This piece was orginally published during the 2023-2024 school year for a course on short fiction, this piece has been modified from it’s original version after workshopping and reflection
The first thing Céline notices is the bitching, about two minutes before her trainers call them all to attention for their daily drills.
“Why do the broads get their own locker room?”
A stocky man whispers behind his fringe at a distance from her, but Céline catches his hissing anyhow. She can’t remember his name, but his gimmick fits the brooding douche; some kind of fallen angel, a complex thing, she guesses.
“There’s only two of them, what a waste of fucking space.”
Another guy, not a wrestler mind you. The kid’s too young to wrestle under the commission, his nepotistic belief in a free ticket to winning the belt when he turns 18 shows in the contempt in his voice.
It’s true, of everyone who’s gone through the training school, women are few and far between.
Wrestling is a quiet activity in the Southwest, despite lucha libre dominating the popular conscious and late-night telecasts when Céline was small; the independent wrestling scene is fraught and minute though Céline saw no other path for herself when she signed on to train here, makeup of the class be damned.
The other broad in question steps out of the same place of ire.
Astronomica is her ring name. According to Buck, their trainer, it was the name she came with.
Céline found it commanding to say the least, leaving nothing to be said for her stature and build.
Astronomica is wide and tall; the curves of her body leave a lot of space to slam into her side. Her grip is suffocating and tight and the power in her thighs has sent her flying across the mat more than she could count.
It’s captivating, really.
She doesn’t know her shoot name, and truly hasn’t spoken to her much beyond pleasantries and calling matches despite all the time and space the two of them have in the shared locker room. It’s not to say she hasn’t studied the woman, her movements and tone.
The way her personality radiates within the ring is hard to ignore and Céline has caught herself admiring the wrestler from her side of the locker room more than she’d like to admit.
Buck calls the group’s attention before she can gawk at muscles across Astronomica’s arms further.
When she joined the school, Astronomica was already here having registered several months prior, and the two of them were quick to set a rule. Intergender matches were the day-to-day training, more than anyone else, they both wrestled the other men. Astronomica came from a family of athletes and was used to the roughness. Céline knew how to fight men from years of
friendship and more time playing football than she’d like to admit.
Neither of them would say it in the gym but their intergender opponents were simply minor steppingstones.
To fight each other, that was a challenge.
The first time they take each other, it’s the end of practice, it’s the last match of the night before cleaning, and despite Buck giving the boys shit for trying to take off, it’s not hard to feel their disinterest.
Now Céline takes on the vibrant form of MisSTAR, staring down Astronomica from the opposite corner with baggy eyes and a wild grin.
Wrestling, gets call it a lot of things. Entertainment, sports, a technical feat.
MisSTAR sees it as a dance.
When they lock up, Astronomica smells like sweat, smoke, and vanilla spray deodorant.
The chasm between her thick eyebrows is tight, her gaze is focused. The hold shifts, and MisSTAR reacts quick to the lurch her opponent gives her forearms in an attempt to break it.
MisSTAR wastes no time: it’s size versus agility, and she refuses to let her stature stop her.
It’s an elbow to the gut of Astronomica and a push to create distance. MisSTAR runs, flies against the ropes, past Astronomica and to the other side.
From the crowd, the crack of her knee to the back of Astronomica’s head is deafening.
MisSTAR collides like a heat seeking missile, and Astronomica is thrown into the center of the mat the second MisSTAR can get her footing.
She doesn’t stop there, MisSTAR is climbing to the closest corner. She’s been working on this; it’s been a sore point before.
Her balance catches on the top turnbuckle, and she spreads her arms wide.
For a moment, MisSTAR is weightless through the air, and crashes deep into her. Her tilt-a-whirl crossbody gets a shout even from the disinterested jobbers hanging around in the stands. It was her big moment, spiraling through the air, until she comes crashing down on Astronomica’s shimmering kneepads with a sick thud.
The rest of the match goes quick after that, where MisSTAR leads the opening, the latter half of the match is dominated by the shooting star herself.
