Gossip and the Broken Champ's Respect

In the end, Jaina refused my proposal and simply forfeited the game.

And with that, the victory was declared for the WWF by default.

It was only natural. Freddy Helberg was a professional fighter who trained for months on end for a single bout. With his debut match looming, there was no way he could risk himself on something as reckless as a stunt.

Well, even if he hadn't backed down, I would have won anyway.

Not many people could stay focused with shards of broken glass scattered across a table. The kind of man willing to do that? At best, a pro wrestler.

In any case, I wanted to applaud Jaina's judgment, even if it cost him a piece of his pride.

Bart would have ordered him to go through with it.

That man was exactly the type to put a pro wrestler inside an MMA cage for the sake of his own ego — and if his fighter lost, he'd cut off all interest in him forever. Entrepreneurs were prideful creatures, and Bart's pride was pathological.

Which is why, in his own way, I considered Jaina a decent boss. Pouring champagne over Tiffany's head, all things considered, was a shrewd move to seize the crowd's attention.

It just so happened his opponent was me.

That was his only mistake.

Not long after the AFC team descended from the stage, Snoop-Duck came sauntering over with a grin. Before a word left his mouth, he thrust out his fist, and we exchanged a light bro-fist.

"Maaan~. You one crazy motherfucker."

"You're crazier, throwing two million dollars' worth of champagne at me."

"It's cool. The liquor's swill anyway, long as I keep the diamonds."

He chuckled and snickered to himself. Handing the baton back to Snoop-Duck, I stepped down from the stage with Tiffany.

The overheated atmosphere settled back to normal once the game ended. Everyone seemed to have plenty to say about our showdown, and the room had grown a bit chaotic — until the turntable cut through it with a scratch.

Roughly a wikki-wik.

When I paused and turned around, Snoop-Duck had everyone's attention riveted, and he spoke into the microphone.

"Damn, that little game right there? Toughest shit I seen all night."

Having delivered his deadpan verdict, he pointed a finger at me. When a man as famously laid-back as Snoop-Duck said something like that, there was only one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way to take it — he meant every word.

"Give it up for my man Sin, y'all. Show him some respect."

At the respect Snoop-Duck paid me, the crowd sent up a roar of cheers. I raised a hand in acknowledgment and made my way back into the hotel.

With that, Tiffany — who had been holding her silence the whole time to keep the spotlight on me — giggled.

"You milked that for all it was worth."

"I was planning to make an appearance, do my thing, and head back because of the schedule."

"Well, that's off the table now."

"You're telling me."

I let out a wry laugh. The moment I got this wound patched up and stepped out, I'd be buried under, quite literally, an avalanche of handshake requests. It felt a little daunting, but there was no dodging this opportunity — not after the spectacular result I'd won at the 'price' of champagne being dumped on Tiffany's head.

Of course, I had called Jaina's show fantastic. But that was that.

And this was this.

That son of a bitch…

My blood was still boiling. I lifted my head, grinding my teeth — then my eyes went round.

Someone was approaching. Freddy Helberg, carrying a box of medical supplies, and beside him, Jaina White.

I frowned. Jaina came over with a cigar clamped between his teeth and glanced at my elbow.

"You'll be needing treatment for that."

"…?"

"Freddy went to med school. Why not put some faith in him."

"What's the catch?"

"This ain't a party. Just take it as a tribute to the man who drank my milk for me, flawless."

I exchanged a glance with Tiffany at my side. Apparently she had something to say, because she stepped in first.

"Then, Mr. White, shall we step away and have our own conversation?"

"…Fine. It's no matter to me."

The two of them vanished around a corner. I turned back to Freddy, who stood there hesitating.

"You're really from a med school?"

"Believe me."

"And you respect me now, is that it?"

"I've come to understand the difference, yes."

"I felt it too."

Grinning, I sat down in a nearby chair and let Freddy treat me. He opened the medical kit and began examining my elbow. Judging by how we'd run into each other right as we entered the hotel, there didn't seem to be any hidden agenda.

"Good news — it's not deep. No glass embedded, from what I can see."

"Could've managed a few more rounds."

"Is there a technique for that too? Some way of landing on broken glass without getting hurt?"

"You pray."

"…Fair enough, I suppose. It's not as if the glass on that table could have been rigged."

The antiseptic stung. Freddy studied my wound with evident fascination as he kept talking.

"You put that elbow down without a single flicker of hesitation. That's when I felt it — pro wrestlers are truly remarkable people."

"Well, shouldn't I say the same to you? I think the pressure of real combat that MMA fighters carry is no joke."

"You get used to it."

"Same here. And looking at your physique, I can tell you haven't missed a single day of conditioning."

"I was thinking the exact same thing. Your body — I thought it was monster quality, honestly."

"It's for show. Can't compare to a real fighter like you."

"Don't be modest. From a sports medicine standpoint, that is absolutely not show muscle."

"…Don't tell me your major wasn't medicine but sports medicine."

"Well, close enough."

Absurd. The man was full of surprises.

"Anyway, it seems you've trained in fighting too, at least a little."

"For the sake of realism in the show, I picked up the basics, sure."

"Then that punch earlier — you mean to tell me you took it on purpose?"

"I needed to bleed to build the show. In our line, we call it a blood job."

"…So that's how it was. I knew the feel of it was different somehow. Remarkable."

Freddy admitted his admiration freely, finished the treatment, and rose from his seat. He'd done a decent job of it, too — I didn't know what he'd done with the bandage, but he'd wrapped it so well there was no discomfort at all when I bent my arm.

