Team 3D Academy. 5
Saturday mornings were reserved for the coaches’ meeting.
Donald McCarthy, Amy Adams, May Runs, and Charles Starmer—who handled the advanced class exclusively—had all gathered.
Just before eight, Bibi Dudley and The Bon Dudley arrived as well.
“Everyone doing all right?”
“You made it.”
“Caught your match the other night. Still got it. But take it easy, will you? How the hell do you still not know how to hold back?”
“If he just shores up his stamina a bit more, he could come back full-time.”
“Stamina’s one thing, but flexibility’s a problem too. Let’s add more Pilates.”
They were coaches, all right—zeroing in on the issues without missing a beat.
“Ha! If I could do that, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Easy for you to say. Easy… And Pilates? Stop saying that nightmare word.”
The Dudley Boys grumbled as they sat down, and the meeting got underway at once.
“Shall we start with the advanced class? Charles, how are they?”
“Same as ever. Nobody stands out except Lorenzo and Vanessa.”
“Those two—any chance we can fix their promos?”
Lorenzo was a 190-centimeter, 110-kilogram slab of muscle, but he was painfully shy. The moment he grabbed a mic, he froze solid.
Vanessa Wise, a Black woman, stood 180 centimeters and 80 kilograms—an imposing frame for a woman. As a female powerhouse she clearly had potential. Her looks, though, were another story. To succeed you had to be able to work both heel and face, and her face only worked as a heel. Her personality wasn’t much better either—hot-tempered and narrow-minded.
“Which is why I’m thinking we put a mask on Lorenzo as a gimmick. Like the old Kane.”
Kane, who had played the Deadman’s brother, debuted under a mask and carved out a real niche for himself. These days he was sharp enough to be mayor of a city in Tennessee, but early on the gimmick meant he barely spoke at all.
“That’s a solid idea. No real need for acting or lines that way. I like it. Let’s ask Lorenzo how he feels and get a mask made.”
“I’ll call Kane and pick his brain on the gimmick.”
Unlike the hot-blooded Bibi, The Bon was gentle and kind, and he was popular with just about every generation of wrestler. Even after leaving WWO, he still kept in touch with nearly everyone.
“What about Vanessa?”
“With a temper like that, I’m not sure she can work as a heel—or work at all. I’m half-afraid she’ll shoot someone.”
At Charles’s words, Bibi looked over at The Bon. If he stepped in himself, it wouldn’t help a bit.
“Bon. You talk to her. Tell her if she can’t kill that attitude, she can pack it in right now.”
“Bibi, do you have to go that extreme? She’s still young. Young.”
“What’s young about twenty-five? At that age we were grinding all over America.”
“You think kids these days want to hear about thirty years ago?”
“Tch. Their heads are all wrong. No hungry spirit.”
“Hmm. Bibi. Weren’t you already sporting a gut and looking soft from day one?”
“A gut?! That was all muscle back then!”
“Heh.”
“Hahaha.”
The conversation that had drifted sideways snapped back into place, and even The Bon lost his temper over the hopeless intermediate class.
“Come on, everyone knows TPA’s short on talent. Put in a little effort and you can debut—so why won’t any of them work?”
“Right? We tell them constantly, but it goes in one ear and out the other.”
“Damn it. At this rate we won’t hit the number we need to send up this year.”
TPA and Team 3D Academy had a set minimum of wrestlers they were supposed to promote each year. Missing four in a single year wouldn’t blow up the partnership, but if it kept happening the contract could get terminated.
“Bon. We can fill that quota.”
“Huh?”
“The three who came in last week are the real deal.”
“Ah. Bibi gave me the rough version. Especially that East Asian girl—prettier than Scarlett Kibler, he said? Eye-candy types are always in demand.”
At the words “eye candy,” the coaches burst out laughing.
“Eye candy? Pfft—hahaha.”
“Heh. If you only look at her face, sure.”
“Hahaha.”
“What? Is there a problem?”
“Donald. You didn’t say a word about this on the phone.”
Faced with their laughter, The Bon and Bibi just stared, completely lost.
“I’ll show you the training footage of all three. Watch first, then talk.”
“You should’ve put the video on from the start.”
“We’ll start with Alfred Gonzalez.”
The footage rolled in sequence: Alfred on the weights, taking bumps, hitting body slams, then suplexes.
“Clean work. Looks aren’t bad either. More importantly, no bad habits that I can see. He could climb as high as mid-carder.”
Bibi already had some idea, but this was The Bon’s first look at the tape.
“Maybe.”
Donald skipped ahead and showed the dropkick.
—Bang—
A sharp crack blasted through the speakers, yet the dummy barely rocked.
“Wow! Good shot!”
“What the hell? How is his dropkick that good?”
“Bon. Bibi. Surprised?”
“Completely. Just a little short of Sandy Orton’s height on the jump, but otherwise perfect.”
