Spotted

"We had a great time watching together."

"Thank you for explaining so much. It was a huge help."

Casey had known next to nothing about TPA, so the older man's rundown had been invaluable. Without him, she would have spent half the match buried in her phone, scrambling for answers.

"If we run into each other again by chance, let's watch together then too. I'm heading straight home to rewatch tonight's matches."

"They're already up?"

"TPA's upload speed is number one in the world. Everything's online within an hour."

"Oh, I see. By the way — that theme song when Charina came out. Was there something special about it? Every middle-aged guy in the building had this weird look on his face."

"Ah, that. That was Jane Kim's old theme. You know who Jane Kim is?"

"No."

At Casey's answer, the cop — Johnny McClain — gave a small nod.

"Makes sense you wouldn't. Jane Kim is a legendary women's wrestler from TPA. That's why."

"Got it. I'll look her up when I get home. Anyway, it was nice meeting you. Get home safe."

"You too. You and your friend both — careful on the way back."

"Yes, sir."

The officer disappeared at a brisk walk. The moment he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was gone, Casey kicked Julia in the rear — Julia, who still looked half-dazed.

"Ow!"

"I barely tapped you. Stop faking."

"Tch."

"I kicked you to snap you out of it. Drive like that and you're going to crash."

"Hmph. If that's what you meant… still, it was too shocking. I bet half the people there felt the same way I did."

Casey nodded. She couldn't argue. The looks, the match psychology, the technique, that final jaw-dropping victory celebration — even to her eye, it had been a flawless performance. This was TPA. If the same match had aired on WWO, tonight's card would have carpet-bombed the real-time search rankings.

"Yeah, it was something. Anyway — drive careful."

"You too, Casey."

"Mm. See you tomorrow afternoon."

"Yeah."

After parting with Julia, Casey headed home at speed. She pulled into the driveway, parked the car in a rough approximation of a proper spot, and bolted inside.

"Hey! Do you know what time it is? It's almost midnight!"

"Shut up! It's before curfew. And it's not even eleven-thirty yet."

"You're the one who came home late, and you're the one throwing attitude?"

"Casey. You're late."

On the living room sofa sat Ayla, two years older, and Amy, two years younger, both glued to the TV.

"The Masked Singer? Tch. Of all the trash… this is not the time to be watching that."

"She walks through the door and immediately picks a fight."

Casey didn't know how other households worked, but in hers the women ran hot. She was no exception — and neither was her older sister, nor her younger one. It was a family inheritance.

"Ha! You want to know why I'm late?"

"Did you go on a blind date?"

"Did you wreck the car? What kept you?"

"Your imagination is truly impressive… hand me the remote."

Amy passed it over.

"Going to watch the news? Was there an accident nearby? I didn't hear any sirens."

"It's not that."

Casey pulled up TPA on her phone, paid for access, and mirrored the screen to the television. She found tonight's matches. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Just as the officer had said — already uploaded. On WWO, the same footage would have taken a day or two.

"TPA?"

"Why TPA?"

Both sisters looked baffled. Fair enough. She would have been too, not long ago.

"I just came from watching a TPA show with some people from school."

"Does TPA even have watchable matches? Was it hardcore or something?"

"TPA! I heard it's been boring lately."

"Amy, your intel is seriously out of date. And big sister doesn't know anything at all — wait, no, she's always been a little slow."

"You little—! Want to take this to the ring? One match, right now?"

Ayla bristled on the spot and half-rose from the sofa, ready to march downstairs to the basement ring. Amy had inherited a touch of their mother's cool cynicism; Ayla, on the other hand, was pure hot temper — almost like their father's gimmick. Their actual father was ice-cold and calculating in real life… maybe Ayla took after their maternal grandfather instead.

Me? Perfect, obviously. Elegant, refined, sharp… these two aren't even in my league. Personality or looks.

"Sit down and shut up. This isn't something I can explain in words. And wrestling, at this hour? If you really want a match, save it for tomorrow."

Casey pushed harder. Amy tugged on Ayla's sleeve and pulled her back down.

"This better not be nothing."

"Hmm. Casey's eyes look a little weird…"

"Shut up and watch. Skip the filler — just three matches. And it's not weird. I just have high standards."

"Turn the volume down. It's killing my focus."

