John Cena's Arc

Chapter 8 of 12

Three days after the letter, Cena walked into the arena for his retirement match. The pinewood walls of the building loomed under the marquee lights. Bret Hart stood by the tunnel in his old jacket, arms crossed. He had flown in that morning to work the corner. "You ready?" Bret asked. "Ready," Cena said. "Read him early," Bret said. "He'll drop his left when he sets the lariat. Two seconds. Take it then." Cena tapped his gloves against Bret's and walked out. The match went twenty-two minutes. Cena took the fight the way Bret had drawn it. He waited through the first lariat. He waited through the second. On the third, the left dropped. Cena slipped under it, hooked the leg, and put his opponent on the mat. Three count. The bell rang and the crowd stood. Cena knelt in the middle of the ring. He touched the canvas once with his palm. Bret climbed up through the ropes and lifted his arm. That was the end of it. Twenty-five years, done in the space of one referee's count. He was walking back up the ramp when the side door blew open. Gunther came through it in a plain black shirt, no jacket, jaw set. Cena had not seen him since the arrest at the stone yard. He should not have been in the building. He moved straight down the aisle toward the ramp with a pickaxe in his right hand, the same iron head, the same splintered shaft. Two security guards hit him from the left. A third came in low. Gunther got four steps before they had him against the barricade. The pickaxe clattered on the concrete. He did not shout. He looked up the ramp at Cena and spoke once, flat. "The stone is mine." "It's not," Cena said. The guards pulled Gunther back through the door. It shut behind him. The crowd noise came back in a wave. Bret picked up the pickaxe by the shaft and handed it to a guard. "He carried that in for a reason," Bret said. "Court won't like it." "No," Cena said. "They won't." He stood at the top of the ramp and caught his breath. His shoulder was already stiffening. Tomorrow he would be sore in places he had forgotten. The day after that was Thursday. Noon. The panel on the arch with his name in gold. Bret walked beside him toward the locker room. "He'll be held tonight," Bret said. "Maybe longer. But he came for the ceremony. Not the match." Cena stopped at the door. He had won the match. He had walked out clean. And the man who wanted his stone had just told a room full of witnesses he was not finished. "Thursday," Cena said. "He'll try again Thursday." Bret nodded once. "Then we plan for Thursday."