Page 8

8

I step into the room, and my breath catches for a split second before my eyes land on him .

Kyle “The Killer” Jenkins.

Sprawled out in the massage chair like he owns the damn place, wearing that same smug, lazy expression that makes my fists twitch. And Natalie— fuck —she’s there, her delicate hands working over his thick neck, completely focused, oblivious to the bolt of rage tearing through me.

I hate that guy.

Not just in the ring. Not just for the cameras. It’s real. It’s personal.

Kyle’s the kind of guy who walks into a room and expects everyone to bow down, just because of his last name. The son of The Terrorizer —a legend in this business. Kyle was born into wrestling, handed a silver spoon, and served a contract on a platter. He never had to grind. Never had to claw his way up from the dirt. He thinks this industry owes him something.

I had to fight for every inch. I had to bleed, sweat, break bones, push through injuries, outwork every single person in that locker room just to get where I am. And Kyle? He coasts. He shows up when it’s convenient. He plays the part without putting in the work. And now, he’s sitting there with her —Natalie.

Kyle looks up, noticing me. His smirk spreads as he tilts his head slightly, like he already knows he’s getting under my skin.

“Stephen in here?” I ask, my voice sharp, cutting through the room like a blade.

Natalie’s head snaps up, startled. Her wide aqua eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I swear I see something there. Surprise? Guilt? Her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but Kyle beats her to it.

“Relax, champ ,” he drawls, stretching out like he’s on vacation. “Didn’t realize you were so interested in getting your hands on me.”

His grin is infuriating. He’s baiting me. And it’s working.

I tear my gaze from him, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache. I won’t let him see that he’s rattling me.

Natalie clears her throat. “No, um, Stephen’s next door.”

Her voice is soft, even, but I don’t miss the tension in it.

I nod once, tight and clipped, and walk out without another word, leaving the door open behind me. I need to get the hell out of there before I do something stupid , like rip Kyle apart right in front of her.

I find Stephen in the office across the hall, bent over a stack of papers. “Hey, Ryan,” he greets, looking up with a small smile. “How’s the back?”

“It’s good,” I say, though the stiffness from the flight has been nagging at me since we landed. “But it’s been a little tight today.”

“Let’s take a look.” Stephen gestures for me to follow him to the table.

He goes through the usual checks—touching my toes, flexing my foot, the routine stuff. He has me lay down, his hands expertly examining my back. “Nothing too serious,” he says, pressing down on a sore spot. “But you could use some stretching. You know, you should really go next door and let Natalie give you a massage. She’s good.”

I shake my head before he can even finish the sentence. “I don’t have time for that. Maybe another time.”

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You’ve been moving like a rusty old man all day. I’ll radio her—”

“Not today.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don’t care. The last thing I need is to be anywhere near her right now. Especially after seeing her with him . “I just need some rest. I’ll be fine for my match with Bell tonight.” The thought of her hands on me has me anxious, nerves exploding in my stomach.

Stephen gives me a long look but doesn’t push it. “Alright. Just be careful.”

I avoid her for the rest of the night. Not hard to do, given how much is going on backstage. I keep my focus on the match ahead, not on the blonde whose hands I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

By the time my music hits, the anger fades. The adrenaline takes over.

The entire arena erupts the second my entrance song blasts through the speakers.

A wall of noise crashes into me, thousands of fans screaming my name, chanting for me. It’s deafening, the energy vibrating through the air, thick with anticipation. This is what I live for.

The heavy bass of my theme pounds through my chest as I step through the curtain, shoulders squared, head high. The moment I appear; the crowd fucking loses it.

My heart pounds. My veins flood with pure adrenaline. This is my world.

As I walk down the ramp, I slap a few hands, sign a couple of posters for kids in the front row. I make eye contact with fans wearing my merch—young kids who look at me like I’m larger than life. I take a second, just a beat, to acknowledge them. Because I remember being that kid. I remember what it felt like.

There’s nothing like this. Nothing. It’s a high that nothing else can touch.

Jason Bell is already in the ring, shaking out his arms, rolling his shoulders. We’ve got history. We trained together; we came up together. There’s mutual respect, but that doesn’t mean I’m taking it easy on him.

The bell rings, and we’re at it.

Fast. Brutal. Precise.

Jason’s a powerhouse, throwing heavy hands, but I know his weaknesses. We trade blows, back and forth, the match unfolding in a perfect rhythm. Every impact echoes through the arena. The crowd is hooked , hanging on every move, every near-fall.

Then I see my moment.

I counter a swing, catching him off guard, and drive him into the mat with a perfect Concrete Crusher. The crowd explodes, chanting my name, stomping their feet, the entire arena shaking.

I pace the ring, amping them up even more. They know what’s coming.

Jason stirs, pushing himself up, and that’s all I need. I grab him, hoisting him up—every muscle in my body tight, coiled, ready.

The Pierce Press.

A perfect execution.

The ref counts.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rings, the crowd fucking loses it.

“Here is your winner—RYAN PIERCE!”

I climb the turnbuckle, raising both arms high, soaking it in. The cheers, the chants, the energy pulsing through my veins like fire.

This is why I do this. This is everything.

Backstage, Stephen is waiting with an ice pack. “Still stiff?” he asks, watching me closely.

I press the ice to my back, exhaling slowly. “Just a little.”

“Ryan, you need to see Natalie,” he says, exasperated. “She could help—”

“I said not today,” I snap, cutting him off. His eyes narrow, and for a second, it looks like he’s going to argue.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shakes his head, muttering, “Stubborn bastard,” before walking away.

I sigh, dragging the ice pack down my spine, ignoring the way my muscles ache. It’s better this way.

Better for everyone.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.