SuperFan (7 page)

Principal Kwan grinned and made his way over to Shawn. His mother and brother looked at him with concern. They knew all about his stage fright.

“What do you say, Shawn?” Principal Kwan was full of enthusiasm. “Make this a day they'll never forget!”

His mother caught his eye with a look that Shawn read as,
Do you want me to step in?
Shawn shook his head no. His mother talking to the principal for him? Ugh. Way too humiliating. Then, before Shawn knew what was happening, Principal Kwan was beckoning him to his feet. Shawn's reluctance looked more like modesty than fear, and it inspired more cheers.

Slowly, he approached the podium. His legs felt like jelly.

Don't barf
, he told himself.

Luckily, Shawn didn't barf. But as Principal Kwan positioned the microphone, he took a couple of deep breaths that quickly turned into gasps. Shawn was sure everyone in the auditorium could hear, and see, the trickles of sweat he felt beading on his forehead.

His classmates were quiet now. The silence was overwhelming. The faces blurred.

Form words,
Shawn told himself.
Remember what Rey told you to say to the media.

What had Rey told him? He couldn't remember.

He heard nervous laughter.

Say something!

He tried to say, “Thank you for coming.”

Nothing came out.

A collective, disappointed “awww” rolled through the auditorium at the sound of the bells that announced the change of classes. Principal Kwan strode to the microphone and eased Shawn to one side. “Students, that's the end of the assembly. Proceed to your second-period classes.”

Shawn knew he had been saved by the bell. As his classmates filed out noisily, he also knew that he'd been exactly what Jeff Harrison had called him on the kickball field a few short weeks ago.

Weenie.

Undertaker's entrance music, “The Ministry of Darkness,” blasted through huge speakers as seventy-five thousand WWE fans jammed into the Georgia Dome in Atlanta for WrestleMania. Undertaker was scheduled to wrestle his brother, Kane, in this main event, and Shawn knew it wasn't going to be a typical match. Not only would the loser have to quit wrestling and never come back, but the loser agreed to be the winner's towel boy, toilet clean-up dude, and sweat-mopper-upper for the rest of his life. It would be decades of utter humiliation, and the whole WWE Universe knew it.

Shawn was in Undertaker's locker room. As SuperFan, he'd get to carry in the championship for Undertaker. He'd been outfitted in a smaller version of Undertaker's black costume. He loved how it looked on him, but he loved how easily he'd defeated DeJuan, Jayden, and Spike even more. His father was watching on television in Afghanistan. His family and Alex had front-row seats. Could anything be more exciting?

CLANG-CLANG!
Through a speaker hookup, Shawn heard the ring bell sound. Time for the match.

“You're up, Shawn! Go get 'em, SuperFan!” People shouted encouragement. Someone pressed the championship into his hands. Shawn raised it over his head, loving the feel of the leather and admiring the glint of the lights off the engraved metal.

“Ready, Shawn? Lead me out there !” Undertaker called to him, looking like a human mountain in his robe. Then the lights were flashing, the fog machines were pumping out smoke, and the indoor fireworks were exploding in bursts of white and green.

“Members of the WWE Universe, please welcome to the Georgia Dome, representing Undertaker, our very first SuperFan, Shawn Reynolds!”

As seventy-five thousand people rose as one, Shawn walked into the arena, his arms thrust skyward, the championship held high overhead.

The cheers suddenly stopped. People started pointing. Shawn whirled, thinking that someone might be coming up behind him. Someone like Spike, to try to hurt him the way that CM Punk had hurt Rey Mysterio.

Nothing. But the cheers had turned to laughter. Rolling waves of laughter rocked the arena. What was so funny? People were laughing so hard, they were pounding their hands and stomping their feet; Shawn could feel the vibrations right through his bare feet and—

Bare feet? Where were his boots? Shawn looked down. No boots. Not just no boots, but no clothes! He was out there absolutely naked!

He tried to flee, but his feet were stuck, and he couldn't move. The laughter went on.

“No!” he cried. “No, no, no, no, no—”

“Shawn! Shawn!”

Shawn felt someone shaking his arm.

“Wha-what? Where am I?” He could still hear the evil laughter.

It was Alex. “Dude! We're almost in Atlanta. You were having a nightmare, I think.”

“Yeah.” He'd been dreaming, for sure.

“Look outside. We're landing in fifteen minutes. It's absolutely amazing!”

Shawn was in the window seat; he peered out at the city lights that sprawled beneath them. “Yeah.”

He knew he should be excited, but that nightmare had really gotten to him. What did it mean? Was it a warning to himself that he was heading into a situation that could only result in horrible embarrassment?

“What were you dreaming about?” Alex pressed.

Shawn shook his head. “It doesn't matter. I'm okay.”

As the landing gear lowered, he knew he'd just lied. Shawn was anything but okay. In fact, he was wondering if entering SuperFan was the biggest mistake of his life.

Shawn found himself pulled to the left and right simultaneously by his brother and Alex. “Whoa! Look over there!” Alex yanked at his left arm. “That's The Miz!”

“That's nothing!” Peter shouted. “Look who just came in! Kofi Kingston and Randy Orton! And over by the escalator! It's all the guys from the New Nexus! And The Corre. And Dolph Ziggler!”

It was an hour and a half later, and Shawn and his family were checking in at their hotel downtown. Most of the Superstars and Divas were staying there, plus celebrities who had come for the weekend. At that moment, Shawn stood toward the front of a quick-moving line with his mother, Alex, Peter, and Rodrigo, the same WWE employee who had accompanied Rey to Shawn's house that exciting day ten weeks ago. Again, Rodrigo wore a coat and tie; an official WWE credential hung around his neck. He'd met them at the Atlanta airport.

