One Thing Wrong

Chapter 1

The air backstage at the Joe Louis Arena was thick with the scent of hairspray, Tiger Balm, and the electric hum of Survivor Series Sunday. You navigated the maze of black equipment trunks and tangled cables, balancing two oversized iced coffees with the practiced ease of someone who had spent the last semester at Boston University sprinting between lectures and the campus café. 

Being a writing intern for the WWE was a bit of a farce, and both you and Stephanie knew it. Your parents' success had landed you at BU, but it was your friendship with Stephanie, forged over late-night study sessions and shared secrets, that had landed you on the private jet. You were here to "learn the business," but mostly you were here to keep Steph sane while her father marched the company toward the new millennium. 

"Finally," Stephanie grinned as you stepped into her makeshift office, though her eyes were glued to a clipboard. She looked every bit the billionaire's daughter in her power suit, but she still gave you that familiar wink. "I need the caffeine. Dad's losing his mind over tonight." 

"Is it about the new guy?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe. "You've been talking about him since we left Stamford." 

"The Olympic Gold Medalist," Stephanie said, her voice dropping into a tone of genuine reverence. "He's the real deal. He's going to make everything we do feel legitimate. If we can turn an Olympian into a Superstar, we're untouchable." 

"I'll take your word for it. I didn't exactly spend my summer watching wrestling in singlets," you teased. 

Stephanie laughed, finally looking up. "Go get yourself some actual food. And if you see Shane, try not to drool on his jersey. He's in a mood because of the Team WWF match." 

You felt that familiar flutter in your chest. You'd had a crush on Shane since the moment Stephanie introduced you in the BU dorms. You tried to be subtle, well, as subtle as one could be while wearing his merchandise and laughing a little too loudly at his jokes, but Shane still treated you with that endearing, frustrating "honorary little sister" energy. 

"I'm a professional, Steph," you lied, tossing your hair back as you headed toward catering. 

The catering hall was a chaotic sea of giants. You were weaving through the crowd, heading for the water pitchers, when the world suddenly tilted. A wall of solid, unyielding muscle slammed into your shoulder, sending your half-empty water cup flying. 

"Whoa!" you gasped, stumbling back and barely catching your balance. You looked up, ready to offer a polite apology, but the words died in your throat. Standing before you was a man who looked like he had been chiseled out of granite. He had a thick neck, a broad, powerful chest, and eyes that were piercingly blue and incredibly intense. He wasn't just big; he carried an aura of absolute, unshakable discipline. 

You waited for him to apologize. Instead, he looked you up and down with a clinical, almost impatient expression. He didn't see a BU student or the boss's daughter's best friend. He saw a girl in a production lanyard. 

"You," he said, his voice crisp and authoritative. He didn't ask; he commanded. He gestured vaguely toward a pair of heavy gear bags sitting near the entrance of the room. "The locker rooms are down the hall to the left. Room 102. Make sure the bags are placed inside, not left in the hall. I have a meeting with Mr. McMahon in five minutes." 

You blinked, your mouth hanging open slightly. "I... excuse me?" 

He checked his watch, a look of mild annoyance crossing his face as if you were a slow-moving clock. "102. And don't drop the one with the medals. They're heavy." 

Without waiting for a response, without even checking to see if you had moved, he turned on his heel and marched toward the Gorilla position, his posture so straight it looked painful. 

You stood there in the middle of the crowded room, cold water dripping off your sleeve, staring at the back of his head. 

"Did that actually just happen?" you whispered to the empty air. 

"Hey, kiddo!" A familiar, boisterous voice echoed behind you. Shane McMahon dropped a hand on your shoulder, giving it a friendly, brotherly squeeze. "You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost." 

"Shane," you stammered, pointing a trembling finger toward the hallway. "Who is that? The guy who just... who just told me to carry his luggage?" 

Shane looked in the direction of the disappearing athlete and grinned, that classic McMahon spark in his eyes. "Oh, him? That's the big debut tonight. Kurt Angle. The Olympic Hero." 

Shane gave your ponytail a playful tug. "Better get to it, sis. He's an American hero; you wouldn't want to keep him waiting, right?" 

You looked from the heavy bags to Shane's oblivious, grinning face, then back to the hallway where Kurt had vanished. Your crush on Shane was momentarily eclipsed by a burning, white-hot indignation. 

"Olympic Hero?" you muttered, wiping the water off your arm. "He's an Olympic jerk."