Team 3D Academy. 6
When I turned toward the voice calling my name, I found a Black man standing among the usual coaching staff.
It was The Bon Dudley.
"Nice to meet you, Coach The Bon Dudley."
"You've got a sweet voice. You'll do great on the mic. You do any acting?"
"I've never tried, so I wouldn't know."
"That can wait. Let's see that dropkick again."
The Bon corrected my stance, and when that still wasn't enough, Bibi jumped in too—but my body still had far too much power packed into it.
"Might be better if she just doesn't throw dropkicks at all."
"A woman wrestler—and a lightweight at that—who doesn't dropkick? That's ridiculous."
Bibi figured it was better to scrap the move entirely, but The Bon shot that down and the two of them bickered back and forth.
"Who was good at dropkicks again… Ah, right. Curtis. Curtis Axel."
"That's right. Curtis coached The Stone and Brock Lesnar."
Curtis Axel? The name rang a faint bell, but I couldn't place him.
"Who's Curtis Axel?"
"You ever hear of the nineties guy—Mr. Perfect, Curt Hennig?"
"Of course. The one they said could match Bret Hart technically, right? Used to spit his gum out on the way to the ring?"
"That's him. Curtis Axel is Mr. Perfect's son. Wasn't much as a wrestler, but as a coach he was outstanding."
Having coached both an Icon and a legend—that alone told me how good he was.
The Bon grabbed his phone on the spot and made the call.
"Curtis says he'll look you over on video. Lina, hit it one more time."
"Yes, Coach."
I drew a deep breath and threw the dropkick.
The dummy still sailed, rocking hard—but it only flew about a meter and a half this time. Better than before.
"Whoa! Bon! That face is insane. She's gonna explode when she debuts. Congrats—you can charge a killer finder's fee."
"Cut the nonsense. How does it look?"
"Hey. Lady! Can you not bleed off any more power than that?"
Lady?
I'd been called "girl" before, but "lady" was a first.
"I've been trying to pull it back, but it's not easy to cut any more."
"Listen to that voice. Melts right in your ear. Man, if I weren't working I'd fly straight to Orlando and coach her myself."
Well, I'd hardly complain about that. If this was Mr. Perfect's son, I might even pick up that signature finish of theirs—the suplex into a pin.
"Curtis!"
"Tch. Calm down, Bon. I'll get to it. She's like The Stone. Dwayne was the same at the start—couldn't dump power to save his life."
Hearing that he already had the answer made me lean in hard.
"So what do I do?"
"Don't charge it. Just shove."
"What?"
"Just push through it! Yeah, you'll lose some of the impact sound, but a shove still looks fine on camera. Just be careful when there's something behind your opponent—especially a turnbuckle or a barricade. Once you get used to pushing the kick, easing the power out of a regular one will start to click little by little."
"Ah. Yes. Thank you."
"Oh—one more thing. Until it feels natural, barefoot isn't a bad idea. Shoes can dull the feel."
"Got it."
I bowed my head at once. The Bon talked with Curtis a little longer, then hung up.
"Bibi. You heard that?"
"Yeah."
"You want to demo it, or should I?"
Bibi pointed at his own clothes with a finger.
"Come on—I finally put a suit on for once! You seriously want me doing this in a suit and dress shoes?"
"Ugh. Fine. I'll do it. Me."
Unlike Bibi in his full suit, The Bon—in cotton pants and sneakers—stepped up in front of the dummy.
"Exactly what he said. Just push straight through."
The Bon had to weigh at least a hundred thirty kilos, but he hopped lightly and shoved the dummy.
Thud.
A small impact sound, and the dummy slid back about a meter.
"You get what he meant?"
"Let me try once."
I set myself at a sensible distance from the dummy, jumped, and pushed through it.
Thud.
The impact was still louder than The Bon's, but far quieter than before, and the dummy only slid about a meter and a half. Before, it had felt like the dummy was getting launched by the hit. This was clearly different.
"Much better. Think you can bleed off more power?"
"I'll keep working on it."
"He said once you're used to it you can throw a proper dropkick, so stay consistent."
"Yes, sir."
