286. End His Stay In Nashville & Back To Tampa
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The SUV rumbled to life, and they pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward one of the local bars near TNA headquarters. The bar was dimly lit, with neon signs casting splashes of color across the walls. It was already buzzing when they arrived, with a small crowd of fans hovering near the entrance. A few called out as they saw the group approaching, but Sandro and the others ducked inside quickly, slipping past the excited fans.
Inside, a group of TNA wrestlers and crew members were clustered around a few high tables, drinks in hand, laughter ringing through the air. There was a warm, easy energy to the gathering, a celebration not just of victories, but of shared effort, of the grind and the glory.
Sandro was ushered into the fold immediately. Someone pressed a beer into his hand, another clapped him on the back. Across the room, he spotted Velvet Sky deep in conversation with the famous Gail Kim, while he saw Bobby Lashley leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey.
As the night wore on, Sandro found himself relaxed in a way he hadn't been in some time. He laughed at James' terrible impressions, toasted with Bobby Roode, traded war stories with AJ Styles, Chris Sabin, Alex Shelly, and even found a quiet moment to chat with Rebecca, who teased him gently about her sudden status rise to superstardom.
"You know," Rebecca said, swirling her drink, "I didn't expect that signing with FCW will help me rise to this height in my career. Thank you for picking me in the past to become part of FCW roster."
Sandro gave her a big smile. "No need to say that. I just recommend people I think have great talent and performance to Dusty and Steve. This is an the result of your hard work."
She looked at him for a moment, then let out a grateful and thankful smile. "Thank you nonetheless, at least I had the platform to showcase my talent and performance."
Near midnight, the group began to thin out. Some drifted off to their hotels, others called cabs or piled into cars. Sandro lingered a little longer, watching the last few wrestlers banter near the bar. For a moment, he let himself just be, not the champion, not the performer, just Sandro, a guy among friends.
As they finally headed out, James threw an arm around Sandro's shoulders. "Welcome to the TNA family, brother."
Back at the hotel, Sandro stood by his window for a long time, staring out over the quiet city. The two title belts were laid out on the bed, their gold gleaming softly in the dim light. He ran a hand through his hair, a tired but contented smile on his face.
He undressed slowly, easing into bed with a satisfied groan. As his eyes drifted shut, the cheers of the crowd echoed in his ears, fading into a dream where the spotlight never dimmed.
Two days passed by, and in that time, Sandro moved through the halls of the TNA Headquarters like someone quietly yet deliberately planting seeds.
Sandro spent his time shaking hands, clapping shoulders, laughing over stories of old road trips, botched spots, and brutal matches.
Not all the connections Sandro made were deep, but they didn't need to be. He understood the difference between friends and good acquaintances. He wasn't trying to storm into the TNA locker room as some conquering hero, he was here to build bridges, and that meant patience.
Sunday came quicker than expected, and with it, the end of this chapter. Sandro, James Storm, Bobby Roode, and Rebecca all piled into their rented SUV, bags slung over tired shoulders, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky.
The ride to the airport was filled with easy banter, James recounting a story from years back when he and Bobby almost missed a flight because they were chasing down a barbecue joint, Rebecca teasing Bobby about his obsession with perfectly ironed shirts, Sandro laughing along.
At the airport, they returned the SUV, moved through security, and boarded the flight back to Tampa. The hours in the air passed in a haze of light conversation, naps, and the occasional burst of laughter from something stupid James pulled up on his phone.
When the plane touched down, they exchanged hugs and quick goodbyes at baggage claim, promising to catch up soon.
Sandro stepped into a waiting taxi, giving the driver his address with a quiet sigh of relief. As much as he enjoyed the whirlwind of the past few days, there was a piece of him that was ready to be home.
When he opened the door to his apartment, the familiar scent of home hit him, laundry soap, faintly floral air freshener, and the unmistakable warmth of a space lived in.
April was curled up on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, watching something on TV. When the door swung open, she turned with a startled look that quickly blossomed into pure joy.
"Sandro!" she squealed, leaping up from the sofa.
Before he could set down his bag, she was in his arms, hugging him tight, her laughter bubbling in his ear. He squeezed her back, burying his face briefly in her hair, feeling that tension in his shoulders slip away.
"I missed you," she murmured against his chest.
"I missed you too," Sandro smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple.
The rest of the day melted into something soft and familiar. They sprawled on the sofa, flipping through TV channels, half watching a movie while picking at Chinese food delivery, some noodles, dumplings, spicy chicken that Sandro kept warning April was too hot but that she stubbornly kept eating anyway.
By the time night rolled around, they were tucked under the covers, April curled up against his chest, her breathing slow and even as she drifted off to sleep. Sandro lay there in the dark, feeling the quiet pulse of contentment, knowing that tomorrow would bring the storm, but tonight, there was peace.
Morning came too early, but Sandro woke feeling strangely refreshed. He and April shared a lazy shower, the warmth of the water matching the easy laughter that spilled between them.
