The energy from the live event still buzzed through her veins as she moved through the backstage halls of WCWE. The roar of the crowd, the fshing lights, the rger-than-life personalities—none of it compared to experiencing wrestling in person. It was raw, electric, and unpredictable. And at the center of it all was LA King.

  In the ring, he was untouchable—arrogant, magnetic, and fully in control. The fans loved him, even when he pyed the vilin. He commanded their attention with every move, feeding off their cheers and jeers. But now, as she followed the current of talent and crew toward the locker rooms, she spotted a very different version of him.

  LA King sat on a bench, unwrapping his taped fists with slow, deliberate movements. The cocky smirk from earlier was gone, repced by a detached expression—like the man from the ring had been left behind under the lights. Other wrestlers chatted, ughed, and relived spots from the night. But not him. He stayed silent, barely acknowledging anyone.

  She paused, watching him. Which one was real? The magnetic showman—or the brooding shadow backstage?

  “Good match tonight,” she said, stepping forward.

  He barely looked up, one brow lifting. “Is that part of your job, PR Girl? Handing out compliments?”

  She crossed her arms. “It’s called being polite. You should try it sometime.”

  That earned her a half-smirk. He went back to unwrapping his hands. “Not really my thing.”

  It wasn’t surprising. But it was maddening.

  By the next morning, she had a strategy. LA King needed a full image reboot, which included press interviews, community outreach, and a better social media presence. If WCWE wanted him in the main event scene, he couldn’t keep acting like a one-man demolition derby.

  She walked into the conference room with a folder in hand. Her boss had already taken a seat, holding a coffee in one hand and dispying skepticism in another.

  “I hope you’ve got a miracle in there,” he said. “King’s a walking PR nightmare.”

  “I have a pn,” she replied.

  He waved his hand. “Sell it to him. If he doesn’t cooperate, we’ll have to start making decisions about his future.”

  Transtion: If she failed, they both went down.

  She found him by the catering table, leaning against a production crate and holding court like he was king of the arena. When he spotted her approaching, he groaned.

  “Fantastic. Here comes my personal babysitter.”

  She stopped in front of him, unfazed. “I need ten minutes.”

  “No thanks.”

  She shoved the folder into his chest. “Too bad.”

  He blinked at her, more amused than annoyed, and opened it. His eyes scanned the contents—schedule drafts, brand notes, and interview outlines.

  “This is corporate nonsense,” he said, flipping a page. “Fans don’t care about this crap. They want the real thing. Me without no filter.”

  “Right now, you are reckless and a liability,” she shot back. “That’s not how champions are built. Sponsors and execs want someone they can trust. Not someone who’s one tweet away from setting the pce on fire.”

  He closed the folder with a snap. “I didn’t get here by pying it safe.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Do you even want to be champion?”

  For a second, something in his eyes flickered. A crack in the performance. Then it vanished, repced by that infuriating smirk.

  “Nice try, PR Girl.”

  Less than an hour ter, her phone lit up with notifications.

  One. Two. Then a flood.

  She tapped the screen and froze.

  Softest dudes alive. No wonder they have to harass women—ain’t no one going home with them otherwise.

  Her blood ran cold.

  "You have got to be kidding me."

  She stormed toward the locker room, pulse-pounding, jaw clenched. This wasn’t damage control—this was a PR wildfire.

  He was right where she expected him to be: lounging on a bench, scrolling through his phone like he’d just dropped the promo of the century.

  “Delete it,” she snapped.

  He looked up slowly, unbothered. “Why? I meant it.”

  She didn’t scream, though it was a near thing. Instead, she pictured the boardroom. The sponsors. Her boss's voice said to start making decisions about his future—but what he meant was hers. Her entire career, hanging by a thread tied to a man who thought chaos was clever.

  Her stomach twisted.

  “You just poured gasoline on the fire.”

  He leaned back against the lockers, smirking like he was proud of himself. “Or maybe I’m just giving people something to talk about. Free publicity, PR Girl.”

  She stared at him, stunned by the sheer arrogance.

  “I am going to kill you.”

  “That’s not very PR-friendly,” he said, grinning wider.

  She didn’t go home that night. Instead, she holed up in her office, watching hours of old footage—interviews, matches, and press clips. And slowly, a pattern emerged.

  There was a time when LA King smiled more. When he didn’t brush people off. When there was softness underneath the swagger.

  Then, she saw it. In the early matches, a woman always sat in the front row. It was his mother. She was always there cheering, cpping, and beaming with pride.

  And then—suddenly—she was gone.

  After that, his performances got louder. His walls got higher. His recklessness wasn’t new. It was armor.

  She leaned back in her chair, staring at the frozen screen.

  Maybe he didn’t act like he didn’t care.

  Maybe he acted that way because he cared too much.

  She found him the next morning outside the training ring, wrapping his wrists in silence.

  She didn’t speak right away. I just sat beside him, watching the tape spin tight around his knuckles.

  Then, quietly, “What do you want your legacy to be?”

  He looked at her—and for once, didn’t have a comeback.

  She didn’t press. The silence between them said enough.

  For the first time, she saw the man underneath the swagger. And for the first time, he looked at her like more than just the annoying girl with a clipboard.

  He smirked eventually. “You’re persistent, PR Girl. I’ll give you that.”

  She exhaled a ugh. “You have no idea.”

  And just like that, the game between them continued. But something had changed.

  Something real had begun.