The Bon reached out as if to clap my shoulder, then hesitated and pulled his hand back. The fact that he even thought about that told me the rumors about his character were true.
Donald and Amy started hollering about how hungry they were, so the coaches told us to keep practicing hard and cleared out together.
The moment they were gone, I stripped off my shoes and socks and started throwing dropkicks the way I'd just been taught. Barefoot or not, the feel of the shove was definitely different. A little more time and I figured I could match The Bon's version.
I'd been at it about an hour when the Gonzalez siblings showed up.
"Lina!"
"Hey, Lina. When'd you get here?"
"Around two hours ago?"
"Early, huh. You improved any?"
"Coach The Bon Dudley worked with me a bit."
"The Bon? He was here? I've always liked him better than Bibi."
"Same. Back then The Bon handled all the dirty work."
The siblings lit up the second they heard The Bon's name.
"From what I heard, it sounds like he'll be around starting next week."
"Yes!"
"Ye!"
"Lina, you hungry? I brought burritos."
Selma gave a little shake of the bag in her hand as she said it.
"Burritos? Hell yes."
"Mom bought them. Said to share with you."
"First lunchbox I've gotten in years, and it's not even for her son?"
The second Al stuck his lip out, I smacked him across the mouth with my palm.
"You shut up. Even when she packed you lunch, random jerks always stole it and you never got to eat the thing."
Hah. So the kid was a bullying victim?
I'd heard there were people in the wrestling world who'd been through that kind of school violence, but I hadn't expected one standing right next to me.
"Want to eat first, then?"
We flopped down on the floor outside the ring.
The burritos themselves were fantastic. The only problem was the drink they'd brought—protein shakes.
"Ugh. Protein shakes. I hate these. I'll just have water."
"Right? I'm going with water too."
"…Same."
Why was Al's face so red?
I watched him carefully and caught him sneaking glances at my feet. He never stared at my chest or my ass, so I'd figured he just didn't have much of a libido—turns out that wasn't it either.
This bastard. Is he a foot fetishist? I'd heard Western guys have a lot of those. Guess it's true.
Well, my feet were pretty cute. Then again, what part of me wasn't?
Either way, I couldn't keep sitting like this in front of the kid.
Aigoo—my head.
I finished the burrito in a hurry and turned to the two of them.
"Selma, Al—tell your mom it was delicious. Both of you stretch. I'm going to change real quick and come back. I sweated through everything."
"Got it."
A little later I came back out with my shoes on again. Al looked faintly disappointed staring at my feet.
"I'll work with Selma first. Selma, you watch Al."
"Sure."
"Okay."
We ran chain wrestling in broken-down segments, painfully slow. After about an hour of that, she looked noticeably better.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Now you take Al. I'm going to do my own work."
"Yeah."
We trained straight through until evening, and by then all three of us had started to get a real feel for it.
Monday morning.
James Holt—the guy who'd been Al's practice partner last time—joined our group.
"From here on, James will be working with Al."
There would be tag team drills later, so Al needed a partner of his own. Al already mixed reasonably well with the other male trainees, but Selma and I had never even properly introduced ourselves.
"James Holt. Looking forward to working with you. Stable."
"Are we a stable? I'm Selma Gonzalez."
"Lina."
When we shook hands, the corner of his mouth climbed for the ceiling.
Ugh. Between Al and this guy, I'm starting to wonder if they both need to learn a low blow first.
Morning training kicked off, and the dropkick was the first thing they checked.
Thud.
The dummy only slid about a meter.
"Oh! You've been practicing. Looking real good."
I'd worked on it at home on Sunday too.
"Lina. Hit my palm."
"I could hurt you."
"Who's worrying about who right now?"
At that, I threw the dropkick straight into his open hand.
Smack.
"Good. Hold it right there and it's already usable in a real match. Still—keep drilling so you can throw a proper, full dropkick."
"Yes."
"All right. Let's push the curriculum a little further today."
Next up was the running dropkick off a rope rebound, the front dropkick—jumping forward and landing on your back—and the low dropkick aimed at a seated opponent's head or legs.
In the afternoon we did chain wrestling.
"Looks like you both put in serious work over the weekend. You've improved a lot. But you're still too slow. Drill until you can do it faster."