As I pulled my shirt and jacket back on, Freddy tidied up the kit, stood, and offered his hand.

"That was magnificent tonight, Sin."

Having expressed his feelings with complete honesty, the man carried his kit across the hall and disappeared. Getting told I had a great body by a fighter who majored in sports medicine.

Not bad at all.

I smirked and headed straight for the corner where Tiffany and Jaina had disappeared. Voices drifted over as I approached.

Jaina first.

"I did tell you, didn't I — that there was no malice behind what I did?"

Apparently they were discussing the champagne incident.

"Well, if that's the case, I'm relieved."

Tiffany smiled.

"It means I never have to wonder whether your rude behavior carries some other meaning."

"…What's that supposed to mean?"

"That was AFC's entire strategy a few years ago, wasn't it?"

Denouncing pro wrestling as fake while telling the world to come watch the real thing. It was a famous strategy — one that had grown AFC into a far bigger enterprise than before. Part of it was their own competence, but it was also a textbook case of a marketing pitch that worked simply by existing.

Not fake — real. A battle of the strongest, forged from the finest techniques of every martial art under the sun.

"You tell an interesting story."

"Well, it's the first time champagne's been dumped on my head, but when I think of it as a small company's little prank, I find myself feeling generous."

"…You've changed a great deal."

Jaina changed the subject.

"The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠last time I saw you at a party, I remember you drinking quietly in a corner before leaving."

"My father dragged me there, said I ought to experience high society. It was the day of the King's Rumble, so I was furious about missing the live broadcast."

"The King's Rumble?"

"You don't even know one of the biggest events of the company you trash-talk?"

"…"

Jaina grew quieter and quieter.

"Well, a lot has changed since then. I've developed goals of my own, you could say."

"What kind of goals?"

"…Did you really think I'd tell you? If you're that desperate to know, take your pants off and dance for it."

"Ha! What a cheeky young lady."

"I'm the president of GCW. A woman sitting in the exact same seat you do."

"Silver spoon in mouth. Not all presidents are created equal."

"So that's what it was? You turned against the establishment because you hate people born on piles of money?"

"And what would you be without that seat of yours? Just a dumb girl going to college, nothing more."

"That hypothetical means nothing. It's the same as arguing whether you'd look decent if you hadn't gone bald."

Pfft — I nearly burst out laughing.

I almost stepped in before things turned serious, but at Tiffany's words I decided to keep listening a little longer. She began to speak of a man whose nature was plain for anyone to see.

"There's something a man I respect once told me: 'To win, you do whatever it takes.'"

"And to you, is that money?"

"There's hair, too."

"…"

"Anyway — I refuse to live out my life in this race as just some woman with plenty of money and nothing else. That's why I've decided to fight."

"I see. Then let's see if you're still saying that when you've lost every dollar you have and everything's in ruins."

"I've steeled myself for it. I love this business second only to the wrestlers themselves — and that's exactly why I will seize it."

The throne.

Impressive.

I gave a small nod. When I peeked out, Tiffany, standing by the railing, caught my gaze with uncanny precision.

"And I happen to have a wonderful partner to share that dream with."

With that, she walked off without so much as a goodbye.

Click, clack. The sharp sound of stiletto heels.

From behind the corner, I stepped out to meet Tiffany as she strode toward me, head high. She'd known all along, and showed not a flicker of surprise.

"Shall we go, partner?"

Back at the party, we 'worked' our hearts out until the small hours of the morning. When Snoop-Duck hauled us up on stage to dance midway through, even I was caught well off guard.

But all in all, it was a good time.

A few days later.

"Ughhhhgh…!"

Climbing out of the tour bus, I stretched until my spine cracked and came back to my senses. I'd drunk myself properly under the table at the party, and the hangover had tormented me the entire ride home.

Well, a bowl of tomato soup later, I was fully restored.

Another hard day's work ahead. Let's get to it.

Grinning, I grabbed my gear and headed straight into the arena. There was another Burning Kong taping in two days, and today I was scheduled to sit down with Orton to talk things over for it. I also needed to pass my feedback on the script to the writers.

Bracing for a busy day, I stepped into the locker room — and the wrestlers inside turned to look at me with their eyes bugging out.

"What's with everyone?"

"…"

"…"

I tilted my head and asked again, but no answer came. The Hardy Boyz, one of Burning Kong's hottest tag teams, plus Kane, and even Booker and Simmons.

"What?"

"You. You go to that party?"

"…Sorry, what?"

"Word is you were flirting it up with the ladies and having yourself a grand old time."

"No? What on earth are you talking about?"

"It's written right ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠here, kid."

What Simmons thrust out with a flourish was a gossip magazine released just yesterday. And there was my face on the page.

I never imagined a magazine piece would hit print just days after the fact. Using the ring design in the photo, I quickly determined roughly when it had been taken.

"That was Ring Survival."

"…You goddamn lucky bastard!!"

"Ow. Simmons."

"Why wasn't I taken along?! How much fun did you have without me?!"

And so I found myself obliged to explain my circumstances to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the locker room veterans, Simmons chief among them.

"The article exaggerates. Honestly, nothing much even happened."

"You're serious? No hot night with the gorgeous models?"

"…Nope."

"You little punk!!"

Inexplicably enraged all over again, Simmons snagged me in a headlock. Everyone was teasing me out of envy, but the mood wasn't bad at all. If anything, watching me cut such a fine figure as a pro wrestler probably gave them a vicarious thrill.

That was the exact moment it happened.

The door burst open, and in walked someone I never expected.