They moved around each other in that comfortable dance that couples develop over time, passing towels, brushing teeth shoulder to shoulder, stealing kisses between getting dressed.
On the way to FCW Headquarters, they stopped at a little Indian restaurant Sandro liked for breakfast, ordering up plates of spicy eggs, naan, and chai that sent them off in good spirits. Pulling into the parking lot at FCW, they shared a quick kiss before heading into their separate locker rooms, April to join the other women, Sandro to prep for what was sure to be a memorable main event.
The locker room smelled like sweat, leather, and the faint tang of sports cream. Sandro changed into his ring gear with practiced efficiency, fingers moving almost on autopilot as he laced his boots and adjusted his wrist tape.
There was a quiet hum of conversation around him, the usual locker room buzz of guys ribbing each other, comparing notes on matches, or blasting music from someone's portable speaker.
That's when Barry showed up. Barry swaggered over with a big grin, his black hair slicked back, his skin just a little too orange under the fluorescent lights.
"Sandro, my man!" Barry clapped a hand on Sandro's shoulder, completely unaware of the storm he was walking into. "Thanks for picking me for tonight, brother. This is big for me, main event, title shot, you and me tearing it up in front of the crowd. Means a lot, man. Lot of eyes on me tonight."
Sandro smiled politely, nodding just enough to keep Barry going, even though inside, a very different emotion simmered.
Barry didn't know. He didn't realize that tonight's match wasn't going to be the usual back and forth, the choreographed dance of meatballs and crowd pops. No, tonight was a shoot match.
Tonight, Sandro was going to remind Barry why he shouldn't do what he had done to Alexa, as there was a line he shouldn't cross, and since he had crossed that line, the business has its own quiet way of self correcting.
As Barry rambled on, thanking him again, Sandro just gave another small nod, the corners of his mouth curving in a way that never quite reached his eyes. "Yeah, Barry," Sandro said smoothly, voice low. "It's going to be a night you won't forget."
Barry, oblivious, laughed and patted Sandro on the back before heading off to finish his own preparations. Sandro watched him go, the faintest trace of steel slipping into his expression. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself.
Meanwhile, time quickly passed, and it was time for the FCW live weekly program to kick off. Backstage, the hum of tension and excitement vibrated through the locker room walls, the production crew rushing around with headsets, cameras rolling into place, and wrestlers pacing or stretching, some murmuring last minute plans.
The crowd inside the small but packed FCW arena buzzed with energy, the glow of overhead lights casting a sharp gleam across the ring and ramp.
Fans clutched handmade signs, faces painted, voices rising in chants even before the show officially began. And then, with a burst of pyrotechnics and the pounding beat of entrance music, the show was underway to the delight of the fans.
The opening match of the night was set, Sheamus vs. Austin Creed, with a stipulation that immediately raised the stakes, the winner would become the number one contender for the FCW North American Championship.
The first chords of Sheamus' theme hit, and the crowd erupted. The Irish powerhouse strode down the ramp, pale skin glowing under the lights, a determined look on his face.
The fans reached out, slapping his arms as he passed. He pounded his chest once, throwing his arms wide and letting out a roar before stepping through the ropes and into the ring.
"Sheamus looks fired up tonight," one of the commentators, a gravel voiced veteran, chuckled over the mic. "The big man knows what's on the line, and when there's a title shot up for grabs, you better believe Sheamus is gonna bring the heat."
The second commentator, a younger voice with a sharp, excited tone, chimed in, "Absolutely! But don't count out Austin Creed, this guy has been climbing the ranks like wildfire. And from what we've seen lately, he's got a chip on his shoulder tonight."
Austin Creed's entrance music hit next, and the crowd turned, their cheers shifting into a mix of boos and jeers. Creed strutted onto the ramp, a cocky grin on his face, soaking in the reaction like it was a standing ovation.
He paused at the top of the ramp, throwing his arms wide, then made his way down with confident swagger. Sliding under the bottom rope, he popped to his feet, shooting Sheamus a smirk and giving a small, mocking bow.
"Sheamus is not amused," the older commentator murmured. "And honestly, neither am I. But hey, Creed's got talent, no denying that."
The referee made sure both men were ready, then called for the bell.
Ding, ding, ding!
They circled each other, muscles taut, eyes locked, the tension crackling like static in the air. Sheamus lunged first, going for a collar and elbow tie up, but Creed ducked, slipping behind and delivering a quick kick to the back of Sheamus' knee.
Sheamus grunted, turning sharply, but Creed was already moving, bouncing off the ropes and landing a sharp dropkick to Sheamus' chest that sent the big man stumbling back.
"Sheamus better watch that speed advantage," the younger commentator noted. "Creed's got quick feet and he's not afraid to use 'em."
Sheamus regrouped fast, planting his boots and lunging forward again, this time catching Creed in a powerful side headlock. Creed tried to squirm free, but Sheamus cinched it in tight, wrenching his neck and dragging him to the mat. Creed kicked his legs, arching up, then managed to roll Sheamus into a pinning predicament, one, two, Sheamus powered out, rolling to his feet with a scowl.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion