Adrenaline is a Liar
The adrenaline is a liar. It’s the most beautiful, seductive liar I have ever known, telling you that you are invincible, that gravity is a suggestion, and that pain is just a concept invented by people who don’t have thousands of screaming souls chanting their name. But like all liars, eventually, it stops talking. And when the adrenaline goes silent, the truth screams.
The truth, tonight, was screaming particularly loud in my left shoulder.
I adjusted the cuff of my suit jacket, staring at myself in the vanity mirror of the locker room. The reflection staring back was the American Nightmare. Bleached hair perfectly coiffed, the neck tattoo stark against the skin, the suit tailored to within a millimeter of perfection. To the world, I looked ready for a GQ shoot. Inside, I felt like I’d been thrown down a flight of concrete stairs.
Because I had been. Twice.
The match against Seth had gone longer than expected. It usually did. We pushed each other to the brink, painting masterpieces with our bodies on a canvas of reinforced wood and steel. But the landing on the outside—the way my shoulder had clipped the barricade—that wasn't part of the masterpiece. That was just grit.
I rolled the joint, stifling a hiss of breath as a sharp, hot wire of agony traced a line from my trap down to my bicep.
"Smile," I whispered to the glass. "Finish the story. Be the guy."
I grabbed my bag, slinging it over the good shoulder—the right one—and stepped out into the hallway. The chaos of backstage at Monday Night Raw was a familiar ecosystem. It was a hive of producers running with headsets, camera crews looking for angles, and other talent cooling down or heating up. I nodded to Gable as I passed, offered a handshake to a young NXT call-up who looked terrified to be there, and kept walking.
My destination was the bus. My sanctuary. The only place where the suit jacket could come off and the smile could drop.
Well, almost the only place.
As I pushed through the heavy metal doors leading to the loading dock, the cool night air hit me, mixing with the smell of diesel and stale popcorn. The bus was parked near the end of the line, its black exterior gleaming under the floodlights.
I climbed the steps, the ache in my shoulder throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I keyed the code into the door, hearing the hydraulic hiss as it opened. I stepped inside, expecting silence.
Instead, I smelled vanilla and old books.
YN was sitting on the leather bench seat, her legs tucked under her, a thick hardcover resting on her knees. She looked up as I entered, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. YN YLN. She had this way of existing in the chaos of my life like a calm anchor point. Whether she was working production, handling logistics, or just being the one person who saw Cody Runnels instead of Cody Rhodes, she was essential.
"You're late," she said softly, though there was no accusation in it. Her eyes, sharp and observant, scanned me immediately.
"Seth likes to talk," I said, forcing the charm to the surface. It was a reflex. "And the crowd was hot. Couldn't leave them without a little extra."
I dropped my bag on the floor and moved to the small kitchenette area. I needed water. I needed ice. But I couldn't get the ice pack out yet, not while she was watching with that hawk-like intensity.
"You're walking funny," she noted.
"I'm walking like I just wrestled for thirty minutes," I countered, opening the mini-fridge. The cold air felt good against my face. "It's called selling, YNN. Even when the cameras are off."
"Bullshit," she said, closing her book with a soft thump.
I paused, a bottle of water halfway to my lips. I turned to look at her. She wasn't buying it. She never bought it. That was the trouble with YN; she knew the difference between the showman’s limp and the man’s injury.
"I'm fine," I said, taking a long drink. "Just general wear and tear. The usual price of admission."
She stood up, unfolding her limbs with a grace that always made me feel a little clumsy, despite being a professional athlete. She walked over to me, her eyes tracking the way I was holding my left arm slightly stiff against my side.
"Take off the jacket, Cody," she said.
"YN, really, I just want to sit down and—"
"Jacket. Off."
I sighed, setting the water down. There was no winning this. I unbuttoned the suit jacket, focusing on keeping my movements fluid. I slid the right arm out easily. Then came the left. I had to rotate the shoulder to get the sleeve off, and despite my best efforts to keep my face a mask of stoic indifference, the muscle seized.
My eye twitched. Just a fraction. A microscopic betrayal of the nervous system.
But she saw it.
She stepped in, taking the jacket from my hands and laying it gently over the back of the driver's seat. Then she turned back, her hands hovering near my left shoulder but not touching it. She knew better than to poke a bruise.
"The barricade spot," she stated. It wasn't a question. "I watched it on the monitor. You came down hard."
"I came down safely," I lied. "It looked worse than it was. That’s the job."
"Your pectoral," she whispered, her voice dropping. The memory of the torn pec—the purple bruising, the Hell in a Cell match, the months of rehab—hung in the air between us like a ghost. It was the specter that haunted both of us. For me, it was a hurdle I had cleared. For her, it was the moment she realized how willing I was to destroy myself for this business.
"It's not the pec," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "The pec is fine. It’s reinforced steel at this point. This is just… the trap. Maybe the rotator cuff. Just a stinger."
"A stinger doesn't make you hold your breath when you take off a jacket," she said, her fingers finally making contact, lightly tracing the line of my collarbone.
Her touch was cool, grounding. I leaned into it instinctively, my eyes closing for a brief second before I remembered I was supposed to be being tough.
"I have a schedule to keep, YNN," I said, opening my eyes. "Media in the morning. A meet and greet in Philly. Then SmackDown on Friday. I can't be hurt. So I'm not hurt."
"That is not how biology works, Cody."
"It's how my biology works. Mind over matter. The American Nightmare doesn't get sidelined by a bruise."
She gave me a look that was equal parts exasperation and affection. She reached for the hem of my dress shirt. "Let me see."
I hesitated. Not because I was shy, but because I knew what she would see. The inflammation was probably already setting in. The redness. The swelling.
"YN," I started, grabbing her wrists gently to stop her.
"Cody," she mimicked my tone.
"It's nothing," I said, looking her dead in the eye, channeling every ounce of conviction I used when I looked into the hard cam to address millions of people. "Nothing you need to be concerned about."
The words hung in the silence of the bus.
She didn't pull her hands away. She didn't blink. She just stared at me, searching for the crack in the armor.
"You say that," she said quietly. "You say that every time. 'It's nothing to be concerned about.' And then I find you icing your back at 3 AM. or walking with a limp you think I don't see. You say it’s nothing, but you’re the one who carries the weight of the world on this," she tapped my shoulder gently, "and you act like it’s a feather."
I let go of her wrists, my resistance crumbling. It was the fatigue. It was the quiet of the bus. It was her.
"If I stop," I said, my voice lower, stripped of the promo cadence, "if I show them I'm hurt, the shark in the water smells blood. You know this business. The moment you are fragile, you are a liability. I fought too hard to get back here. I fought too hard to be the guy they rely on."
I walked past her, moving to the small sofa area and collapsing onto it. I let my head fall back against the cushion, staring at the ceiling of the bus.
"It’s not just about the spot, YN. It’s the legacy. My dad… he worked hurt. Everyone from that era worked hurt. They drove up and down the roads with broken ribs and torn ligaments because if they didn't, they didn't get paid. I don't have to do that for the money anymore. I know that. But I feel like… if I acknowledge the pain, I’m letting the side down."
I heard the rustle of fabric as she moved. The sound of the freezer door opening. The crackle of an ice pack being wrapped in a towel.
She sat down next to me, not too close, just close enough that I could feel her warmth.
"Your dad," she began, placing the wrapped ice pack gently on my shoulder. I hissed through my teeth at the shock of the cold, but then the numbness started to seep in, and it was glorious. "Your dad was a legend. But he was also a man who paid a heavy price for those miles. You are finishing his story, Cody. You aren't reliving his mistakes."
I looked at her sideways. The lighting in the bus cast shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her jaw and the worry etched around her eyes.
"It hurts like a bitch," I admitted. The first honest thing I’d said about it all night.
She offered a small, sad smile. "I know."
"I think I landed on a turnbuckle bracket. Under the padding."
"I know," she repeated. "I saw the way you grabbed it before the pin. You adjusted your grip on Seth because you couldn't leverage the left arm."
I chuckled, a dry sound. "You watch too closely."
"Someone has to. You're too busy looking at the horizon to see where you're stepping."
She shifted, turning her body toward me. "Is it something we need a doctor for? Be honest. No 'American Nightmare' spin. Just Cody."
I analyzed the pain. It was a dull roar now, thanks to the ice. Range of motion was limited, but nothing felt detached. Nothing felt structurally catastrophic. Just deep, bone-bruising trauma.
"No doctor," I said. "Just… rest. Ice. Maybe some ibuprofen if you have any in that magic bag of yours."
"I always have ibuprofen," she said. "And kinesio tape. And Arnica."
