A smaller mouth than yours

The morning air was crisp and clean as Rosalie stood on top of the roof and stared out over the sleepy city. It was November, and it was early. She was used to strange sleep schedules by this point, between just finishing graduate school and going out on tour. She would head downstairs to the hotel’s fitness center in a minute here, but she had learned from some of the best in the business—in both businesses, actually—that she had to take some time for herself every day or she would go insane. She had never forgotten that piece of advice, and it had served her well through her three years as a counselor and now out on the road.

Today was a day for watching the sunrise. She hadn’t been to Vancouver before, although she had a feeling she would be coming back next year if all went well. She had only seen mountains like this a few other times before, and never with so much water around. It was a beautiful place, with mild weather, and she could fall in love with it easily. If she had the time; tour schedules were insanely demanding.
She stretched her arms out over her head, feeling the tension in her shoulders and spine loosen as she worked to limber up her body. She was nervous for tonight. It was her debut as a professional, after two years on the amateur circuit. It would be interesting to see what happened with a whole new group of people, people that she had never been up against before. She shook her arms out, and turned away from the ledge. She probably shouldn’t even be out here, but there hadn’t been an alarm on the door leading to the rooftop.

She stepped back inside, and began the climb back down the stairs. She tried to remember what floor the fitness center was on. Was it the basement? She remembered thinking last night when she checked in that it was sort of odd that it wasn’t on the first floor with the pool, or convention center, or any of the other amenities. Whatever it was, it was going to be a long descent down the stairs. Plenty of time to think about the match ahead of her tonight, and what it could mean if she started her professional career off with a triumphant bang.

“Rosie, what are you doing with your life? Why are you wasting it on such a violent, godless sport? You had a good job helping people already.” Rosalie’s mother sat down at her own seat after serving Rosalie’s father and younger brother. Usually Rosalie would have been next, but being forced to serve herself was just one of the many not-so-subtle gestures of disapproval that her mother had employed throughout the years.

Over time, Rosalie had learned to just ignore it and go with the flow. She would get her own plate after grace. Never before, though, lest she risk her mother going off on some tirade about how the godlessness of her “fake” career was starting to spill over into her personal life. “I have a limited amount of time that I can follow this path, mother. Once I’m too old and too injured to continue, I’ll be more than happy to go back to listening to people’s problems all day every day.” Rosalie rolled her eyes, and the sarcasm in her voice was impossible to miss as she continued, “Oh, and don’t forget their disappointment that I can’t just wave a magic wand and fix everything and expect them to do a lot of the work themselves. Really fulfilling career, let me tell you what.”

“Watch your tone, Rosie,” her father warned. He was a taciturn man, and rarely got involved in the arguments between her and her mother, but if he thought that Rosalie wasn’t showing enough respect, he would make it known. Her brother was much like her father; right now he sat next to her and kept his mouth shut. He also knew better than to get between the two women.

“You’re just wasting all those talents that God gave you, and for what? To chase after a few years showing off your breasts and getting in catfights?” Rosalie’s mother looked close to tears at this point. At least she hadn’t started in on the hysterics yet. She would by the end of the night. “And maybe if you’re lucky you won’t get injured, and you might be able to make a lot of money, but where’s the virtue in this?”

Now was not the time to tell her mother that she had quit believing in God a few years ago, at her bastion of secular knowledge otherwise known as psychology graduate school. Then the hysterics really would begin. “Mom,” she began in reply, “I’m not doing this just for the money. I’ve explained that already.”

“I just don’t understand.” Rosalie’s mother pressed her lips into a tight line, and that was the end of the conversation. No further explanations, or attempts at it, would be allowed until after supper. “Hank, say grace and don’t forget to pray for the girl.”

Rosalie’s father bowed his head, and the family followed suit.

Rosalie was feeling pretty good by the time she reached the bottom of twelve flights of stairs. Thinking about her mother always brought that tension back, and she was eager to get onto the treadmill, or the weight machines. She needed to work out that frustration if she expected to perform at her best tonight. It would be a short workout, not to overdo it, but she needed it. She would be hanging around backstage a lot today.

Cara was already waiting there for her, with a camera crew no less, and Rosalie groaned. “You have got to be kidding me. It’s six o’clock in the morning.” She grabbed a towel, trying to ignore her self-appointed publicist as a microphone ended up clipped to the front of her sports bra. “Don’t I get a little time to myself away from the cameras?”

“No, you don’t. Not on your debut. The world wants to see what Rosalie Knight is up to today. If she’s nervous for her match. If she’s got anything to say to her opponent.” Cara was beaming as she patted Roaslie’s chest to make sure the mic wasn’t going to become detached during a workout.

“Cara, please,” Rosalie sighed.

“Come on, Rosalie. Don’t you have anything to say to Loca Rocsi?”

“Besides the fact that she’s living up to her name if she thinks that I’m going to break down and back down now? I’ve thought of a few things.” Rosalie grinned as she moved for the treadmill. There were some beeps as she searched for the right setting. Nothing too strenuous; she had just come down twelve flights of steps after all. As the conveyor started to move beneath her feet, she started walking with it.

“Well, are you going to tell the world what those few things are?” Cara asked, and Rosalie found the camera lens squared off with her face. All these cameras everywhere… It was going to take a lot of getting used to on the professional circuit. Nothing like the amateur level where there was one camera backstage and that was it.

“Sure. Where do I start?”

Rosalie stood backstage at the last show in Edmonton. She hadn’t debuted yet, so she wasn’t in costume. Just a pair of jeans and slouchy black suede boots, and a gray T-shirt with a stylized cross done in silver sparkles across her chest. She watched the monitors with interest, and wondered just what she had gotten herself into. These people were all well above her caliber, and yet, she was here, wasn’t she? She must have something in her that said she could do what they did, at least eventually. Maybe not right away, but she could get there.

