"So what's the story with you and Mizanin?"
John turned his head sharply, his skin pricking as it always did when someone mentioned his ex-tag team partner and former best friend. He eyed the man to whom he'd just lost his intercontinental title, dismissed the comment as an attempt to get further under his skin, and went back to folding and stowing his ring gear.
"Nothing," he replied, hoping the Scot would drop the subject.
"Now, you see, I don't think that's true."
Drew eyed him, a knowing smirk twisted across his lips. He was leaning against the bank of lockers a few feet away, his hair loose against his shoulders and damp from the shower he'd just taken. John met that coolly amused gaze, keeping his face carefully expressionless. It was a ruse; had to be. Drew just won the title, perhaps this was some peculiar Scottish brand of gloating.
"Well, I don't think you know what you're talking about. We're friends, I don't know what else—"
In a flurry of movement, John was pressed up against the very locker he had just been using, one of Drew's hands around his neck, the other curled around his hip and holding him in place. He looked up at Drew, disconcerted by the height difference, by having to look up into someone's face… to have someone physically looming over him.
"You're lying." Drew said quietly, staring calmly into John's eyes.
"Get off of me," he hissed, pushing at the other man's shoulders; Drew moved not so much as an inch.
"Stop lying to yourself."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" John said and then bit his lip; he really hadn't meant to say that quite so loudly. He struggled harder against the hold Drew had on him; for a moment it seemed he had pushed the man back, and then he was slammed against the locker, rattling his spine and aggravating his already sore body.
"I saw how you looked at him, I could read it on your face." He leaned in further, whispering the next words directly into John's ear. "I can read it on your face now." The hand that had previously been pressed against John's hip wandered beneath the tails of his button-down shirt, fingertips tracing the ridges of those unbelievably perfect abs. "I can help you forget about him…."
John pushed Drew away from him with the last of his strength; he managed to unbalance the taller man and he stumbled back a few steps. He regained his balance quite easily and his eyes flashed with something that might have been anger if not for the smirk that remained on his face. John was breathing heavily, his back against the locker and his hands clenched into fists. He knew he should grab his duffel bag and leave the locker room and respectfully request to have no further matches with Drew McIntyre.
That was what he should have done.
Instead he stood still against the cold metal, staring wide-eyed and unbelieving at the overwhelming brashness of this man's words and actions.
Drew just kept smirking at him – not a grin, not even so much of a smile, just that half upturned devilish smirk – and then reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a plain white card that John almost instantly recognized as a hotel room key. His could feel his jaw want to drop – so fucking bold – but he pressed his lips together instead. The keycard was dropped casually beside John's duffel bag, and with a final darkly promising glance, sauntered casually out of the locker room.
John remained frozen to the locker for an untold amount of time, unable to believe everything that had just happened. He might have thought he imagined the whole thing, stress, sleep-deprivation, something, except for the unassuming white keycard sitting next to his bag. With a little shake, he got moving and reached out to grab his stuff and get the holy hell out of there. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stopped, looking down at the keycard. A vague story spun through his mind; he shouldn't leave the card there, maybe someone would find it, or maybe he should just give the card back, tell Drew he was sorry he had the wrong idea. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out for the little square of plastic... and then he snatched it off the bench and jammed it into his back pocket.