Team 3D Academy Graduation

A week later, we headed to TPA with Donald to sign our contracts.

The thought of finally becoming real wrestlers had Selma and Alf wound tight with nerves—and even the usually smooth James looked uncharacteristically tense.

"Ugh. I'm shaking."

"The other kids were so jealous. I picked the right side of the line. Glad I stuck with you guys."

"What are you talking about? James, you're smarter and better than that idiot by a mile."

"Ha. Like you're anywhere near Lina either."

"Well, that's a given…. But Lina, you're nervous too, huh? Your hands are trembling."

"Of course I am."

I was shaking, all right.

Not because of the contract, though—because of clearing the main quest.

Signing a contract alone didn't feel like it would complete the quest.

After a dark match? After running house shows?

Maybe it wouldn't finish until an official debut—but that wasn't so far off either.

Once the lawyer who'd review the contracts joined us, we headed inside the building.

Security had already given us looks, but the staff coming and going fixed their eyes on us right away.

"Those must be the new kids joining up."

"I heard their skills are no joke."

"That Asian girl is seriously pretty. She's gonna cause a stir."

"Eye-candy type, right? Looks like that, she'd kill it as eye candy."

"The others have good faces too. They'll sell just fine."

"That guy's kinda cute."

Staff streamed past, sizing us up out loud.

"You hear that? They said that guy's cute."

Alf puffed his chest out, proud as anything.

"Idiot. They were talking about James."

"Yeah. They meant me."

I threw in a line of my own.

"Hmm. Were the two of you cute? Once you know them, they're just gross."

"Right. Gross. Those people must be blind."

"What? What's wrong with us?"

"Hey! Take that back!"

In seconds we were bickering.

"Quiet. This isn't a field trip."

"Sorry, Coach."

"Sorry."

It was Donald, so we got off that easy. If it had been Bibi, we might have eaten a double helping of curses….

We followed Donald's brisk pace to what looked like a reception room.

Waiting there were Harry Thompson, the head of talent development we'd met before, and one male staffer.

After a quick round of greetings, talk turned to the contracts.

"We'll have to hear it first, but is there anything you'd like written into the deal?"

"You'll take anything?"

"As if…. Only the small stuff.

Say, if your period cramps are bad and you want to be scratched from cards those days, or if you've got a fear of heights and can't do ladder matches—that kind of thing."

What we wanted was already decided.

"We don't want any of us to lose in a pointless way. We don't want to walk out of the ring a minute after the bell. Even if we take a beating the whole time, we'd like at least five minutes."

James spoke for the group.

"That won't be a problem. We're always short on time. Any match, we guarantee five minutes minimum."

At Harry's word, the male staffer immediately started typing on his laptop.

"Anything else?"

Nothing beyond that.

Selma wasn't the type to get wrecked by cramps, and neither was I.

Unlike those gender-bent web novel protagonists who groaned through every cycle, I never had that problem.

Probably because I'd maxed out things like Endurance and Durability.

My turn.

"For me, it's the style issue I mentioned last time. We said we'd decide after seeing the crowd reaction in a dark match. I'd like that honored."

"Right. That's already written down. Depending on the style, though, we may need to tweak the signature moves a bit."

"Yes, sir."

Style.

Why lock it in? Couldn't I just do whatever?

It was the same as a gimmick.

It was a letter of introduction to the crowd and the viewers at home.

High-flyer and technician?

Fans would naturally expect flashy aerials.

Call yourself a high-flyer and then kick and punch like a shooter or a brawler, and the whole premise fell apart.

Of course, mixing it up for a match or two was fine….

If signature moves and finishers were promises between wrestlers, style and gimmick were promises made to the fans.

If you didn't want to commit, you could just go all-rounder and technician—but that got boring fast.

At minimum, tacking on showman or brawler made you far more distinctive.

James had gone all-rounder but layered in showman and shooter for personality.

No personality? That was basically the same as saying no star power.

If you were going to pick all-rounder, it was better to keep it simple like Selma—technician and high-flyer, two clean labels.

"What you want is stuntman, showman, and powerhouse, right?

Powerhouse I get, but why pick dangerous stunts with a face like that?

What if you end up with a scar?"

I'd learned something from cutting my finger on a knife.

Wounds opened easily and bled freely—but they closed just as fast.

A cut that should have taken two or three days was fine after a single night.

Two days later, it was gone without a trace.

Ordinary wounds probably wouldn't leave scars.

And even if they did—so what?

My life was riding on a quest.

"I want to do hardcore matches. Real ones. Like Mankind—Mick Foley…."

"Are you insane? Who still works that kind of match?"

"EAW does them all the time, and WWO does them now and then. And the current TPA women's champion worked hardcore in EAW too."

Harry and the staffer stared ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at me like I'd lost my mind.

"So I'd like it in the contract that I get to work at least one hardcore match.

I don't even care if I lose."

"There's no precedent for a clause like that."

Harry was getting heated.

I leaned back comfortably in my chair instead.

"I'm not asking for more money, and I'm not asking to win.

