Bodyslam

Enziguri

T/W: slurs

Mitch double checks his notes, and since he's already double checked them once does this make it a quadruple check? Regardless, he's as ready as he can be. It's quarter after four which means he's got fifteen minutes to sit in blissful silence before he should start warming up and thirty-five before he needs to unlock the door for tryouts.

bing-BING!

He hopes whoever this is doesn't suck.

Snacks: At Sbux. Coffee?

Well, metaphorically speaking.

Fucking YES

Txt when you get here, door's locked

He starts stretching so he'll have time to enjoy the coffee before all hell breaks loose, and after ten minutes his phone goes off again.

A quick peek out the door as he lets Snacks in: no earlybirds, thank god. Mitch makes sure it closes securely behind them and takes his coffee with a tight, grateful smile. It's a bright moment in an otherwise stressful day.

"I know I asked you to just sit back and observe tonight but do you think you're up to helping some?" Mitch asks once they're settled at the announce table. For all sorts of reasons the potential for awkwardness is extremely high today and he's not thrilled about having to start things off by asking for a favor.

Snacks shrugs. His expression is well-controlled; Mitch can barely sense the uncertainty. "Sure, what'dya need?"

Good. Right into business. Saturday night's fallout can be dealt with later. Mitch exhales and rubs his eyes. "Normally I like to have a few of the guys around for tryouts. You and Chuck would've been a general deterrent for any asshattery and Kevin was gonna help with the waiver and release forms."

"But?" Snacks prompts.

"But," Mitch continues rubbing his eyes. "Kevin has food poisoning and Chuck was in a fender-bender this morning. They're both okay but for obvious reasons won't be here tonight."

"Well, shit," Snacks replies. "Okay, yeah, I'm here for it. Tell me what you want me to do."

And that is the kind of thing Mitch likes to hear.

He lets his shoulders slump in a modicum of relief. "I called in ten potentials for today," he tells Snacks, already mentally reworking his plans. "Nine said they'd be here so we'll probably have 7 or 8 actually show."

"That seems...low," Snacks remarks. "How many applied?"

Mitch snorts. "One hundred and fucking eight. We're taking on less for the next few months because of...things...so I narrowed it down to ten and I might take two."

"Things?"

"Things. Things I can't tell you right now, for reasons. So for there to be a tryout where two thirds of my support staff get themselves fucked up, these are the numbers I'd want for it. Lucky me." Mitch takes a long drink of his coffee. "I hate to do this but I think a lot of what I'll need you for will be on the fly. An actual employee - so, that would be me - has to handle the legal forms. I'll get the signatures one by one and send the kids over where you'll walk them through how to stretch."

Snacks nods. "I can do that."

"Once they're signed and stretched, I bump 'em to see who runs immediately. At that point I want you to be at ringside to watch for any problems, ready to hop in if I need you. The rest of it...shit, just be ready to jump in when I call. I swear I'm normally more organized than this. How late can you stay?"