"Agreed. TPA's amateur commentary is better left off. It plants bad habits."

All three sisters shared the same contempt for TPA. Their mother or father would probably have felt the same. Their grandfather? He would have banned the channel outright — said it would ruin their eyes.

They dismissed TPA. They did not dismiss wrestling itself.

The moment the match began, the chatter died completely. With the volume already lowered, the living room fell into a hush, every pair of eyes locked on the screen.

After a stretch of action, Ayla spoke first.

"The South American girl's way better."

"That's Selma."

"That's not the point! Their chemistry is off. Not enough practice?"

"Some of that, yeah — but if you watch the other matches, part of it is that her opponents just aren't good enough."

They watched a little longer. Ayla delivered her verdict.

"One of them could be a mid-carder. No — she's got the looks. If she works hard, she might even push high mid-carder."

"The other one's straight jobber material. A mess. She looks old enough that you'd think she'd have learned something by now."

"You paid money to go watch this? And now you're making us watch it too?"

"Let's finish all three matches first, then talk."

"Watching to the end is just going to give us more things to trash."

"I'm going to be disappointed in your eye for talent."

Casey didn't bother answering. The match rolled into its closing stretch, and Selma hit a springboard cutter that looked absolutely gorgeous. It had been impressive from the live seats; on television, it was even better.

"Oh. Okay — I'll give her that."

"Hard move to time, and she hit it clean. She's been drilling that."

Then came a diving elbow drop off the top rope.

"Pretty form."

"Big sister — forget the form, look at the height. She's getting as much air as most of the guys."

The referee's hand slapped the mat through the count, and the match was over.

"Well?"

"The Selma kid was decent. Just decent, though."

"Amy?"

"I'd need to see a promo, but with that look and that finish, she can work at a certain level."

Casey drove the spike home.

"Selma is twenty-three. That was her second match since debuting. She debuted last week. She's not even an indie vet — she graduated from the Team 3D Academy less than a month ago."

Both sisters looked properly startled.

"What? That was her second match?"

"A raw rookie?"

"Yeah. Brand new."

"I can't believe it. With more experience, she could get a lot better."

"Park that for now. Second match. This one's a tag team."

Casey skipped ahead and cued up the tag bout.

"Wait. I've seen those two."

"They used to be Team Glorious. They're running as Team Heritage now."

"Right — Glorious. Jake and Billy. I remember."

Young Amy hadn't recognized them, but Ayla had. A moment later, two men walked out draped in white robes, each carrying a lily. The audio was muted, but the camera caught the crowd — especially the women — erupting.

"You can't even see their faces under those robes. Hey. Take them off. Let me see the mugs."

"Big sister, wait. You think they're going to wrestle in the robes?"

They reached the ring apron with heavy, deliberate steps and began handing lilies to the fans — only to women and children.

"That gimmick's not bad."

"Heh. Only works if the faces can carry it."

When the flowers were gone and the robes came off, Ayla and Amy both let out involuntary sounds of appreciation.

"Huh. They're good-looking."

"They are. Clean-cut. Easy on the eyes. And young. Casey — how old are they?"

Casey relayed exactly what the friendly cop, Johnny McClain, had told her.

"The slightly older one is James, twenty-three. The other is Alf — Selma's real little brother. Twenty-two."

"What? Brother and sister? They don't look anything alike. Starting with the skin tone."

"I don't know the full story. But they're actual blood siblings."

Unlike Selma's match, this one ran on flashy offense and a blistering pace. Casey snuck a glance at her sisters' faces. Honey was practically dripping from their eyes.

Long-haired men were everywhere in wrestling, and both sisters knew that well enough by now — but as kids, their long-haired father had terrified them, and the aversion had stuck. They preferred clean, tidy pompadours. Faces and physiques mattered too, of course. Neat hair, muscle without excess, clean-cut features, white, and young. Externally, these two cleared every bar and then some.

Tsk tsk. Both of them are hooked. Completely hooked.

"I thought you said it was nothing. Why are you staring so hard?"

"Be quiet."

"Talk after the match, big sister."

Amy nudged the volume up a notch.

THUD.

It had been fast live. On the broadcast feed, the tempo felt even sharper. Casey already knew the flow and the finish, and she still got pulled into the screen.

