Calling the Spot
I flicked the blinds with a tap to check outside, and there they were—people standing below the building.
The team leaders and Harley Racy. They were half-forcibly guiding Robin Connor, the journalist who had come to pay his respects, through the facility.
Robin looked somewhat flustered at how suddenly things had unfolded, but standing before a wall of muscular men, he had no choice but to comply. Was it just my imagination, or did I see a faint tremble in his hand as he snapped photos of each facility?
So, what was I—the one who'd caused all this—doing in the meantime?
I'd gone back to my room.
My wrestling gear had just been delivered. With the electric fan whirring away, I stared down at it, dumbfounded.
Already a match?
I wasn't even ready.
I understood the instinct to seize an opportunity, but it still threw me a little. This wasn't some backwater imitation of pro wrestling, after all. If we hadn't known each other as well as we did, this match was bound to end in disaster.
They said it starts in the afternoon.
About two hours left.
I checked the clock and headed outside, where I spotted Baku just emerging from Russell's room, his brow furrowed.
"Baku?"
"Oh, it's you."
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be showing that journalist guy around?"
"Eh, the others can handle it. Ha—but hey. Weren't you a little too harsh with what you said?"
"Why?"
"You two have a match coming up, and Russell, that kid—he's been keeping his mouth shut, saying he'll figure it out on his own. I don't know what's gotten into him."
"……Some problems between men just have to be settled through sweat, you know?"
"You're probably capable enough, but don't let it turn into a real fight out there."
"Of course not."
When I flashed him a wry grin, Baku passed me by, unable to hide the worry on his face. Then, no—after a moment, something seemed to occur to him, and he spoke up again.
"Ah, now that I think of it."
"Yes?"
"What're you going with for your ring name and finisher?"
"Ring name, I'll just go with Jun for now. As for my finisher……"
I smacked my knee.
"This."
"Your knee?"
"A knee kick."
"Why not the Northern Lights Bomb? You're damn good at it."
"That one's too dangerous."
I smiled wryly. Baku gave me a lingering look, half regretful, then turned away. I waited until he was far enough out of earshot before pounding on Russell's door.
"You heard him, right? The 'knee.'"
"……Come in."
The door swung open.
Russell's arm shot out and yanked me inside in one motion.
What is this, Romeo and Juliet?
I smirked at Russell, who was grinning like a boy. He pulled out a chair and slid it in front of me.
"Let's hash it out fast."
The match's content, that was.
When the higher-ups assigned a time limit, the wrestlers would map out the key moments—what were called spots—to pre-determine how the match would unfold.
We'd been given ten minutes. A pretty average length.
Though for a match between trainees, that's actually on the long side.
But Russell and I were capable of going longer than that.
Settling into the chair, I looked up at him perched on the bed and opened the conversation.
"First things first—who's winning?"
"They said to leave that to us."
"……What?"
"He said he wants to watch and enjoy it like a fan. So, what do you think?"
"Hmm……"
"You winning would be better."
Russell said it with complete seriousness. I blinked at the unexpected answer.
In matches like this, ones with no bearing on any ongoing storyline, it was standard practice for the babyface to go over.
Me? Why? You're the face.
"But you're still a rookie. I'm the veteran from the back alleys—from the indies."
"You want me to book it like I'm the top dog?"
"Yeah. Better that I come off as the underdog. You come out a little dirty, and the crowd starts feeling sorry for me."
This guy really is something.
I liked the idea.
It fit both of our characters. And it promised an interesting story down the line. If this was what got us into GCW, it was the kind of scenario that could hold its own on a regional TV broadcast.
We lay out the spots.
We trade offense.
I, with far more experience in countless real matches, edge him out by just a hair and take the win.
A solid story.
It holds up, too.
It was nearly identical to what I'd been thinking myself. I would've said the face should win in the end, but Russell seemed to feel his character still needed room to develop.
He's not wrong.
I agreed with him on that point.
* * *
GCW's main arena.
The ring gleamed under blinding lights. Every last employee of GCW had gathered to fill the thousand-seat venue to capacity.
And every single one of them had come to watch Russell and me. In the best seats sat Harley Racy and the journalist, waiting for the match to begin.
Baku must've been running his mouth about our rivalry far and wide.
Well, it was the kind of story wrestling fans loved to pop popcorn for.
A grizzled indie veteran who'd survived every hardship the business could throw at him.
A newcomer from a legendary wrestling family, desperate to surpass his great uncle.
A collision between the two.
Clichéd, sure—but that's exactly what wrestling is at its core.
A show in the shape of a sport.
That was why Baku had left even the outcome in our hands—so that he, too, could watch this fight unfold from a fan's perspective and see where it led.
I'll show them exactly what that looks like.
Behind the entrance ramp sat the Gorilla Position—the command center where a pro wrestling show was directed. Today, though, it held only the lighting crew and the camera team. While they bustled about preparing the outward trappings of the match, I stretched out slowly.
I worked each muscle group deep and prayed to God that I wouldn't get hurt.
Pro wrestlers could die in the ring from a single careless mistake.
Naturally, it was best never to let things reach that point, but who could ever say what the world had in store before it happened? And so, I prayed.
