Dark Match
After about two hours of working through our respective sequences, we headed to the CMO's office.
We sat on the sofa, exchanged the usual formal greetings, and Karl got down to business.
"Good. Just a few things I need to confirm."
He opened the notebook on the table.
"How was it? Chemistry with your partners solid? How's your condition? Can you be ready for Thursday's dark match without any issues?"
James squared his shoulders and answered first. Alf followed, his face a little stiff.
"Yes, sir. No problems. Body's in peak shape."
"Condition check after today's run-through was clean. Fatigue's within expected range. We're ready."
Selma smiled slowly.
"I'm fine too. I've already locked in the timing with Tyna, so there shouldn't be any major issues."
Karl looked at each of them in turn and nodded.
"And you, Charina?"
"Hmm. Olivia turned out to be surprisingly gentle. I think we'll be able to work comfortably."
Once I'd finished answering as well, the corner of his mouth curled up and he gave another nod.
"Glad to hear the chemistry's there. I'm putting a lot of stock in all of you. What you show on Thursday isn't just a debut stage — it carries real weight for TPA's future as a whole. I believe you're more than capable of delivering."
His mouth was smiling. His eyes were not.
This isn't a pressure interview. What the hell is this…
I wasn't the only one who felt it. James — who usually had a face thick enough for anything — swallowed hard.
"Understood."
"We'll prepare thoroughly."
"Good. If anything about the gimmicks or the styles starts to feel off down the line, tell me right away. Same goes for the theme music that's coming soon — if you don't like it, we'll make a new one. No need to force yourselves to use something that doesn't fit. Clear?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"And Charina."
"Yes?"
"That mint-chocolate whipped cream performance. Do it."
Oh. The answer I'd been hoping for, straight from the director's mouth.
"Really?"
"Yes. Jane will handle the setup. Just make sure you eat some yourself when you win. If only the loser eats it, that can generate a negative image — but if the winner eats it too, that problem goes away. And while you're at it, eat it like it's delicious. Sexy, preferably."
Damn it. Mint chocolate. I can handle a little, but not a lot!
Becoming a woman did make me better with sweets, sure — but there's still a limit!
Did I open a Pandora's box for no good reason?
That was the end of it. We left the office of Karl, CMO and director of TPA.
Time rolled on, and Wednesday arrived.
The actual practice for tomorrow's dark match wasn't the problem. The promos were.
For the tag team Inquisitors, James took the lead, which kept Alf's thin spots from showing too badly. Selma, though, was another story.
"Sigh. Selma. A dark match doesn't really need a promo. But if you do this at a house show, the problem gets a lot bigger."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologize to me. No matter how good you are in the ring, if you can't cut a promo, you end up exactly where I did. You know that, right?"
When Jane Kim put herself up as the example, nobody had a word to say back. She was living proof — top-tier in the ring, pushed out of WWO because promo work and looks had closed the door on her.
"Alf. Same goes for you. You think James can keep covering for you forever?"
Alf had been smirking while his "big sister" got chewed out. Jane's eyes found him instantly.
"I'll say this once. Selma — if that awkward promo doesn't improve, you don't work house shows. Alf! Same for you. At that rate, we'd be better off debuting James as a singles guy. You're holding him back."
Selma and Alf both dropped their heads and scratched at their hair in identical sheepish motions.
"You two — at the dark match, no talking to the crowd, no posing, none of it. Honestly, it's so stiff it shows from a mile away. Just show the moves. Got it?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
In the end, they were given about one more week. The next day, we had our dark match.
Dark matches were often run by inviting a select group of long-time members — fans whose mouths stayed shut, who could watch talent with a cold eye, and who had enough ring sense to actually evaluate what they were seeing. Pairing it with a meet-and-greet was also a way of giving something back to the most loyal supporters.
Willie, who lived in Orlando, got home from work, flipped on the TV, and opened TPA's free board.
Men's tag team, two women's singles.
Exact ages unknown, but all four are young. The East Asian woman looks really young — late teens, they said.
Word is the men's tag looks like a technician team.
One of the women looks Latin American — healthy kind of sexy, and supposedly pretty upbeat.
The East Asian woman is the real deal. Prettier than a K-pop girl group, they said. But not pure eye candy either.
She's been hanging around Olivia a lot lately, so the dark match opponent is probably Olivia.
Reading through the board, Willie almost bragged that he'd been selected — then stopped himself. That kind of thing was better as a story you told after you'd seen it.
Hmm. Tomorrow's looking good.
The next day, his car after work didn't go home. It went to TPA.
He reached the arena beside TPA headquarters soon enough. Out front, there were barely thirty people. Looking closer, every face was familiar — members who'd held their cards for ten years or more.
"Hey! Willie. You got picked too."
"Michael. You made it. This everyone?"
"Dunno. Maybe a few more will show."
Willie traded greetings with the others and waited for doors. When the waiting was done, three more people had arrived. That was it.
"Huh. Only thirty-five?"
"Yeah. Feels light."
"The rumor was these rookies were all-timers. No joke."
"Yeah. I saw that post too."
"This is neither closed-door nor open. Weird middle ground."
"Right? Gonna feel empty in there."
A little later, the thirty-five elite fans filed in.
The arena was not empty but for them. Roughly a hundred people were already seated inside.
"What? The director's sitting out there."
"Dudley Boyz are here too."
"That's the Hardy Boyz. And Anne Clements next to them."
Everyone already seated was talent or TPA staff.
"As you all know — absolutely no filming."
The staffer guiding them said it once, and all thirty-five answered in kind.
"Of course. Not our first time."
