Wonderland [WWE] [Shawn Michaels] {Book 1}

Chapter 2: What About Shawn Michaels?

[Kat]

My father may have forgotten about my burning question, but I had not. "Dad, can I talk to you?"

He kept walking, and I struggled to keep up with his longer strides. "I'm a bit busy, Sarah."

He was the only one that called me by my first name still, after all these years. I had been going by the name "Katherine" since about third grade, but Dad never got the memo.

"Yeah, I know, I just thought--"

"We'll talk later, alright?"

I jumped in front of him, stopping his path. He stared down at me. "You told me that last time. And the time before that. And the time before that," I declared. He was always busy, but I was certain that this time he was deliberately trying to ignore me.

Dad let out a sigh and crossed his arms. "I'm not letting you join this business. Not as a talent. The amount of work these people put their bodies through, the trouble they get into--"

This was the answer he always gave, since I was a little girl. I had been asking this same question since I attended the first Survivor Series and fell in love with the wrestling business. Since then, Dad pushed it off, until he finally had to tell me no.

"This is the only thing I've ever wanted!" I pleaded. Of all the things Dad bought for me, none of them were what I wanted. None of them replaced my father's presence. The one thing we had in common these days, it seemed was our passion for professional wrestling. "I never wanted that stupid summer home, or the car, or, or--any of that! I just want to wrestle."

"I won't allow it."

I wanted to scream; he didn't care at all what I felt. He was never going to let me wrestle and there was nothing I could do about it. I could never get through to him. How dare he, himself, be so invested in the company but keep his children locked outside of it? It was unfair.

"What about a manager? Like a valet! I wouldn't have to wrestle, but I'd get to be part of the show," I asked.

I'd never asked to be a manager. I didn't really want to be a manager, but it was better than nothing. One of his major arguments was always the danger of being a wrestler. If I pushed aside that aspect, maybe he would actually go for it.

"I don't think any of our wrestlers need a manager." He was making excuses now.

"What about Shawn Michaels?!" I blurted out. It just spilled out of my mouth; he was the first wrestler on my mind. I instantly wished I had suggested Mark, or literally anyone else.

Dad raised an eyebrow. "Shawn Michaels?"

"Yeah!" I exclaimed, trying to convince him. "Uh, he's a heel. Heels usually have managers that like, distract their opponents, and his character is all cocky and definitely the type of guy that would come to the ring with a girl on his arm. You know, kinda 'look I can get girls and you can't'," I blabbed. I was impressed with myself, because it actually sounded somewhat reasonable.

Dad was quiet, which was a good sign. If he didn't like the idea, he would have shut it down right away. I had no idea how I managed to sway him, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "I'll have to get Shawn's opinion. I have business to take care of right now, but we'll talk about it later."

"Promise?"

Dad's face softened. I always made him promise me when I was younger. He never broke one of those promises. One of my most cherished memories was the time he told me he'd be home for Christmas.

"Promise?" I asked, all of six years old.

Dad smiled at me, the little doe-eyed girl sitting on his lap. "I promise."