So, America?

O’Donovan’s was alive with the reckless, whiskey-soaked chaos of a Friday night in Cork—pints clinking, voices roaring, the off-key wail of some poor bastard butchering The Fields of Athenry.  

Matthew leaned back in the corner booth, boots propped against the table’s edge like he owned the place. Across from him, William Waters, all 5'0", 200 pounds with quick eyes, nursed his pint, half-listening as Matthew poured over the latest tale of opportunity—or madness, depending on how you looked at it.  

“So, listen to this,” Matthew said, swirling his beer. “Some lad calls me up—says he’s puttin’ on a feckin’ tournament. Pro wrestlers against the world, or somethin’ dramatic like that.”  

William raised an eyebrow. “Against the world? Jaysus, that’s a bit much. And what, you’re off to play pretend with the Yanks now?”  

Matthew smirked, teeth flashing beneath the rugged scruff of his face. “Aye, ‘pretend.’ ‘Cept the punches land, the pay’s good, and when I’m done, they’ll be callin’ me a feckin’ legend.”  

William snorted. “A legend, is it? I’ll believe that when I see it. But fair play—could be good for ya, yeah? Get outta this shitehole for a bit.” He took a sip, then added, “Who knows? Maybe the Yanks’ll love that big gob of yours.”  

Before Matthew could respond, a staggering drunk veered into their table, sending half his pint spilling across the wood. The man turned to apologize, but his bleary eyes landed on William, and his expression soured into something mean.  

“Ah, Jaysus,” the drunk slurred, swaying. “What are ya, a bloody leprechaun?”  

William’s jaw tightened, his grip on his glass firm. Before he could open his mouth, Matthew was already on his feet.  

“Oi, you wanna repeat that, ya piss-stained gobshite?” His voice cut through the noise of the pub like a knife, commanding the room’s attention.  

The drunk blinked up at him, then let out a wheezy chuckle. “Wait a minute... I know you. You’re that fake wrestler off the telly, aren’t ya? What’s the matter, lad? Can’t hack it in the real fights?”  

Matthew’s fist clenched at his side. He’d heard it all before—the sneers, the jokes, the dismissals. He’d spent years breaking bones, bleeding on canvas, carving a name out of something raw and brutal, and still, to men like this, it was all just a joke.  

“Fake, is it?” His voice was low, dangerous. He took a step forward, towering over the man.

“How fake is this?”  

The punch landed with a sickening crack, knuckles meeting bone. The drunk’s head snapped sideways, his pint slipping from his grasp and shattering on the wooden floor.  

For half a second, the pub held its breath.  

Then Matthew grabbed the bastard by the collar, hauled him upright, and sent an uppercut crashing into his ribs. The man crumpled, gasping for air.  

“Fake enough for ya, arsehole?” Matthew growled, standing over him.  

The drunk’s friend lunged from the side, but before he could lay a hand on Matthew, William struck. Despite his size, he moved fast, snatching up a wooden chair and driving it into the man’s kneecap. The poor bastard went down with a strangled yelp.  

“Who’s the feckin’ leprechaun now, eh?” William grinned, tossing the chair aside.  

The bouncers arrived, storming through the crowd, and before either of them could do much else, they were dragged toward the door.  

Moments later, they were unceremoniously dumped onto the cold cobblestone street.  

The pub door slammed shut behind them.  

Matthew sat on the curb, flexing his fingers, the ache in his knuckles familiar and strangely comforting. Fighting was easy. It was everything else that got complicated.  

“Well, that escalated,” he muttered.  

William, nursing a split lip, grinned. “Aye, but we showed ‘em, didn’t we?”  

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the distant hum of the city settling around them. William turned, his grin fading to something quieter. Thoughtful.  

“So... America, then?”  

Matthew exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Aye. America.”  

William nodded, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Well, don’t forget to bring me back one of those big hats they love so much.”  

Matthew chuckled. “You’re a gobshite, Will.”  

“And you’re a feckin’ arsehole, Matt,” William shot back with a grin.  

They sat there, bruised and breathless, two idiots laughing on a street corner in the middle of the night. One looking toward the past, the other toward something just out of reach.  

America.

"Let’s see what the feckin’ Yanks have to offer."