And a young woman wrestler, with my face, working that kind of match? It'll make a huge splash."

At that, the staffer beside him leaned in and whispered something to Harry.

WWO's living legend. Sandy Orton.

Third-generation wrestling family—he'd gotten a massive push right out of the gate.

Playing heel was part of it, but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the fans hated him for how blatant that push was.

What finally made the fans accept him was a single match.

At the 2004 PPV Backline, his bout with Mick Foley was a genuine bloodbath of a hardcore match.

A war so savage it called back the Attitude Era of the nineties—and the crowd gave him a standing ovation.

That one match completely rewrote his wrestling career.

The baseless hate dried up, and he became a main eventer.

He never quite reached Icon status after that, but he became a legend among legends.

Me?

My life was on the line. I had to do something.

I wasn't in a position to be picky about hot water or cold.

And if I worked a match like that, I could climb to High Mid-carder even without a push.

In a promotion like TPA, where the women's roster was thin, I might even go straight to Main Eventer.

"Ha. And if we don't take this?"

"I'd still want it even if you cut the salary.

If it's still impossible, I don't think I'll be signing today. Who knows—maybe tomorrow I'll have to head to Jacksonville."

Harry's face went red and his voice climbed.

"Jacksonville? Ha. Unbelievable. Aren't you being a little arrogant? You haven't even debuted yet. You're a rookie."

"Coach Bibi told me, 'Someone at your level has every right to act arrogant. No need to bow your head.'"

"Goddamn Bibi."

Jacksonville, Florida.

About two hundred kilometers from Orlando—home of the number-two promotion, EAW.

Number two, sure, but still not even a fifth the size of WWO.

"Let's take twenty minutes and pick this back up."

Harry and the staffer left at once.

"Whoa. How did you say all that without shaking at all?"

"Ha. If I hadn't heard it coming, I would've passed out."

"You really don't have any fear, do you?"

Only then did the others drop their tension and start chattering.

"Just think of it as a promo."

"Easy to say."

"Who are you kidding?"

"Not a single word Lina said was wrong. For a promo, that's the bare minimum."

When Coach Donald put in a word, the room went quiet again.

"Lina. Did Bibi really say that?"

"Coach. No. I just made it up. It was a lie."

"And if he finds out later?"

"Hmm. Knowing Coach Bibi Dudley, I think he'd say I did good?"

"No matter how I look at it, you're not normal."

Donald. Try having your life on the line.

You'd do something too.

If it meant becoming an Icon, I'd dance in nothing but a bikini.

Hmm. But what if they pair me in a romance angle with a male wrestler?

I might even have to kiss someone in the ring.

That… no. I really, really don't want that.

About ten minutes later, James was called in first.

The lawyer and Donald sat in with him, of course.

It was meant to keep contract terms and salaries secret between wrestlers—but we planned to share everything the moment we got back.

About ten minutes after that, James returned looking satisfied.

Then Alf went, then Selma.

"Was it okay?"

"Yeah. Nothing special. No poison clauses, obviously. They just gave me grief about the wrestling gear."

"And?"

"Once I explained the gimmick in detail, they got it. We're keeping it as is."

"Nice."

Selma had layered cunning and jealousy onto an Amazon jaguar.

Fundamentally a heel attribute.

But if she ever turned babyface, the jealousy would become competitive fire, and the cunning would become strategy in pursuit of victory.

It needed an intelligent edge, but that was for the writers to figure out—not something a wrestler had to lose sleep over.

"All right. My turn."

"Yeah."

I had no idea what number they'd originally planned to offer me.

The salary now?

More money would be nice, but I wasn't desperate for cash, and it didn't matter much.

I was only staying here about two years before moving up to WWO anyway.

What they put in front of me was one-plus-one at sixty thousand dollars a year.

The second year could be terminated by either the wrestler or TPA.

TPA wasn't stupid for doing one-plus-one—that was just how this business ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠worked.

It was hard for both the wrestler and the company to judge how far a talent would grow.

No matter how strong or skilled you were, glass bodies were common.

Merchandise sales share: zero-point-five percent.

Bibi had estimated up to one percent. This one might have gotten shaved down a little.

Everything else ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd asked for was written in.

The hardcore match, though, would only be booked after practice, and only after the Hardy Boys or the Dudley Boys signed off on it.

"There's no deadline written here. Please specify 'within six months.'"

"Don't worry. We're doing it in the first year anyway."

"Then write 'within the first year,' please."

"Fine. We'll put it in. And Donald."

"Yeah?"

"Write up the wrestlers' personal info, signatures, finishers, and so on, and email it over.

We barely know anything about these kids."

"It's ready. I'll send it within ten minutes."

After that, Donald pushed back that the merch share was too low, but it was something we could renegotiate at the one-year mark, so we let it go.

A little ambition was fine—too much and you really got marked.

And just like that, my contract was done.

What I heard later, after we got back: James, whose acting had made a strong impression, signed for forty-five thousand; Alf and Selma both signed for forty-two thousand.

First contracts under thirty thousand were everywhere. All of us had landed excellent deals.