She was pulled from her thoughts by an obnoxious, tattooed moron. Not that she’d ever call Kelvin Muamba that to his face, but that wouldn’t stop her from thinking it. “Hey, girl. Interview time.”
She followed him to the backdrop where the first of many cameras that would soon be focused on her waited. She stood there and put on her best confident smile, waiting for her segment. Kelvin held the mic up as the camera guy counted down silently with his fingers. Rosalie took in a deep breath.

“Yo homies, it’s ya boi Kelvin Muamba here! WHERE KELVIN’S BITCHES AT?!”

Rosalie did her best not to wince and kept that grin plastered to her lips as the female portion of the crowd out in the stadium screamed and cheered. Really?

“Das what I thought! So today, ya boi Kelvin Muamba, backstage Giggalo EXTRODINARE, is talkin’ to a fine bit of ass…”

It got harder to keep that smile, especially when the moron turned to look her up and down, and she raised one eyebrow at him.

“Dayum girl! You IS a fine bit of female booty!”

Really? Did he really just say that? “Thanks?” she replied, although she wasn’t sure how much she really appreciated the comment.

“Dayum right thanks! I don’t just go spittin’ out high praise like dat for just any old bitch! You clearly look like you could be Kelvin Muamba’s NEXT bitch! WHERE KELVIN’S BITCHES AT?!”

Rosalie let the grin slip in favor of an almost incredulous look as the cheering erupted out in the stadium again, and adopted her best southern bitch look. She had learned it well from her mother, whether her mother realized it or not. “Look, honey, thanks for the offer, but I didn’t join IWF to be anyone’s ‘bitch’, all right? I don’t NEED anyone looking out for me…I can handle myself pretty damn well on my own, thanks.” The smile returned as she heard the applause and cheering again, this time for her.

Some of the clapping was closer, however, and in that slow, sarcastic manner. A woman stepped into sight, built like a brick house and with a snide smirk on her face. She got really close to Rosalie, invading her personal space in an attempt to intimidate. Rosalie didn’t back down. 'Allow me to introduce myself,” the other woman began. “Loca Rocsi.”

What kind of name was that? Then again, in this business, Rosalie had heard worse. Especially on the amateur circuits. There was no reason to judge this woman on her name alone. It was the smirk that would be condemning, and the words that Rosalie was certain were coming next.

The tattooed moron stepped in. “Yo Loca…you got taken out by my boy JShark a longass time ago! Didn’t my big homie steal yo shoes?” Kelvin Muamba, Rosalie decided, was dumber than he looked.

Loca Rocsi spun and delivered a lovely straight punch to Muamba’s face, and Rosalie secretly cheered the other woman on. If she wasn’t such a newbie, she would have done the same. She had to play the game, though, especially when she was trying to present herself as a strong woman and a face of the good guys, so she was trying to behave. Both women watched the tattooed moron stumble back, holding his nose as he fell to his rear on the floor, before Loca turned her attention back to Rosalie. “It takes more than a big mouth, faith, and self-confidence to make it in IWF, honey.”

Rosalie grinned at her. She didn’t feel intimidated, and she wasn’t going to look intimidated either. “Like I said, I can handle myself, which is a fact I will be more than willing to prove to you next week.”

Loca shook her head, and chuckled softly. “Silly little girl. You really don’t know who it is you’re fucking with, do you? You want me in the ring so bad? I will gladly make my in-ring return just to beat your ass.” She closed the distance to stand toe-to-toe with Rosalie, who just continued to grin confidently.

Rosalie could hear the camera focusing as it zoomed in, and then the cheers that erupted out in the stadium.

“Rosalie? Come on, sugar, you’ve spaced out on me here. What do you want to say to Loca Rocsi?” Cara asked while staring at her expectantly, and Rosalie sighed. Why couldn’t she just be left alone to her flashbacks without people bothering her for statement this and trash talk that? Oh, wait, wait, this was the big time. She apparently kept forgetting that much.

She stared right at the camera, even as her feet continued to go on the treadmill. “I want to tell Loca Rocsi that she’s right.” Rosalie grinned as she heard Cara’s confused gasp, and waited for that moment of shock to wear off before she continued, addressing her words to Loca Rocsi directly. “It does take a lot more than faith and self-confidence to make it in this business. I don’t know where you got the big mouth bit, though. Yours is a lot bigger than mine.”

Cara snickered, which gave Rosalie more energy to work with. “So Loca, sugar, honey, you might be right that it takes more than faith and self-confidence. It takes true athleticism, even in the women’s division. It takes real awareness of your opponent, which you obviously don’t have. It takes ideals that the fans can get behind, something so much bigger than just yourself. And most of all, more than anything else in the world, succeeding in this business takes drive.”

She paused and turned the treadmill up a notch with a loud beep before looking back at the camera. “And let me tell you what, sugar, I’ve got drive. I didn’t get through graduate school without it, and I certainly didn’t make it this far in this business without it. So when I make my Insurgency Wrestling Federation debut, you and everyone like you better start running. Because I’ve got what it takes to succeed and a pretty smirk and weak trash talk isn’t going to save you in the ring.”

She waited a long moment, and then looked over at Cara, who was just beaming at her. What had she let Cara get her into with all this publicity? There would be cameras on her twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, if she didn’t rein this in very soon. “Can I get back to my workout now?”

“Yeah. I guess so. See you in a little bit,” Cara said, and ushered the cameras out. Undoubtedly they’d be headed to the venue, and Rosalie might get some time to herself before she had to be there.

“What have I gotten myself into?” she muttered, but she was grinning as she asked it.