Astronomica is hard to deny when a hip attack is thrown into MisSTAR’s face and chest after she was tossed into the turnbuckle pad with the whip of her arms. It’s fuzzy stumbling, and her silvery haze of her opponent’s gesturing hands tugged her body to the center of the ring, but the scream from
Astronomica as she flies forward for her backfist and the spinning behind her eyes means an ending.
A short count to three, and it’s all over.
Céline’s brain isn’t particularly on right now, Astronomica’s ‘Total Impact’ and eating the pin will do that to her regardless of being practiced, but she nods in appreciation at her and shuffles along once practice officially ends.
It’s been a long night, the ache in her is deeper than bone.
She needs a shower, first thing.
When she gets to her side of the locker room, she strips out of the gear she managed to keep on at the end of practice, and cringes at the way her breasts stick from the sweat.
Her shoulders aren’t any better, and Céline forces the tension down as she peels off her shorts.
Shower shoes on, towel around her waist, she moves along the empty rows of lockers.
“Hey–”
Astronomica is sitting at the last bench on the right, tucked back in the corner.
Céline turns to face her and, all at once, is seeing someone far different from the dynamo in the ring. Her hair is down, for the first thing. She’s used to seeing it in thick braids set on top of her head.
A second thing: Normally, Astronomica wears a tight-fitting top, that curves around her forearms and ends mid-stomach. It rides up during the match on occasion, but only now is Céline appreciating the sheer volume of muscle and shape on her body.
That is nothing to be said of the fact that the absence of the tank leaves space for the deep, wide swooping flesh; Céline admires the smoothness like polished stone. Stretchmarks and spots dance across her skin. An urge to count them like falling asteroids and distant stars hits her harder than any punch.
“I wanted to tell you, your moonsault has been getting better.”
Céline smiles at this and feigns a calm tone.
“I appreciate it-” an awkward chuckle, “you really gotta show me how you throw that much power into your spinning back fist, yknow.”
Astronomica stands up, she’s still wearing her kick pads and pants, but that doesn’t resolve the fluttering in Céline’s gut.
She’s looking up at her now, and Astronomica is standing with her hand on her hip.
“You know, you’re built like some of the people I threw with.”
Threw with?
The confusion of Céline’s face likely reads, because Astronomica continues, “It’s where I get my form for the backfist from, if you throw shotput, the movement and momentum is similar, let me show you.”
Céline stands there and watches her step back, she recognizes the stance from the moment before the backfist, but instead, Astronomica rocks her hips before taking off. Her feet skid against the linoleum floor and her body follows them, the momentum is in her hips, her thighs, throwing her around. Céline steels herself for the collision with her chest, but the flutters make her waver.
Instead of the hit, her arm flies in the air, she’s pushing the shotput instead, and she’s face to face with the rise and fall of her chest.
“See?” Her arm falls, and Astronomica is giving her a surprisingly sheepish grin.
“It’s all in the hips, all in the force in your legs, and carrying that motion up and out.”
Astronomica’s voice is softer, here, and she walks closer to Céline with each pause in her words.
They’re close, not as close as they’d be during a lock-up or a pin, but close enough for the palpations to rattle her. She’s hot again, almost sweating, surely, it’s just the lack of AC– It’s gotta be that –
“Yknow,” Astronomica’s lips curl up, “ you got a lot to work with MisSTAR.”
Céline’s ring name whines in her ears, nothing like the way the ring announcer screams it out; she clutches her towel tight, and lets a smirk rise above the heat.
“It’s Céline.” She offers.
Astronomica grins at that, “Well, then it’s Data.”
Céline’s heart leaves her pulsing, but her mouth and her ego bubbles out regardless, “Maybe I’ll show you more of what I’m working with.”
Sly, sure, a challenge, something to heat them both up.
She’s burning.
“I’d like that.” Astr-Data’s voice hums in fascination.
Céline is not good at hiding the heat in her eyes.