Let me end this match so brilliantly that everyone damn near wets themselves in awe, and let my signing bonus double.
That was my wish.
Ah, and one more thing.
And let me seize this chance at life and become a bigger star than my own company, just like Dwayne Johnson after me.
That, I resolved.
"Jun!"
Right then, a staff member who'd just finished the lighting check called out to me.
"Is he going out first?"
"Yeah, I'll go first."
Russell stepped forward.
"Alright, rolling the music."
The staff member beside us worked the console, and a shrill guitar shrieked through the speakers.
The entrance theme of his uncle, the active legend, Greg Hart.
Nothing else fits.
It suited Russell perfectly. He took a light, deep breath, then threw back the curtain and walked out.
I loosened the last of my knotted muscles and let the music wash over me.
Now I would fight him.
As equals.
And I would win.
However small it might sound to anyone else, to me it was extraordinary.
In my previous life, I had been a Jobber—the lowest rung of the pro wrestling ladder.
I couldn't execute more than a handful of moves. I got beat like a fool, and that was always how it ended.
And now, that same me—
Beating the son of the Hart family.
Goosebumps raced across my whole body. To be given a role like this. It felt as though all my effort, all my ability, had finally been acknowledged.
No—no, not yet.
I hadn't earned that much. I'd merely been handed an opportunity.
Now was the time to prove to everyone that I was worthy of it.
"Jun, ready to go?"
"What's my music?"
"……Our show's main theme."
"Why do I get stuck with that?"
"W-well, there's nothing else to use?"
"Give me Rockcold, then. The theme that guy used back in his heel days."
When I said that, the staff member shrugged and hit play.
A crash of shattering glass rang out. I threw back the curtain and strode out with it.
On the entrance ramp.
Bathed in the spotlight, that ominous, destructive music thundered around me. I glared up at Russell, already waiting in the ring, and climbed onto the apron.
My eyes stayed locked on him, unblinking.
With that alone, the message was clear: this fight was born of genuine bad blood. We were walking a tightrope strung between script and reality.
Here was the fun part—Russell glared right back, refusing to yield an inch.
I shed my jacket and flung it aside, and Russell came marching toward me. I closed the distance just as fast, until the referee stepped in to keep us from colliding.
"The bell hasn't rung yet!"
"Did you even wash your neck before coming here, you minor-league knockoff?"
"Don't think you're walking out of here on your own two feet."
We improvised our performance on the spot, playing straight into the characters we'd settled on. The referee hurried through the rules.
No closed fists to the face, no strikes below the belt, and so on. Even in the middle of it, I kept my chin high, shooting Russell a look of pure contempt.
"Each man to your corner!"
Once we'd retreated to opposite posts, the referee swung his arm in a great arc.
Ding-ding-ding!
The bell rang out sharp and clear.
A three-count from a shoulder-pin, a ten-count on the outside, submission, or disqualification. The rules were standard.
One-on-one.
Russell approached in a textbook wrestling stance.
A lockup. Two competitors seizing each other's neck and arm, grappling for leverage—the perfect way to signal a match's beginning.
But I deliberately blew right past it, circling the ring instead. Russell stayed coiled and ready, while I stood angled away from him, playing it cool on purpose.
Finally, his patience snapped and he charged.
It was a trap.
A spot we'd planned together before the match ever started—in other words, this match's first spot. I launched myself at Russell as he bent at the waist and drove my left knee slashing up toward his jaw.
CRACK!
The sharp report rang out as his body whipped around, and I watched the crowd at ringside recoil in shock. Of all their reactions, Baku's was my favorite. At the sight of my finisher landing as the very first strike of the match, his eyes went round with disbelief.
Didn't see that coming, did you?
But it was a good spot—one that laid our difference in caliber brutally bare.
I hoisted up the leg of Russell, who'd crumpled near the ropes, and draped myself over him. The referee rushed in and slapped the mat.
"One……! Two……!"
But Russell's foot found the bottom rope with perfect timing.
A rope break. We'd laid it all out before the match began, so the referee caught it instantly and flagged it for me.
"Two!"
"Damn it."
I laughed as if all the wind had gone out of me and patted Russell on the head. Still dazed, he swung at my arm on pure reflex.
A finisher's prestige mattered enormously. The crowd had to believe it was a move devastating enough to end any match on the spot.
That was why we'd chosen the story of barely escaping by rope break, rather than kicking out of the pin under our own power.
I pounded Russell's skull with both fists, mocking him on purpose.
"What, that's it? And here I thought you came from a wrestling family?"
I went for another cover.
This time, Russell, having recovered somewhat, pushed out of it on his own.
I rose off him with a contemptuous laugh and backed away, then waited for Russell to shake the cobwebs loose and get to his feet.
And the moment he stood, barely conscious, I extended my arm and offered him a lockup.
"Come on, then. Russell Hart."
A classic heel move, through and through.
At the sight of it, the crowd turned, waiting to see how Russell would respond. Waking to himself at last, Russell raised his arm like a man steeling his resolve.
Within moments, neither of us waited for the other—we both charged.