"You're a lifesaver, YN YLN."
She rolled her eyes at the full name usage, but she got up to retrieve the medicine. I watched her move around the small space. It was moments like this that terrified me more than the matches. In the ring, I knew the rules. I knew the physics. I knew that if I hit the Cross Rhodes, the crowd would pop.
But here? In the quiet? This was where the fear crept in. The fear that I wasn't enough. The fear that my body would quit before my ambition did. The fear that asking for help made me weak.
And the fear of losing her because I was too stubborn to admit I was human.
She came back with two pills and a bottle of water. I took them, swallowing them dry before chasing it with the water.
"You know," I said, handing the bottle back to her. "When I said it was nothing you need to be concerned about… I meant it in the sense that… I don't want you to carry it. I carry the belt. I carry the schedule. I don't want you carrying my pain, too."
YN sat back down, picking up my right hand—the good one—and interlacing her fingers with mine.
"That's part of the deal, Cody. You don't get to compartmentalize people who care about you. You’re not an action figure. You don't go back in the box at the end of the night. If you hurt, I worry. That’s how love works. It’s inconvenient. It’s messy. And it’s not something you can promo your way out of."
I squeezed her hand. She was right. She was always right. It was annoying.
"I'm sorry," I murmured.
"Don't be sorry. Just be careful." She leaned her head on my good shoulder. "And maybe let me drive the bus tonight? You really shouldn't be hauling a forty-foot vehicle down the interstate with one arm."
I scoffed. "I can drive."
"Cody."
"I can. It’s power steering. It’s basically driving itself."
"Cody."
I sighed. "Fine. You drive. But don't mess with my playlist."
"Your playlist is just 80s power ballads and soundtrack scores. I think I can handle it."
We sat there for a while longer, the hum of the bus generator vibrating through the floor. The ice was melting, dampening my shirt, but I didn't move. The pain was still there, a constant companion, but the sharp, panic-inducing edge of it had dulled.
I looked at the suit jacket hanging on the driver's seat. It looked empty without me inside it. A costume waiting for the actor.
"YN?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think I can keep this up?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. It was the question that woke me up at 4 AM in hotel rooms in Des Moines and London and Tokyo. The question that lived in the shadow of the neck tattoo.
She lifted her head, looking at me. She didn't offer a platitude immediately. She considered it.
"I think," she said slowly, "that you are doing something no one else can do right now. You are the standard. But even the standard needs maintenance. You can keep it up, Cody. As long as you remember that you don't have to do it alone. And as long as you stop telling me that your injuries are 'nothing to be concerned about'."
I smiled, a genuine one this time, not the camera-ready grin.
"Deal," I said.
"Good. Now, are you hungry? Or are you just going to starve yourself in solidarity with your shoulder?"
"I could eat."
"I have protein bars. Or we can stop at a Waffle House in about fifty miles."
"Waffle House," I said instantly. "I need carbs. And coffee. And maybe a waffle specifically dedicated to the memory of my left trap muscle."
She laughed, the sound bright and clear in the small space. It chased away the last of the lingering adrenaline gloom.
"Waffle House it is."
She stood up and moved to the driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors. I watched her, feeling a swell of gratitude that hit harder than any finisher. The fans saw the entrance. They saw the pyro. They saw the suit and the smile.
But they didn't see this. They didn't see the ice packs and the doubt. They didn't see the person who drove the bus so I could rest.
I leaned my head back, closing my eyes as the engine roared to life.
"YNN?" I called out over the rumble.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, American Nightmare. Now buckle up. I drive faster than you."
I chuckled, buckling the safety belt across my waist with my good hand. The bus pulled out of the arena lot, rolling over the bumps of the loading dock before hitting the smooth pavement of the highway.
The streetlights flickered past the tinted windows in a rhythmic blur. My shoulder throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of the life I’d chosen. But as the bus settled into a cruising speed, heading toward the next town, the next show, the next story to finish, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since the three-count.
It wasn't nothing. It was pain. It was pressure. It was the heavy, suffocating weight of expectation.
But with her at the wheel, and the promise of hash browns in the headlights?
It was nothing I needed to be concerned about. Not tonight.
I let the darkness take me, drifting into a sleep that, for the first time in weeks, wasn't plagued by dreams of falling. I was safe. And for a man whose life was built on conflict, that was the greatest victory of all.