“Now go shower up, it’s gettin late.” Data nods towards the clock, and Céline cringes a little, it’s
set five minutes early, but she still doesn’t like the location of the hour hand at all.
Céline waves with her free hand and bids Data a goodnight.
Making it to the shower, waiting for things to quiet, she takes off her towel, turns to crack her
back.
Céline sighs and turns the shower cold.
It turns out, their in ring chemistry works just as well when they’re paired up. Buck suggested it
so his boys could get practice before the West Coast tag tournament, but Céline and Data were
open to the idea.
Since their moment in the locker room, the two began to talk more. It’s unsurprising when wrestlers talk about wrestling, but Céline can’t help but blush and grin like a madwoman when Data shows her the
collection of vintage joshi tapes the two start to study between practices.
They camp out at each other’s places between shows some nights, drifting off to Cutie Suzuki matches between glasses of wine and hours of talking.
When Data invites her to stay one night, cuddled up under one of Data’s many blankets as she
loads a new All Japan tape, Céline happily opens up the blanket to her, and Data relishes in her
partner’s warmth.
Their tag work gets better as they travel and train, and the minimal press coverage the area gets
is quick to highlight them as standouts. It’s the most press either pair has received since the start
of their careers, and the thrill it gives only brings them closer.
It’s a match for their local that sets them apart, Buck took the time to book a tag team out of San
Francisco for this show. For the faults of the industry, he did try for them.
Buzz began to grow when the Solar Flares faced Doll Parts.
For their credit, Doll Parts—Jem Plastic and Rosa Atómica—brought a violent punk flair
neither of the pair were accustomed to.
Part wrestling, part performance art–the crowd screams out when MisSTAR shreds down
Plastic’s sparkling fishnets in the rush of a DDT.
Astronimica is slapped hard with Rosa’s signature sparkle. The crowd is getting louder and
louder by the second and with he satisfying powerbomb Astronomica gets on Plastic while
they jeer when she bends like the brutalized Barbie she’s based on.
Though Astronomica isn’t legal, and she leaves the crumpled form of her opponent to her
ascending partner and guns for Atómica on outside. The fans are quick to jump up and
cheer around the fighting pair, but something else catches their attention.
The stunned crowd is chanting for her assension, MisSTAR perked up on the buckle as the
lights sparkle against her spandex suit. The jump sends her spinning yet again.
The three count is deafened by the roar. When the ref holds the winning pair’s hands, all
Céline can do is grin at the woman beside her.
The two are together more than they are apart. They tag in the ring and they travel to shows.
When the drives get long, and the road gets rougher, they agree to start staying together to save
time, money and gas. The situation is comfortable, especially so when Data moves from the pull
out couch to Céline’s warm bed.
If you asked Céline, it just felt right. Yes, her burning crush on the woman had definitely been a
factor, but the connection between them felt far deeper to her.
They spent hours on the road, talking about everything from their past to their present, their passions outside of the sport.
Céline shares her art for the first time since college with Data, after showing her mock ups for
matching gear. She watches her partner’s fingers in reverence as Data traces over the lines and
metallic fabric swatches with fascination.
Céline learns, after one particularly long trip, that Data is still a student, a Masters student no less, and lovingly indulges the women as she’s reading a draft out loud as they drive through the Nevada desert.
Data couldn’t deny it either, when she allowed herself to open, Céline made herself at home,
warm and radiating in her chest. It’s the drive she loves, the way Céline pushes the boundaries of
the rigid norm around her and casts that light around her. Céline can end a bar brawl quicker than
a squash match, but holds Data in bed like she’d hold priceless art. To say Data feels safe in the
hands of her partner would be an understatement.
They’re a unit, and they’re happy with these conditions.
Eventually it’s Data who slams a flyer on Céline’s shitty bedside folding table one night while
staying at her place. There’s openings for a new promotion; Lavender Wrestling League.
The kitschy neon blue highlight along a line—likely added by Data herself—is prodded at by her
short nails.
