Fluent in Pressure
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The sun had only just started to creep through the blinds of Mia's apartment when her phone chimed somewhere in her comforter, that familiar iPhone tri-tone piercing into the quiet morning. Blinking awake, she scrambled around for it, squinting at the screen once she finally fished it out.
Papá:
Buenos días, mija. Ready for round two? (Good morning, my girl.)
Mia:
Más que lista. (More than ready.)
Papá:
I rewatched the clip. You looked like a pro. You sounded like a pro.
Mia:
Thanks, pa. I just tried not to trip over any cables.
A row of laughing emojis came back. She smiled to herself, the small morning ritual anchoring her before another day of travel. Being an only child had always made her relationship with her dad tighter than most.
Some of her fondest memories with him were Sunday nights, downing popcorn, yelling at the TV, and pointing out every Latino wrestler on screen like they were family. Rey and Eddie, always, of course. But also the women: Chyna's sheer presence, Melina's dramatic entrances and flair, Mickie James' fire, and Lita, fearlessly climbing ropes and launching herself into the air like she had nothing to lose.
She rubbed her eyes fully awake and swiped out of her messages, closing the thread with her dad before opening her airline app. Her itinerary popped up immediately: gate, boarding time, layover. Once she confirmed everything was still on schedule, she stretched her arms overhead, working out the stiffness in her shoulders. Then she rolled out of bed and started her familiar travel routine by wheeling her black carry-on suitcase and matching backpack out of the hallway closet beside her room.
Apartment life made packing easy. Her San Diego place wasn't big; the layout was simple. A narrow galley kitchen opened into a modest living area, then a short hallway leading to her bedroom and bath. Most of her furniture leaned mid-century modern, clean lines and muted tones softened by little touches of home: hand-crafted artisanal mugs from markets in Tijuana, woven textiles draped over the back of the couch, and framed family photos lining the console beneath the TV.
On quiet nights, the soft, bubbly sweetness of her Champagne Toast wax melts floated through the apartment from the warmer on the counter. The kitchen window was usually cracked open to let in the mild city breeze and distant roll of traffic. San Diego worked for her. Just across the border from Tijuana, close enough to family yet far enough to make leaving for work easy.
She kept the place tidy. Bags stored in the closet. Counters clear. Clothes folded and ready to go. She'd once considered getting a dog, craving the companionship, but her schedule made the idea unfair. She wasn't about to leave one in daycare for weeks at a time. Heck, she could barely commit to keeping houseplants alive.
Still and all, she liked coming back to a space that felt put together. Even if she didn't stay long, it stayed ready for her.
For the flight, she went for comfort. An oversized beige hoodie with matching bike shorts, white sneakers, and a crisp white cap pulled low. She wore her long hair down in gentle curls, and her makeup was light but neat. Bronzed lids, soft brown eyeliner, and a glossy nude lip.
By mid-afternoon, she was on a flight to Kansas City, AirPods in and hood up, watching old match highlights on her phone. Some of it was her chasing nostalgia, the rest was just her doing her homework.
YOU ARE READING
Unscripted (Dominik Mysterio)
FanfictionThe lights went down, the crowd disappeared, and the show was over. That was when Mia realized the real story had only just begun. Dominik Mysterio was meant to stay on the other side of the ropes--until their lives became completely unscripted.
