Realty Check

The Apex Gym in Charlotte buzzed with life, filled with the rhythmic clang of metal plates, the steady thuds of fists against heavy bags, and the faint hum of treadmills whirring in the background. The air carried the sharp scent of sweat and rubber mats, the unmistakable atmosphere of hard work and discipline. Glenn Sterling had been coming here for years. This place had once been his personal stage, where younger wrestlers would stop mid-set just to watch him train, their eyes filled with admiration. But tonight, no one stopped. No one noticed.

Draped in a black tank top and compression shorts, Glenn worked his body like a man possessed, gripping the pull-up bar with knuckles turning white, his arms trembling with the effort of each rep. Ten… eleven… twelve… his breath was shallow, sharp, but he pushed through the burn. Thirteen. He gritted his teeth, determined. Fourteen. Just one more. He forced his chin above the bar one final time before dropping down, rolling his shoulders, and exhaling through his nose. Sweat dripped freely down his face, but that was good.

Sweat was proof. Proof that he still had it, that he could still outwork anyone.

Glancing around the gym, he expected to see the familiar admiration in the eyes of those around him. Maybe a hint of envy. But instead, he caught sight of a group of younger lifters by the free weights, their conversation accompanied by quiet chuckles. At first, he ignored it, but then he heard it—clear, biting, and casual.

"Man, what’s the old guy doing here? Trying to relive his glory days?"

His ears rang. A second voice, just as careless, followed. "Seriously, this is like something out of a retro wrestling doc. Is he gonna pose after every set?" More laughter. Not cruel, but dismissive. Worse. It was laughter that didn’t even take him seriously enough to be malicious. Glenn’s grip tightened around his towel, his breathing turning shallower. His gaze flicked to the mirrored wall across from him, and what he saw froze him.

The man staring back wasn’t the Glenn Sterling he knew. His muscles were still defined, but there was a stiffness in his stance, a slight hunch in his shoulders. His face, under the unforgiving glare of the gym lights, looked… older. The sharp lines of his jaw weren’t as crisp. The faint creases around his eyes were deeper. The glow wasn’t as golden. His stomach, barely noticeable, was just slightly softer than before.

The laughter behind him twisted the knife. Glenn turned, watching as one of the younger lifters exaggeratedly flexed in the mirror, puffing out his stomach in an exaggerated pose, mimicking him. The others erupted into laughter. Glenn’s blood ran cold. They weren’t even trying to hide it. They weren’t even looking at him anymore.

The walls of the gym felt like they were closing in. His breath quickened, his heart pounded against his ribs. He needed to get out. The towel in his hands trembled slightly as he stuffed it into his gym bag, fumbling for his water bottle. His fingers felt numb. He had never felt like this before—not after a loss, not even when promoters had stopped booking him in main events. This was something worse. This was reality catching up to him in real-time, refusing to be ignored.

Pushing through the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on him, he slung the bag over his shoulder and made a beeline for the exit. The night air slapped him the moment he stepped outside, sharp and cold against his overheated skin. He staggered slightly, catching himself against the brick wall of the building, his breath still uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly. The gym’s neon sign flickered above him, casting a weak, tired glow over the parking lot.

They’re right. The thought came like a steel chair to the gut, unshakable and brutal. I’m not who I used to be. I’m fooling myself.

His hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening. No. No, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t done. He wasn’t washed up. He wouldn’t let them win.

Slamming a fist against the brick, he forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to drown out the doubt clawing at his mind. They don’t know me. They don’t know what I’m capable of. The words sounded strong, but the weight in his chest refused to lift.

With unsteady hands, he yanked his car keys from his pocket and climbed into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His gaze drifted to the gym in the rearview mirror, the fluorescent lights flickering behind him, a cruel reminder of what had just happened. He needed to push forward. He needed to prove them wrong.

The tournament. That was his shot. That was where he’d remind everyone—himself included—that Glenn Sterling was still The Golden Boy. Still the standard. Still somebody.

And yet, even as he drove away, the thought refused to leave him.

What if they’re right?

The neon lights of the gym faded behind him, but the weight of what had happened stayed. A shadow that followed him into the night.