“Anything you need, I'm your go-to guy,” he'd told them. “My job is to make it easy for Shawn.”

True to his word, Rodrigo had gathered their bags, led them to a black town car idling in the pickup area, and drove with them to the hotel. Once they were there, he delivered their bags to the bell desk. When their turn came to check in, he signed everything and handed over the key cards. All they had to do was follow him to the elevator. “The other finalists are already here,” he reported.

“Are they on our floor?” Carla asked.

Rodrigo smiled. “They are. Four suites, and you competitors have all four.”

Shawn hesitated. “Where's Rey? I thought he was meeting us.”

Rodrigo wiggled a finger at Shawn. “Patience, SuperFan. If Rey said he's meeting you, he's meeting you.”

Five minutes later, they'd exited the elevator and walked past the ice machine to their suite at the far end of the twentieth floor. As they neared the heavy wooden door, Rodrigo happily rattled off the various hotel amenities: weight room, pool, game room, spa, in-room movies and video games, plus twenty-four-hour room service. Shawn and his group could use any and all of it, paid for by the WWE.

Rodrigo swung the door open. “Enjoy this.”

Shawn stared. The Reynolds family had only ever stayed in budget motels on road trips to visit relatives. A Holiday Inn was a splurge.

There's nothing wrong with the Holiday Inn, but this was a palace!

From the front hallway, Shawn could see a living room and dining room done in green and white, plus a tiled kitchen. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. Downtown Atlanta shimmered before their eyes. To his pleasant surprise, there was an acoustic guitar propped up on a stand to one side of the couch. He'd mentioned in his application that he played guitar. WWE had thought of everything.

“The Georgia Dome is to the left,” Rodrigo added helpfully. “There are three bedrooms. Carla, you'll find a hot tub and steam shower in the master bath.”

Carla raised her eyebrows quizzically. “A steam shower? The only steam shower I ever take is when the bathroom fan is broken. Who normally stays here?”

“Rock stars, mostly,” Rodrigo responded. “And athletes.” He turned to the boys. “Two of you are going to have to share a room.”

Shawn had already thought about that. Peter had never, ever had the experience of sleeping in his own room. What better first time than now?

When Peter heard Shawn's plan, he couldn't thank Shawn enough. “I'm appreciation.”

Shawn smiled. “It's appreciative, and yes, you are.”

They spent the next few minutes getting settled. Peter whooped when he saw the queen bed, and he whooped again at his own bathroom. Shawn was fine to share a room with Alex. He dived onto his bed and stretched his arms out, the nightmare temporarily forgotten. “I could get used to this.”

“Don't.” Carla issued a mock warning. “Unless you're planning to be very, very rich. Which means you should definitely not be a soldier or a children's librarian.”

“Shawn?” Rodrigo came up behind his mom. “You've got a visitor.”

Shawn went to the living room, then beamed when he saw who was at the door. Rey Mysterio. He was dressed casually in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a black leather motorcycle jacket, yet he still wore a black wrestling mask. No cane, thank goodness.

“Hey, hey!” Rey welcomed Shawn. “It's the future SuperFan. What do you think of your home away from home?” He extended his arms as if he were personally responsible for the gorgeous suite.

“It's . . . it's the nicest place I've ever stayed,” Shawn admitted.

“You win SuperFan? You'll get to stay in a lot of nice hotels.” He laughed. “Probably not like this, though. You know the schedule for tomorrow?”

They sat together on the biggest couch, and Rey went over the schedule. The first challenge would happen in the Dome at ten. Rodrigo needed everyone downstairs at a quarter to nine. Rey recommended a room-service breakfast.

“Do you know what the event is going to be?” Shawn asked.

“No clue, buddy,” Rey told him with a shrug. “Be ready for anything.”

Shawn gulped.
Easier said than done,
he thought.

“Your ankle is better.” Shawn shifted the subject away from himself.

Rey nodded. “Much. I'm not quite ready for the ring, though.” He frowned. “We'll see Punk tomorrow. That'll be entertaining.”

“What are you going to do?” Shawn didn't want Rey to get into a fight.

“Not sure. But I know what you're going to do.” Rey looked right at Shawn. “Beat Spike Murcer. I can't wait to see Punk's ugly face when that happens.” Rey's BlackBerry chimed, and he smiled as he checked the text. “It's my wife and kids—they're here with me. Alia—my daughter—wants her bedtime story. I gotta run. See you at the Dome.” He offered Shawn a fist bump, and then Shawn walked him to the door.

Afterward, with Rey gone, Shawn went for a drink. The fridge was stocked with every beverage known to mankind, but no ice cubes. Shawn asked his mom if he could go down the hall to the ice machine. Carla said it was fine.

It only took a few seconds for Shawn to fill the metal bucket with tiny, round cubes. As he turned to head back, he heard his named called from behind.

“Shawn! Shawn Reynolds!” The voice was a kid's, but an octave lower than his own.

Shawn's heart lurched as he took in who'd called his name. Shawn would have recognized him anywhere: Spike Murcer. He wore gym shorts and a white T-shirt. He was easily six inches taller than Shawn and had to outweigh him by at least fifty pounds. He still looked a lot like a junior CM Punk.

“So.” Spike cleared his throat to draw out the moment. “The great Shawn Reynolds. You don't look so great. In fact, I have to say you look a lot like a weenie.”

Shawn's ears burned. Spike had just called him what Jeff Harrison used to call him. Had Spike been spying on the kickball game? Doubtful. Maybe Shawn just gave off a weenie aura or something. He knew he should say something. But what?

“You're Spike, right?”

Spike nodded. “Yep, Weenie. I'm Spike. And I have only one thing to say to you. Out of all the competitors, I hate you the most.”