‘Women Tag Titles Yet To Be Claimed’
With stardust in her eyes, it’s hard to say no to Data’s raw energy. If they go for this, it could put
them on the map. This is a chance for something bigger, and they’d be fools not to take it. It’s a rare an indie like this pops up in this part of the country.
There are others, of course, it’s rare that titles for people like them get the spotlight, and the
league sets out a tag tournament in their debut location. The Arizona Red Rocks are vibrant even
against the white barn house, and the distant lavender fields that gave the promotion it’s
namesake sends floral notes between the typical wrestling stench.
Theres eight teams, and the tournament is getting eyes both for it’s uniqueness and the debut of a
new promotion. The eyes on them are undeniable, especially when press is involved. It’s the
brightest, most packed venue the pair has been in. Céline and Data do wonder quietly who’s
bankrolling the affair, but given the current stakes, they’d worry about pay after they became
champions.
First match in, they’re set against two green girls just out of the nearest training school.
The two know their basics, the Flares are grateful for that, since it’s their match to lead.
They play up everything they’ve worked on so far.
MisSTAR is legal now as she’s meant to raise the crowd, like morning glow and ozone she
leaves the crowd dazed and dazzled in the spirals of her shimmering kicks and glowing
punches.
Eventually the panic from the girls will set in, they’ll gang up on MisSTAR with the hope to
put out the Sun.
She tags in Astronomica and all at once the light is changed, eclipsing every bit of
momentum their opponents have. Where they try to orbit around her, it’s the fire in
Astronomica’s grip and the oppressive pressure of her slam that leaves her victim all but
helpless to the very danger Astronomica has been eclipsing.
The sun can be dangerous, it can burn, and when MisSTAR spirals into the sky, even
Astronomica wonders if she’ll catch flame.
Satin clings to Data’s bare back, the Santa Fe heat is oppressive this time of year, but it doesn’t
stop the jocks from clinging to each other. Céline is between her thighs, her square face
squeezed softly, framed below by dark curls.
“Did they really name you after the Star Trek character?”
Céline takes traces at the inside of dark thighs, ever closer to the twitching heat that got the pair
in this mess.
Data gasps out, “It was a nickname before I took it for mine-now stop talking about my parents!”
Her partner does laugh at this, “S’cute–I took mine right out of a baby book.”
Scorching lips surround the heat between Data’s legs, Céline groans around her clit, and she
relents to the hands pushing her knees apart. Head tilted back, hands twitching in the gaudy
magenta under her.
Data rocks her hips, glancing at the title belts they left on Céline’s clothes covered chair and the
way her lover’s breasts reflect off the silver.
Data basks in her lover’s light.
The night they are crowned champions, things are tense. Céline gets more call ups, but she stays
behind, Data gets offers for Japan, but they don’t want them both. Every single match they share
together, the more they’re asked to come apart.
The LWL belts. They keep them together. It’s a reign they hold onto by the skin of their teeth.
The promotion does pay well, as they later learn the location they’ve been wrestling in was an
old lavender and wine grape farm, bought by a butch and her femme looking to have a place for
the events and organizations they cared about; just their luck the pair loved professional
wrestling.
For a long time things are good, they travel, they wrestle, they train, they fuck. Céline and Data
take pleasure in a place they know they are safe in, the sort of peaceful isolation that comes with
the tender intimacy of love in private.
Though neither of them hide it. Not here, not now, in and out of the ring their adoring fans
scream just as much for their tender touches as a team as the devastating blows they throw at
their opponents.
That is, until, someone sees it to intervene.
As nice as the gig is, as much as the crowds love them, wrestling has its traditions. The queer has
its place, but it’s never the main event for long. A place like Lavander Wrestling League is rich
with criticism no matter how they try to shrug it off. Everyone from the owners to the wrestlers
gets caught under watchful eyes of the industry, and the obsessive misogyny and
sexism fans of the sport allow to foam from their mouths.
