his spot here, but in my eyes, he already had.
“I’ll take it.”
When we arrived back at the resort ten minutes later, I stopped outside the locker rooms and handed the suede-wrapped package to Lena. “Slip this to him before the photo shoot.”
“You’re so lucky I support this incredibly high-maintenance romance.”
Fifteen minutes later, when I walked out toward the beach staging area, Lena was leaning against a production crate waiting for me. “Mission accomplished.”
“Did he open it?” I asked quietly.
“He did.” Lena smirked. “He looked like he was about to cry. Then he shoved it in his gear bag, and told me to tell you he loves you. But…some of the girls from the women’s division were walking out of the locker room exactly when I handed a secret, intimate little gift to the Golden Boy.”
“No.”
“Yep. The rumor is officially flying. The entire women’s locker room now thinks I’m sleeping with your boyfriend. Which makes me want to fucking throw up. Do people really not hear me refer to you guys as dads?”
I dragged a heavy hand down my face. “Evan is going to have an aneurysm.”
By two o’clock, the private beach was a chaotic, high-budget circus. Presley had insisted on reviving the early 2000s tradition of the UWF summer roster photo shoot. As awkward as standing mostly naked on a public beach surrounded by corporate synergy felt, the kid had made a good point in his pitch to Creative. It was a massive part of the summer season back in the day, and the fans wentabsolutely rabid for the rare instances when the men’s division participated in the sexy shoots, too.
I stripped down to a pair of tight, black swim trunks and stepped onto the glaring white sand. The photographer immediately pulled me toward the shoreline, insisting on extra shots in the water. The turquoise waves crashed against my waist, the dark contrast of the ocean amplifying the heavy black ink of the tattoos across my body.
I felt each lingering gaze boring into me from the shore. Several women stood a few yards down the beach, watching. Over the crashing waves, I caught their hushed, giggling ramblings. There were comments regarding my back, the cut of my obliques, and the way the water clung to my body.