"Understood."
"Yes, sir."
"Then let's go a little deeper on the armbar. One of the things you learn here might end up as your submission, so think carefully about what fits you best."
Training rolled on. It wasn't just James Holt joining the group—Coach Donald McCarthy felt like he was putting in even more attention than he had on Friday.
"Is this the elite class or the reject class? Why is it this brutal? Has it always been like this?"
During a short break, James—who'd kept quiet all morning—complained to Al.
"It's a little harder than Friday, but it's doable."
"A little harder? This feels several times tougher than the advanced class. Wow. The academy must be dead set on getting you guys debuted."
"You'd have to actually watch the advanced class properly to know."
"I was in it for a bit. So yeah, I know for sure."
"That so? Works for us. Right, Selma?"
"If they're putting real care into teaching us, I'm grateful."
Selma kept talking while sprawled flat on the ring mat.
"Haa. I need to ramp up my running time. Didn't think my cardio would give out like this. Lina, you okay?"
"Me? Compared to a marathon, this is nothing…"
"What a freak… Ha. I'm sleeping for five minutes."
"Go ahead."
Hearing Selma, Al and James flopped onto the ring too. They didn't move a muscle until the break was over.
In a small conference room at TPA, three people sat around the table.
Carl Avidia, the number-two man and Chief Marketing Officer, held the center, with Hailey Kingsley from Finance and Harry Thompson from Talent Development flanking him.
"Harry. What's Bibi saying?"
"He says one man and one woman are entering the final tuning stage."
"Only two? This is genuinely frustrating."
Carl downed his water in one shot, looking every bit as fed up as he sounded.
"What kind of talent are these two?"
"Both solid on skill, he says. The man's an all-rounder type, the woman's a powerhouse."
"That right?"
"But the man's promo work is so weak they'll have to put him under a mask. And the woman—promo's weak there too, plus her look is so rough he figures she can only work as a heel."
"Damn it. So both of them are characters that are hard to get over."
"If the skill level's high enough, maybe it's fine?"
"Ha! Under a mask, as a heel—how long do you think it takes to build that kind of heat into actual popularity?"
Unless the talent was truly exceptional, a heel needed a long runway of story to get over. A year at absolute minimum—and that was assuming the acting could carry it.
"Still, he says give him four months on the short end, five on the long. Claims he's prepping someone who'll genuinely shock us."
"Ha. Didn't he say the same thing last year? We were shocked, all right—debuted and broke a collarbone in three months flat."
The talent TPA had sent up around this time last year had lasted barely three months, just past ten matches, before botching a senton, landing sideways, and snapping a collarbone. After that it was like PTSD had set in—the career ended on the spot.
"I checked with Coach McCarthy just in case. McCarthy said it's worth looking forward to. Specifically: two women, one man. A three-person unit waiting in the wings, and all three of them standouts. He also said there might be one more man added."
"If it goes well, we could end up with two tag teams. If Donald's saying that, we have to trust it. But five months is no good. You know our situation. They need to debut inside four."
"It's not the kind of thing you can just pull forward because we ask."
Team 3D Academy had compressed WWO Performance's full year of training into a six-month course. The schedule was already brutally tight. Force the timeline and something was bound to break.
"Damn it. We're critically short on young talent."
There were stars who'd come out of WWO—the Dudley Boys, the Hardy Boyz, and others—but they were all too old to work a full season. Two or three matches a month was the ceiling. Every time TPA ran a collaborative show with WWO, some of the WWO talent drew harder than the home roster. The popularity gap had started to flip.
"Hailey. We're putting the interest in correctly, right?"
"Yes. But if we can't extend the loan in seven months, we're in real trouble. The company goes under completely. We should be thinking about other options just in case."
"Let's squeeze whatever we can still squeeze and try to put a little money aside. And the boss says he's working on something, so we have to trust that too."
TPA was already cutting every corner it could. A mere three million dollars borrowed from the bank after failing a fire-safety inspection—money that had gone into unavoidable facility upgrades—was, together with the rest of the debt load, closing around the company's throat.
The finance lead knew that situation better than anyone. All she could do was nod.
