“Oh shit, they make them,” Rebel declared. “I’m ordering ones for everyone in the band.”
“Better order a few extra,” I warned. “In case you forget what you have on and pitch it into the crowd.”
“Fuck! Good point,” he remarked.
He was infamous for tossing t-shirts or taking them off backstage if they made it through a show, signing them, and giving them away to fans. Most of them were old metal shirts and skater tees pillaged from thrift and consignment shops. He had dozens of them packed in a trunk in the equipment trailer and still insisted on getting new ones whenever he had the opportunity.
“It doesn’t take much to make you happy,” I teased.
“Nope.”
“Doesn’t take much to amuse me either,” he said, pointing his camera my way.
I tried to flip him off and ended up yelping and flopping around like a fish when Steel pinched my ass.
“How did this become a tag team match?" I complained, reaching to rub the sting away when Steel brushed my fingers aside and did it for me.
The cutoff sweatpants I had on were so worn I’d put on underwear beneath them. Now I wished I hadn’t as he softlycaressed my rear while we watchedBlack Panther.
“You’ve got your matches wrong,” Rebel corrected, “This would be a triple threat match, where it’s every man for himself, except when two of them are double-teaming another.”
“Fine, then I’m calling a foul on the play,” I grumbled.
“Can’t switch sports in the middle of the game,” Steel declared.
“He’s right,” Rebel said. “It even says so on the internet.”
“So it can’t possibly be wrong then, now can it?” I snarked, rolling my eyes, even while I settled in and got comfortable.
Steel’s fingers carding through my hair again helped, as did his rumbling voice when he addressed Rebel.
“Now what do you know about triple threat matches?” Steel asked.
“I know all the matches,” Rebel said, “especially the hardcore ones.”
“Really, how am I only finding out now that you’re a wrestling fan?” Steel asked.
“Because I’m picky and don’t like the current programming,” Rebel replied.
“Gotcha.”
“I admit to knowing absolutely nothing about it unless you count binging episodes ofCelebrity Death Match,” I admitted.
“The Claymation thing?” Steel asked. “I remember seeing something about that.”
“It’s fucking hilarious,” Rebel said. “I’m sure we can find episodes on a streaming service if you wanna check it out.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to do that one night,” Steel said as Rebel sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, still scrolling through t-shirts.
“One question,” I said as I watched him add more to his cart. “How are you going to get them?”
“That’s easy,” he replied. “Everything I order while I’m on the road just gets sent home for me to sort through the next time I’m back there. The best part is that half the time I’ve forgotten what I ordered by the time I open it, so it’s like unwrapping gifts onChristmas morning.”
It was easy to picture him having the time of his life opening a bunch of packages, paper bits flying everywhere. I thought about what it would be like to be there for that and even capture a few photos of him in the act. I'd already been considering his offer to join him at his place during our break before Rocktoberfest. Seeing Rebel in his natural habitat, with no schedules or cameras in his face, was a chance I couldn’t pass up.
“I can see where that would be fun,” I said.
“I live like a beach bum when we’re not on tour,” Rebel murmured. “Up with the gulls, sipping coffee on the deck, not a care in the world. Sometimes I spend the whole morning out there, just staring at the water.”