"What are you three staring at so hard? A burglar could walk in and you wouldn't notice."

The sudden voice spun all three sisters around.

"Mom?"

"Mom — you said you were coming this weekend."

"Mooom!"

Amy dove straight into Stacey McMahon's arms. The other two scrambled up just as fast to greet her.

"I thought you were in Stamford today?"

"Where's Dad?"

"Everyone doing okay? Dad's still at the office. I came over this afternoon. Stopped by the Performance Center for a bit — that ate more time than I planned."

The sisters took her bags, asked if she'd eaten dinner, offered water, and generally fluttered around her in a flurry of attention.

"So what are you watching? Wrestling? Wait — that's not our company."

"It's TPA. Casey went and saw it live today."

"Did she? What got into you, Casey? You barely even watch our shows these days."

Casey's eyes met Stacey's.

"The whole department was going, so I tagged along. And I found pearls and a diamond. That match right there? That's a pearl."

"Hmm. High praise from Casey — who is as cold-eyed about talent as your grandfather. That's rare. All right. Let's watch together."

Stacey shrugged off her jacket and sat on the sofa. Ayla and Amy flanked her on either side. Casey hit play on the paused footage.

"Mm. Those two are Team Glorious. Solid workers, but they always lacked star power and promo chops."

"The work is still there. Age is catching up a little — they look gassed late in the match."

"That so?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

All four women locked in. Outside the ring, James hit Jake with a moonsault. Moments later, Alf hoisted Billy and planted him with a power slam. As Alf headed for the corner, a brawl erupted on the floor and Jake seized the advantage. Then Alf launched himself from the top rope to the outside.

The sisters, fully invested in James and Alf, cried out.

"So cool."

"He looked like an eagle."

It was a beautiful bump. Stacey glanced sideways at her daughters' reactions, a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

Good bump or not, the booking had other plans. Billy rose in the ring, hit a leg drop and a rounding body press, flipped the match, and stole the win.

"Ugh. So close. They could have won…"

"Sigh. They lost because they're rookies. Rookies."

Ayla and Amy sounded genuinely disappointed — even knowing it was a scripted finish. That alone was surprising. The word "rookies," though, made Stacey sit up straighter.

"Rookies?"

"Yes, Mom. The Inquisitors debuted two weeks ago. The woman before them — Selma — also debuted two weeks ago. She's that Alf kid's sister."

"Siblings? Sibling wrestlers are genuinely rare."

"Right? Instant story material. A little brother jealous of his sister's boyfriend. A big sister who can't stand her brother's girlfriend. Whatever you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠want."

"True. Real sibling wrestlers open up some very fun scenarios."

Stacey pressed a fist to her mouth and stared at the far wall — a habit her daughters knew well. Whenever she was thinking hard, she did that. They stayed quiet and watched her.

About a minute passed before she spoke.

"Casey. You saw a good show. Two weeks into their debut — no wonder they haven't hit our radar yet."

Casey frowned.

"Is that right? Then WWO has a problem."

"What problem? Why?"

"Is there anything on your phone right now — a text, a call — about TPA?"

"To me?"

Stacey checked. Nothing of note.

"No."

"I don't know if this falls under Marketing or Talent Development, but whoever owns it should be writing you a formal apology."

"I'm not making someone write a report because intel on these kids came in late. They're interesting. Personality and look are solid. But they're not urgent enough to call me in the middle of the night. We've got kids at that level in the Performance Center already. Give them a makeover and a styling pass and the faces start looking similar. More importantly — let them cook a little longer at TPA, then we pick them up."

Ayla muttered under her breath.

"That place is nothing but pumpkins…"

Casey ignored her and said what she needed to say.

"Mom. Selma, James, Alf — zero indie experience. Complete greenhorns. Twenty-three and twenty-two. And they graduated from the Team 3D Academy less than a month ago."

"Is that so? Gifted kids, then."

To Casey it had been a bombshell. To Stacey — thirty years of every industry war imaginable under her belt — it barely moved the needle.

"And! Those three are pearls. The diamond is separate."

"That's some confidence. All right. Put it on, Casey."

"Yes. For reference — she's twenty."

"Only twenty?"

"Yes. Brace yourselves. You too, big sister. You too, Amy."