"Yeah. That's basic."
"I already turned my phone off."
"Same."
Once the answers were solid, the staffer spoke again.
"Before you leave, make sure you tell us what you thought of today's matches — strengths, weaknesses, all of it. Do that, and you get tickets to next week's house show where these wrestlers appear."
"Yes! That's what I'm talking about."
"Oh. What's the occasion?"
They all took their seats. About ten minutes later, in the driest possible fashion — no theme music, nothing — the names were simply called.
First match: Tyna Steels versus Selma G.
"What's this? No theme song?"
"Guess Selma's theme isn't ready yet."
"Tyna has one, though."
"Probably felt weird doing it for just one of them."
Tyna was a familiar face to them — a technician without a sharp personality, ordinary looks, the kind of worker you knew without ever really getting excited about. Every eye went to Selma.
"Latin American beauty is always the right answer."
"Not bad. Prettiest since Natasha Bland."
"Natasha? How old is she now? Selma's wayyyyy better. Ten times over."
"True. Natasha's gotta be around thirty-three by now."
"What? That's all? I thought she was thirty-six, thirty-seven."
"Natasha always did look older than she was."
They didn't know it, but the crowd was so thin that every word carried straight to Natasha's ears. And nobody noticed how hard she was clenching her fist — hard enough for her nails to dig in.
The invited fans knew nothing about Selma going in. But ten-plus years of watching meant they clocked it immediately: technician, high flyer.
They traded kicks at the opening bell and then went straight into pure technical exchanges. Dropkicks and crossbodies kept coming. Headscissors whips. DDTs.
"Whoa. Eye candy and then some."
"Put a technician high flyer against another one and it gets this flashy."
"Tyna's way more active than usual. She looks like she's having fun, right?"
"Yeah. Looks that way."
The match ran about fifteen minutes. Selma climbed the ropes and launched, reaching for Tyna's head — and ate a boot to the face instead. That was the turning point. Tyna hit a frog splash on the downed Selma, and it was over.
"Both of them were great!"
"That was a lot of fun."
"Selma! You're mine! Called it!"
Applause from fans and staff alike closed out the first match. Breathing hard, Tyna and Selma came to the rail, waved, and said hello.
"I'm Selma G. Looking forward to working with all of you."
"Selma. You looked good. That was really fun."
"Tyna! Do that more often! Why were you hiding it?"
Tyna just gave an embarrassed smile under the praise. Her work rate swung hard depending on the opponent — there was no fixing that. Champions like Anne, or someone like Natasha, could carry her to that level. One of those was the champion. The other was famous for a vicious temper. Showing out against them was never easy.
The two of them finished their greetings and headed back. Then the tag teams came out.
One side was the familiar Thunder Storms. The other wore white robes embroidered with golden flames. They didn't cut a promo, but their movement was slow, careful, almost reverent.
"Inquisitors?"
"Inquisitors? Smells religious. No crosses, though?"
"Hmm. Nineties homage gimmick?"
"With a name like that, they're gonna do a lot of cheap stuff."
That was the assumption while they waited for the bell. Once the match started, the Inquisitors didn't do a single cowardly thing. They just ate everything Thunder Storms threw at them.
Low blows when the ref wasn't looking. Fingers to the eyes. When James's neck got hung across the ropes, Matt stomped the mat and kept stomping. The ref yelled at him to stop and started the count; Matt didn't take his foot off until eight.
"Thunder Storms looking to turn heel?"
"Has to be. They've been invisible for a while."
James ate a one-sided beating, then hit a desperate hot tag at the last possible second. Alf — who'd been storing it up — came in with a running dropkick.
"You cowards! Face divine punishment!"
The arena dissolved into laughter.
"Pff—"
"Holy crap, what was that?"
"He looks normal. Why does he talk like that?"
"Feels like watching Super Rangers as a kid."
"Hahaha. If they cut promos like that on purpose, it'd actually be funny."
"Kids'll love it."
The line was pure cheese. The speed was not. Alf fired off dropkick after dropkick, then rolled Matt clean out of the ring. From there he hit Charles with an inverted atomic drop, a neckbreaker, a German suplex — one after another.
"Whoa… what is he doing?"
"Looks young, but the work is really clean."
Meanwhile James finished a brawl outside and put Matt away. Tag. James hoisted Charles high; Alf jumped from the top rope, hooked Charles's neck with his arm, and took him over backward. James covered. Match over.
The first twelve or thirteen minutes had belonged to Thunder Storms. The last five belonged entirely to the Inquisitors. The structure itself was simple, but it had that tag-team edge-of-the-seat quality. A solid match.
"A little rough around the edges, but not bad."
"Tag teams need miles. You can't ask kids for more than that yet."
"Fair."
"Aren't they a little too nice for Inquisitors?"
"Maybe Thunder Storms are the heretics."
"Hahaha. That actually tracks."
Matches one and two had both been excellent for rookies — good enough that you could slot them as Mid Carders without flinching. That left the last match carrying real expectation.
"Match three has to be better than these guys, right?"
"It should be. Still a little nervous, though."
"How good do you have to be to go on third?"
"Supposedly a really pretty East Asian woman."
"Right. Tag team's one thing, but topping Tyna and Selma tonight won't be easy."
And now — the final match of the night.
Olivia versus Charina.
"The opponent's actually Olivia?"
"They're putting her in with someone a hundred kilos?"
"It's a hundred ten these days, they say."
"One of those forced-finish jobs, you think?"
"Come on. No way. They wouldn't run a dark match for that."
With that thought hanging in the air, the fans turned toward the entrance tunnel and waited.