Whispers and rumors run wild across locker rooms and forums, a litany of concerned watchers
can’t help but speak up. Look at the way they look at each other, they way they touch, that can’t
be put on a grand stage.
Break them up, book series where they destroy each other in and out of the ring.
Changes in the booking happen all the time.
What could be done.
Who it hurts? Who it breaks?
The orbit shifts.
At one show, Data gets a chance for a smoke break while Céline sat in catering, she’s leaning
against the trunk of her car when she notices it’s uneven tilt. It’s then she notices the left tire in
the darkness, slashed and flat.
For the rest of that show, Céline notices her tension, but not the
rubber and oil stains on Data’s hands from secretly replacing the tire with it’s spare.
The crowds get harsher, and it’s the darling femme of the owner pair, a greying woman named
Taylor, who warns Data that if things get worse, they might have to go with a safer plan, one that
protects the pair if the aggression makes it’s way to a show.
The stress is getting too much to process, planning a program where a kayfabe fight splits the
pair up, the tension bubbling until they can’t handle it anymore. A program to pull the attention
away from their relationship makes nothing but sense.
Data should have known that any advanced plan could have gone to shit. Their popularity ran in
tandem with the vitrol. It’s getting to the both of them, sleepless stressed out nights between the
aches and pain, the notifications online the pair is forced to mute, the manifestation of a deeper
terror taking hold.
They’re good for starting the feud at the next Pay Per View, okayed among the parties who need
to know and noone else. Céline doesn’t sugarcoat her frustration at the expectation of her
‘victory’ in this feud, Data doesn’t hide her concern. They hold each other, they’re ready for
anything, they promise.
That is, until, all of that is thrown away the second MisSTAR misses a flip on the guard rail
during a house show, weeks before a plan can be put into action.
It’s an instant stoppage, the shock of the crowd, Data, and the referee changes the tone of the
room in an instant.
Medical wheels Céline straight to the onsite ambulance. Data follows behind.
They drop the belts.
The doctors Céline’s jaw shut.
Standing in her hospital room, Data screams, she talks, she watches the cars with out of state plates hover around the hospital. In the silence she shares with Céline, the questions start to linger, and the poking follows soon after.
A call from the booker, the butch. A suggestion to pivot graces her ears, one that comes out with an ache.
A resolution, a way to end things with as much peace as they can afford.
Céline takes the laptop, browsing down the colums and feeds of headlines and rumors.
“Lavender Lovers Scorned, Beloved Tag Team Shattered.”
“Dark Skies, The Solar Flares Vanish after Injury and Fight”
For once, Céline enjoys reading dirtsheets.
She honestly can’t remember half of what Data said to her, high on whatever worked with her
allergy, but she did remember the plan before the doctors took her away.
“I’m gonna look out for you, protect us, make sure we get you some privacy to heal up.”
Maybe she was losing it from the adrenaline, but it looked like Data had mouthed I love you
before the swinging doors hid her nervous partner.
And now they’re laying here, together in Céline’s bed, back home on the border of Arizona and
New Mexico.
They can’t talk, at least, not Céline, but they have time to sketch out a plan through sign, whiteboard notes and codes tapped on skin. Céline floats between waves of pleasure, painkillers, and adoring touch.
Though eventually, the days draped in plush blankets and quivering knees are
traded for physical therapy and reading contracts.
The bookers don’t know, of course, that they’re staying together. Southwest wrestlers are a black
hole if Cagematch is any indicator, so Céline signs on with a company out in California, and
Data takes jobs out East.
It’s safer this way, they think.
Still, the pair cling to their moments together like grappling on the mat, engulfed in each other,
with Céline whispering plans to finally come back in the ring and put Data over for good, to
settle any question that she was the star.
Data, though, she traces the scars on her lover’s jaw with veneration, and the ache of her hip
presses into the mattress dull and heavy.
She wonders if they’ll get a chance to use the same baby book Céline used to pick her name.
She wonders if the dirt sheets will mind the silence and leave them be.
She wonders if they’ll have time.
