Chapter 19
You. The word seems so simple, so innocent, but when combined with that question—Do you want this?
—it’s entirely different…On one hand, I want to finish what I started.
I want to write this story. The one with about two hundred words of pure garbage sitting on my computer right now, filed under a fake name, just in case.
Every time I open the document, I stare at the page, unable to find the words. Nothing feels…right.
I keep telling myself there’s a story here, but I haven’t found anything worth writing about.
A disagreement between co-workers? Typical.
Management picking favorites? Yawn. An impossible schedule that will eventually lead to burnout?
We knew that already. The boss has high expectations of the people he pays millions of dollars to every year to put on a good show? Cry me a river.
I haven’t even noticed a bias against the female talent.
Sure, there are a few who play more of the arm candy role, but for the most part, they are perceived as just as—if not more—badass than the men.
You couldn’t pay me to get in a ring with Savvy Skye, Blair Logan, or Cali Kennedy.
Ally wasn’t kidding when she said Savannah is a great heel, and watching her flip the switch from that character back into the real person is mind-boggling.
How do they compartmentalize it all so well?
But still, I can’t get a read on the one man this story is supposed to be about: Amos Rafferty.
Obviously, being the owner of a company like Elite Wrestling Entertainment demands a certain level of respect, but why do so many people seem to bend the knee when it comes to him?
In the short time I’ve spent backstage, I’ve overheard a handful of conversations passed down from Amos by way of Talent Relations, Creative, or Noah.
Oh, you were supposed to win tonight? Not anymore, now you’re dropping your title.
You want to tweak your character and the storyline?
That’s not your job; stay in your lane. You don’t want to do this storyline?
You’re off television. Whatever it is, Amos never delivers the blow himself.
Do I find it irksome? Yes, but it’s not enough for a story…at least not the kind of story I wanted to write, or the one Barry is expecting.
And that brings me to the other side of my dilemma.
When Bennett asked me what I wanted, I froze.
My immediate response was, Yes, I want you.
But the words got stuck in my throat, because saying it would mean there’s something more here.
Saying it would mean crossing a dangerous line.
Saying it made everything that’s happened the past two weeks real.
I told myself I could do whatever it takes to get this story, that saying it doesn’t mean I can’t walk away at the end, but that’s a lie.
“Then what do you want, Sloane?” he asks, staring down at me.
The tears blur my vision, but this time, the word rolls off my tongue with ease. “You.” A beat of silence before I repeat myself. “You, Ben. I want this.”
“Sloane—”
“You and me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my job, but what happened last night is exactly what I was trying to avoid. If you’d known, would you have ever talked to me?”
“Yes,” he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t care that you write sports—or wrote sports. What I care about is that you lied to me about it. Sloane, I’ve been on the other side of someone’s lies and secrets. I—I can’t do it again.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
“Me too, for everything that happened last night.” Bennett falls back on the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face.
“I shouldn’t have been upset with you. I know you’re looking out for me, but I need you to trust me.
If I can’t do something, I won’t. Noah and Tim asked if I was up for it, if I was feeling good enough to do it, and if I had said no, that would’ve been fine.
But Honey, I felt good last night. I didn’t have any pain, and I came back here to ice as a precaution. That’s all. And as for Grady—”
“Fuck Grady,” I say, sitting next to him. “I appreciate you defending my honor, Gladiator”—there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth—“but I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me, even if he deserves a lot more than that one punch.”
Bennett chuckles. “It did feel really good.”
“Why would they make you work with him, after everything that’s happened?”
“Because this is business,” Bennett says with a shrug.
“We all have to work with people we don’t like at some point.
Take Brooks and Drake, for example. They despised one another, but they put on some of the greatest matches back in the day.
Or Holly Graham and Juliet Briggs, they had a falling out over the same guy in the middle of a storyline.
Creative didn’t care. They had to keep going, and their final match went on to become one of the top five all-time best female matches.
The chemistry was undeniable in both cases, and Amos chose to capitalize on that.
Say what you want about the method, but the numbers don’t lie.
We all have to do things we don’t want to for work.
I’m sure you have, too. That’s just business. ”
The numbers don’t lie.
“You hungry?” Bennett asks, planting a hand on my knee. “We should probably grab something to eat before we have to be at headquarters.” He leans in, kissing me briefly, before grabbing his coffee and walking into the bedroom.
The numbers don’t lie. That’s it. That’s what I’ve been missing.
This story isn’t about the culture, or the workload, or disagreements between coworkers.
All of that is normal workplace drama. Maybe the real story is hidden in the numbers—in the money trail—and whether Bennett knows it or not, he may have just handed me the key to the biggest story of my life.
Elite Wrestling Entertainment Headquarters occupies over three hundred thousand square feet on an island cradled by a quiet lake, separated from the rest of the city.
A private community occupies the north side of the island, and a hotel and event center on the southern tip.
There are only two ways off: bridges on the east and west sides connected by a road, or a pedestrian footbridge connecting the hotel to the mainland.
Parking lots and grassy fields surround the building, except for the lake on the east side.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, especially for what is meant to be a corporate office.
From the moment we pulled into the parking lot earlier, I could only stare at the gorgeous exterior of the custom-built facility.
Sunlight reflects off the glass wall facade but doesn’t diminish the oversized EWE logo in the front windows.
Everything about this place feels…expensive, with a slight edge.
Small oddities make it stand out amid the surrounding modern architecture.
The biggest one? An oversized EWE Championship belt on the front lawn.
It’s identical to the one Colin Ryker carried last night.
The inside is just as meticulously put together.
The color scheme is mostly black and white, with bursts of color throughout.
Cubicles, broken up by large sitting areas, occupy various floors, each level home to a different division of the corporation.
Board rooms are named after the most popular and long-standing premier live events.
Each one includes memorabilia from past events.
I take in the meticulous attention to detail as Bennett guides me through the rest of the building.
Offices belonging to the bigger names in corporate, like the obvious ones—the Raffertys and Noah Callahan—and some not so obvious ones, like EWE legends Juliet Briggs, Ezekiel Slade, and Clarence Kennedy.
A private gym. Five different food stands.
A long hallway with title belts on the wall, ranging from the very first style to the most current one.
Rooms filled with other memorabilia and life-size statues of some of the most famous wrestlers to come out of the company.
We’ve been here almost two hours, mostly because it’s so big, but also because I keep stopping to look at the memorabilia.
From the outside, you’d never guess how big this place really is, but from the inside, there seems to be no end in sight, and it almost feels wrong to have so much history confined to a building kept under lock and key.
Why wouldn’t they want to share some more of this with their fans?
I can only imagine the other things they have locked away in a storage facility somewhere.
It seems like a waste to let it all sit and collect dust.
“And my favorite part of the whole place…the ring room,” Bennett says as we step over the threshold into a large, open room with a ring in the center.
Of course, they have a ring. A mezzanine balcony overlooks the room, and posters with some of the most prominent faces in the history of EWE line the walls, including one of the man standing beside me.
“When was this?” I ask, walking over to the poster.
Wolf Bennett stands on the ropes in the corner of the ring, the EWE Championship belt lifted high above his head, a beaming smile on his lips as he yells something out to the crowd, one hand over his heart.
There’s so much emotion in his eyes, telling me the hard-fought story to get there without even having to hear it out of his mouth.
“That was my first big title win,” he says, slipping his hand in mine. “It was at Wrestlefest 2010, against Brody.” There’s a soft smile on his lips as he stares at the photo, no doubt remembering that moment.
“Did you and Brody start together?”