AN: As pointed out in the comments, you are right. I mixed up the names. I have went ahead and corrected it. Let me know if there are still a few errors. Thanks for the heads up.
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As Cal stepped through the curtain and made his way backstage, he immediately felt that something was off.
The vibe in the air was different.
Normally, after a big match, you'd hear wrestlers chatting, the production crew bustling about with equipment, someone arguing with a referee, or Lance barking orders at someone. But tonight, while there was still some movement, it seemed like several people were deliberately avoiding a certain spot.
Curious, Cal followed their gazes.
There was Vince, standing by the monitor station.
His arms were crossed.
His face was a blank slate.
Just that sight alone made Cal feel uneasy.
He slowed down his steps.
At first, he figured Vince was upset about the match. Losing the tag championships was tough enough. Maybe Vince thought they should have held onto the titles. Or perhaps he was frustrated about the breakup angle.
"Uh... Vince?" Cal ventured cautiously as he got closer. "Everything okay?"
Vince didn't respond.
Instead, he just kept staring at him.
The silence stretched on long enough that Cal started to feel genuinely anxious.
Finally, Vince broke the silence.
"Did you go to a bar after last week's show?"
The question completely threw Cal off balance.
"What?"
"A bar."
Vince's tone was steady.
"After last week's show."
Cal scratched the back of his neck, trying to gather his thoughts.
"Oh. Yeah."
"You sure about that?"
"I mean..." Cal shrugged, feeling a bit awkward. "I got pretty drunk, but yeah."
As soon as those words slipped out, Vince's face turned serious.
Cal instantly realized this conversation had shifted away from the match.
"Do you remember what went down that night?"
Cal frowned, trying to recall.
Honestly, he didn't.
A few fragments floated back.
Music. Drinks.
People buying rounds.
Someone hot firing questions at him.
And then... nothing.
The rest of the night was just a fog.
He remembered waking up the next morning with a pounding headache, but beyond that, it was all a blur.
"No," he finally said. "Not really."
Vince nodded slowly. Then he hit him with another question.
"Do you remember chatting about the burning car?"
Cal felt the color drain from his face.
For a moment, he thought he misheard.
"The what?"
"The burning car."
Vince stepped a little closer.
"The one that was behind the arena."
Cal's stomach knotted up.
"No."
Vince kept his gaze locked on him.
"No?" he echoed.
"I don't remember talking about it."
"Well, apparently someone does."
A wave of dread washed over Cal.
Vince continued. "A woman from that bar remembers you quite well."
Cal's heart sank.
"She said you spent most of the night discussing what happened behind the arena."
Each word felt like a weight pressing down on him.
"No..."
"Apparently, yes."
Cal stared at him, his mind racing in a panic.
Had he really done that?
The more he pondered it, the more it seemed possible. He couldn't recall half of the night. For all he knew, he might have spent hours chatting away.
"I was drunk," Cal blurted out. "I didn't mean to spill anything."
"I don't care."
Vince's sharp reply made Cal flinch.
For a moment, silence hung in the air.
The backstage area had grown noticeably quieter.
Several officials nearby had completely stopped their conversations.
They were pretending not to eavesdrop. But nobody was fooling anyone.
"If I tell my employees to keep something under wraps," Vince said in a calm tone, "and one of them goes off and spills it to strangers, what does that say?"
Cal hung his head.
"It says my instructions don't matter."
"Vince, come on—"
"It tells people they can disregard what I say whenever they feel like it."
Vince's voice remained steady. That somehow made it even worse.
"I can't run a company like that."
A sense of dread began to creep into Cal's chest.
Slowly, Vince reached into his jacket.
Cal already sensed he wasn't going to like what was coming.
A folded document emerged.
Vince handed it to him.
Cal stared at it, his hands suddenly feeling numb. Then he caught sight of the heading.
Termination Notice.
For several seconds, he just stood there.
Looking. Reading.
Not fully grasping what it meant.
Then the reality hit him.
This wasn't a warning. This wasn't a suspension. This wasn't a fine.
He was being let go.
"No."
The word slipped out before he even realized it.
"Vince..."
His voice wavered slightly.
"Please."
Cal felt the weight of his mistake hanging in the air, thick and suffocating.
"That won't happen again," he promised, but the words felt hollow.
Vince stayed quiet, his silence louder than any argument.
Cal took a step closer, desperation creeping into his voice. "I'll do whatever you want."
Still, nothing.
That heavy silence cut deeper than any shout could.
Finally, Cal turned to Lance Dawson, the seasoned promoter who had looked uneasy since the conversation started.
"Lance," he said, hoping for a glimmer of support.
But Lance just looked away, avoiding eye contact.
"Come on, man," Cal urged, trying to break through the tension.
A nervous laugh escaped him. "Say something."
Lance shifted uncomfortably, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed like he might step in.
But then he sighed, the weight of the moment settling in. "Cal..."
That single word hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
Cal got it. No one was coming to his rescue.
His shoulders drooped, and for the first time since joining IRW, a wave of genuine panic washed over him.
He needed this job more than anything.
Meanwhile, out in the arena, the show went on, blissfully unaware of the turmoil backstage.
The fans were completely absorbed in the action unfolding in the ring.
"Randal Savage and Grant Austin are going all out tonight!" Noah exclaimed from the commentary booth.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Grant Austin was delivering the performance of a lifetime, catching Savage off guard with a sudden dropkick that sent the veteran reeling through the ropes and crashing to the floor.
The audience went wild.
Even Noah sounded taken aback. "Grant Austin has him in trouble!"
Without missing a beat, Austin sprang into action.
He hit the ropes, soared over them, and collided with Savage in a flying attack that sent both men crashing into the barricade.
The crowd erupted into chants, their excitement palpable.
"Aus-tin!"
"Aus-tin!"
"Aus-tin!"
For a fleeting moment, it truly seemed like an upset was on the horizon.
But Savage, having spent countless years in the ring, wasn't about to let things slip away that easily.
Every time Austin started to build some momentum, Savage had a trick up his sleeve to halt it.
A quick jab to the eye while the referee was looking the other way.
A sharp knee to the ribs.
A brutal clothesline that nearly flipped Austin inside out.
Piece by piece, the seasoned pro clawed his way back into control.
Yet, Austin wouldn't stay down.
He kicked out once.
Then again.
And again.
By the match's conclusion, even those fans who had come in rooting for Savage found themselves rallying behind the young underdog.
Sadly, having heart alone wasn't enough.
After nearly fifteen grueling minutes, Austin charged in one time too many.
Savage caught him and hoisted him up, then set him up just right.
Then Savage ascended the ropes.
The crowd was on their feet.
Savage leaped from the top turnbuckle, delivering a crushing diving elbow straight into Austin's chest.
The sound of the impact reverberated throughout the arena.
"Diving elbow!" Irvin shouted.
Noah shot up from his seat.
"That's it!"
Savage hooked Austin's leg.
One.
Two.
Three.
The bell rang.
Savage's theme music blared through the arena as he celebrated his victory.
Austin lay on the mat, worn out and defeated.
But as the crowd cheered for both competitors, it was clear that Grant Austin had gained something significant that night.
Respect.