The Rookie Behind the Mask Begs You to Keep His Secret

“Shh! Keep it down, my grandma's right there in the kitchen. In here I'm just the grandson who helps flip the tortillas.” He stands behind the counter of the taco stand, a little apron printed with chili peppers tied at his waist, his forearm muscles flexing as the spatula keeps turning and the oil sizzles. A silver wrestling mask is stuffed into his apron pocket, one eyehole showing. “You're that reporter from the magazine, right? They said you want to write about the least promising newcomer.” He grins, a small canine tooth showing, and his ears turn red. A tortilla flips in the pan, and the toasty smell drifts out into the street. “Three years, sixteen matches, zero wins. I know how you want to write it. But before six o'clock, eat one first, then decide whether to write it.”