Fans knew Sandy Orton for the RKO, but among wrestlers his dropkick was the real legend. High jump, explosive motion—and yet for all the noise it made, it almost never hurt the person on the receiving end. A masterpiece of a dropkick. Some called it the greatest of all time.
“That’s enough of Al for now. Next up is his sister Selma—one year older.”
Still a little buzzed from Alfred’s work, The Bon watched even more intently.
“Strength’s a bit lacking.”
“Just keep watching.”
Like her brother, her fundamentals were razor-clean. Then came the dropkick—same high quality as his.
“Damn. With a little polish she could already work house shows no problem.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? She’s that good.”
“Bon, wait until you’ve seen Rina’s footage before you decide.”
The moment Charina appeared on screen, The Bon’s eyes lit up.
“Whoa. She’s really beautiful. With a face like that, why is she wrestling?”
“Says she likes being able to throw people legally.”
“Pfft! That’s you as a kid, Bibi.”
“I do not like violence.”
“There he goes with the bullshit again.”
The Bon, who hadn’t looked at her résumé, watched Charina deadlift and his jaw dropped.
“That’s CGI, right? Right? Or a fake? How much is that—160?”
“One-eighty.”
“Insane. With that body?”
Squats and bench presses followed.
“So what’s her total for the big three?”
“Four-fifty.”
“And she has no muscle?”
“Says she just doesn’t put it on.”
“It’s true. Soft as anything. Baby skin.”
Amy chimed in.
“Drug test?”
“Of course. Clean as a whistle.”
As Charina’s footage kept rolling, The Bon was completely hooked, firing off question after question. He was stunned all over again when he learned she had zero experience and had taught herself watching YouTube. When she locked into chain wrestling with Donald—tangled, flowing, seamless—even Bibi was impressed.
“She’s a genius.”
“Bibi. You should’ve told me the second a kid like this walked in.”
“I did tell you.”
“You said she was an eye-candy type like Scarlett!”
“I didn’t know about this either.”
“Let’s put her on the next show. Sidekick role—no. We can’t burn the image that way. We have to build her properly.”
The Bon this worked up was something the other coaches—and even Bibi—hadn’t seen in a long time. They all stared at him, half-amazed.
“You’re right, Bon. She definitely needs polishing. And she’s only been here two weeks. Mic work still has to be taught—there’s a lot left. And there’s another problem.”
“What problem?”
“She can’t control her power.”
Donald spoke as he queued another clip.
She kicked the dummy clean and hard. She kept trying. It never got better.
“We haven’t taught her other moves yet, so I can’t say for sure, but the same thing could happen with anything. If she ever botches the power on a headscissors whip, she could snap someone’s neck.”
“Yeah. Until she masters dialing it back, nothing else matters.”
“And the siblings have their own issues.”
Footage of the brother and sister’s chain wrestling followed immediately. No matter how many times they tried, they couldn’t find the feel. They just muscled their way free and rolled at the wrong moments.
“How are they supposed to do lucha libre if they can’t even do this?”
This time it was Bibi who got heated.
“I didn’t ask, but I’m guessing their local dojo only taught the flashy stuff.”
“Probably. Kids hate learning fundamentals.”
“Donald, you’re going to have to keep a closer eye on them.”
“That’s another problem. James says the existing kids are getting jealous.”
“James still has a grip on the group?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then pair James with Alfred as a training partner. Teach those four separately. Once a few people quit at the end of the month, the atmosphere should improve.”
Bibi made the call on the spot.
A meeting that normally wrapped in twenty or thirty minutes had stretched past an hour.
“That’s it for today. Bon, don’t forget the talk with Vanessa and the Lorenzo business.”
“Got it.”
“You two coming in starting Monday?”
“We’ll rotate.”
“I’ll take Monday. I’m too curious about those three.”
“Fine. Bon, you’re in Monday. All right—let’s get out of here and grab something to eat.”
“Yeah. I’m starving to death.”
At Bibi’s words they all opened the office door and stepped out.
They’d barely taken a few steps when a sharp bang echoed down the hallway.
“Someone’s out practicing.”
“A kid training on a Saturday morning? Hasn’t happened in a while.”
“Let’s see who the little overachiever is.”
They headed toward the sound—toward the ring—and knew the culprit at once.
A woman with a frame too slender to look like a wrestler was jumping high in place and firing off dropkicks.
—Bang—
The dummy lurched hard and flew nearly two meters before toppling over.
“Rina!”
“Coach.”
“I told you to ease off the ankle!”
Donald bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“You trying to cave someone’s face in? Huh? Still can’t control it?”
Rina caught her breath and nodded, looking completely lost.
Bibi stood with his arms crossed and let out a long sigh. The Bon shook his head and muttered under his breath.
“Good grief.”
“She might’ve been better off in the UFC.”