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I’m backstage, pacing, loosening up my shoulders, mentally running through tonight’s match. Lester might be Kyle’s muscle, but I’m ready to take him down, use this as a chance to send a message before my title shot against Kyle at the end of the week. I can feel the energy buzzing in the air, the anticipation building, but my mind is laser-focused. This is what I do best.

Travis and Jason are with me, shooting the shit like we always do before matches, but Jason’s been going on and on about Chrissy for the past ten minutes. I hear him, but I’m only half-listening as I stretch my arms across my chest, prepping for the ring.

“Man, I think I’m going to ask her out,” Jason says, grinning like an idiot. “What do you think, Ryan? You cool with that?”

I chuckle under my breath, shaking my head. “I don’t give a fuck what you do, Jason. There’s never been anything between me and Chrissy.” I pause, meeting his eyes with a smirk. “She’s been chasing me, sure, but I’ve never pursued her.”

Travis gives me a side-eye, exchanging a glance with Jason. “That’s not what Chrissy’s been saying, man.”

I shrug it off. “She can say whatever she wants. I don’t waste my time on that shit.”

I push the conversation out of my head as I focus on what’s coming next. It’s game time. I roll my neck, feeling the tension knot in my muscles, ready to unleash it all in the ring. It’s just me and Lester out there tonight, but this match is about more than just kicking his ass. It’s about showing Kyle exactly what’s coming for him.

The moment my entrance music hits, the arena erupts . A pulse of energy surges through the crowd, the deep, rumbling “PIERCE! PIERCE! PIERCE!” chant shaking the very foundation of the building. It’s deafening , a wall of sound that rolls over me, sending a rush of adrenaline straight through my veins.

This. This is why I do this.

I step through the curtain, stopping at the top of the ramp as the blinding lights hit me. My chest rises and falls with steady, controlled breaths as I take it all in—the thousands of fans on their feet, signs waving, cameras flashing, their cheers hitting me like a tidal wave. The massive LED screens behind me flash my name in bold letters, larger than life.

I don’t rush. I let them feel it . Let them see me. Sweat glistens on my skin, my muscles flexing under the heat of the lights. Every eye in this arena is on me, waiting .

I start my descent down the ramp, each step deliberate, every movement precise. Fans scream, shoving outstretched hands in my direction, and I slap a few as I pass. But my focus? It’s locked on that ring. The squared circle . My home.

Lester is already inside, pacing like a caged animal, his beady eyes darting toward me. He knows what’s coming. He should.

I climb the steel steps slowly, purposefully, pausing on the apron as I take one last look at the sea of people chanting my name. I throw my arms out wide , soaking it all in as the cheers swell to a deafening pitch. This is my moment . My house .

Then, in one smooth motion, I duck between the ropes, rolling my shoulders, standing tall, staring Lester down.

The crowd doesn’t die down. They know what’s coming next .

The bell barely finishes ringing before I explode forward.

I slam into Lester, fists flying, the impact rocking him back into the corner. I don’t give him a second to breathe—I drive my shoulder into his gut, then another, then another, until he’s gasping, his body folding over from the force. The ref yells for me to back up, but I don’t hear him. I don’t care .

Lester stumbles forward, trying to regain his footing, but I catch him mid-step, wrapping my arms around his waist and launching him into the air. The slam shakes the ring, the impact reverberating through the canvas. The crowd roars .

I barely let him hit the mat before I’m on him again.

Blow after blow, I drive my fists into his ribs, his jaw, his skull. My knuckles sting, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop . This isn’t just a match. This is a statement . I want Kyle to see this. I want everyone to see what the hell is coming for them.

Lester tries to rally, swinging wildly, desperation written all over his sweat-slicked face. I duck, slipping behind him, my arm locking tight under his chin. He struggles, thrashing in my grip, but I tighten the hold, cutting off his air supply.

Panic flickers across his eyes. He’s done . I can feel it.

But then—

A commotion at ringside.

The ref’s attention flickers away for a split second . Just long enough for one of Lester’s lackeys to slide something under the ropes.

A steel chair.

Lester’s fingers brush it, and before I can react—

CRACK!

The pain detonates against the side of my skull, white-hot and blinding. My ears ring, my vision blurs . The mat rushes up to meet me, and I barely register the deafening boos from the crowd.

I blink through the blood trickling down my face, head spinning.

Lester stands above me, the steel chair clutched in his hands, his chest heaving.

And the ref? He missed the whole damn thing.

The match is over.

The bell rings again.

Lester’s arm is raised.

I lost .

I push up to my knees, breathing hard, the metallic taste of blood thick in my mouth. The moment I make it to my feet, the ref tries to steady me, but I shove him off, shaking my head. I don’t need help . I just need to get the hell out of here before I do something I can’t take back.

I step through the ropes, stumbling slightly as I make my way up the ramp. The chants of my name haven’t stopped, but they sound distant . All I hear is the pounding in my skull, the rage in my veins.

I barely make it backstage before I see him .

The boss stands with his arms crossed; his expression unreadable—but I know what’s coming.

“You seemed distracted out there,” he says, his voice clipped. “That wasn’t you, Ryan.”

I grit my teeth, biting back the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue.

Distracted? He hit me with a fucking chair.

I wasn’t distracted. I was pissed . I am pissed.

“You need to get your head together before Sunday,” he continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You can’t afford to be off your game. Not now .”

His words cut deeper than they should.

I clench my fists at my sides, blood still dripping down my face, my head pounding, anger boiling under my skin.

“Yeah,” I mutter, pushing past him. “I got it.”

But his words linger in the back of my mind, gnawing at me as I head to the locker room, my vision blurred with red. Distracted. Was I distracted? No. I’m not the type to lose focus. I don’t get distracted. I’m always on my game, always ready, always pushing harder than anyone else.

But the more I try to push it aside, the more it sticks.

Was I distracted?

I slam my locker room door shut, my bloodied reflection staring back at me in the mirror. I run a towel over my face, trying to clear the blood and the doubt that’s creeping in. The panic starts to rise in my chest, and for a second, I wonder if he’s right.

I think about everything that’s happened recently. Natalie. The way she’s gotten under my skin, the way I can’t stop thinking about her, about us. The way I lose myself every time I’m with her.

I hate the thought, but it hits me hard—maybe I am distracted. Maybe Natalie’s become a distraction, making me lose focus on the one thing I’ve always been so damn good at. Wrestling.

My chest tightens as the panic builds, but I push it down.

I can’t afford distractions. I can’t afford to lose my edge.

I need to protect myself.

I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much to let anyone or anything pull me away from this. I’ve got the biggest match of my career coming up, and I have to be at the top of my game. No mistakes. No weaknesses. No distractions.

I sit down on the bench, my hands gripping my knees, trying to calm the storm brewing inside me. The shields go up. The walls that have always protected me, kept me focused, kept me from getting hurt.

I can’t afford to let anyone in right now.

Not even Natalie.

Especially not her.