John Cena's Arc

Chapter 10 of 12

Thursday morning, Cena drove to the arena an hour before the ceremony. He wanted to see the panel one more time before the crowd arrived. The parking lot outside the arena was already filling. Folding chairs sat in rows in front of the arch. The blank stone was blank no longer. His name ran across it in gold letters, set into the weathered gray face above a base still ringed with moss. Cena walked past the chairs and stopped at the front row. Triple H was already there. He stood in front of the seat with the small reserved card taped to it, arms crossed, watching the workers straighten the microphone stand. His leather vest was the same one he wore to the hearing. He had not sat down. Triple H had been Cena's best friend for twenty years. He had taken the council seat after Harris quit, sold his city house, and moved into a cabin behind the arena so he could see this day through. He had also been forced to recuse from the vote that put Cena's name on the stone. He had not spoken at the ceremony's planning meetings. He had not asked to. Cena stopped beside him. "You're early." "So are you." "I wanted to look at it," Cena said. "I've been looking at it for an hour." Triple H turned to face him. He reached into the inside pocket of the vest and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He held it out. "What is it?" Cena said. "What I'm saying at noon." Cena took the paper but did not open it. "You're not on the program." "I asked the clerk this morning. She added me." "You recused from the vote." "The vote is done," Triple H said. "This isn't the vote." Cena looked down at the folded page. "You're going to speak." "I'm going to honor you." Triple H said it flat, the way he said things that mattered. "Twenty years. Somebody should say it out loud before you walk away from the business. I'm the one who knows." Cena felt his throat tighten. He had shown up to another man's ceremony two years ago and driven home alone. Triple H had been in the car behind him that night. Neither of them had ever mentioned it. "You don't have to," Cena said. "I know." Cena folded the paper back along its crease and handed it to him. "Then don't read it. Just say it." Triple H took the page and slid it into his pocket. He nodded once. Behind them, the workers finished with the microphone. A clerk waved from the side of the arch. People were starting to fill the chairs. Cena's shoulder still hurt from the match. The stone stood in front of him with his name on it in gold, and the man beside him was going to be the first voice the town heard at noon.