1. NOVA

NOVA

Chapter one

Honestly, I didn't expect to be here. The bright white lights scattered across the ceiling, shining harshly, but charmingly down into the arena. The ring is illuminated like the star of the show, and rightfully so. I've only ever seen it a few times in person but it's usually occupied with dirty men or rowdy women and it's never looked so pristine and innocent before. Plus I was like a million years younger and now, I'm looking at it with new and more appreciative eyes.

Empty seats surround the stadium, the walkway is clear all the way up to the entrance stage. It's surreal. It's kind of like walking into a movie theater to watch something on the big screen and you get the entire theater to yourself. Or like running up to the ice cream truck on a Saturday afternoon, seven years old, in hopes for a Choco-Taco and there's only one left. It's all yours.

The feeling is incompatible to the reputation of bloodshed, danger, and power that is claimed here. Instead, it's a different kind of power I see when I glaze over this intensely beautiful place. A power that holds both truth and idea. The truth is, it's just a ring. A wood-planked stage layered with a foam mat surrounded by three natural fiber tape-wrapped ropes held together by turnbuckles, or the big leather balls as I used to call them. But that's the truth of the ring; in all of its glory, quiet and mysterious.

The idea, it's the center of destruction and peril and the very ground beneath some of the world's most creatively dangerous characters. Fake or not. And it's the home of entertainment enjoyed by millions around the world.

Standing in this empty arena feels like a rewrite of a previous dream. It feels like a bonus chapter to my story, knowing I was always meant to flip the page to this exact scene but it's all brand new.

I remember sitting ringside in this exact arena, back when I was just a little girl who wore pigtails and denim overalls. My braces took up most of my mouth and I probably had a unibrow. My mom would hold me on her lap as we watched my dad beat the shit out his opponents—or so I'd like to think. It was usually the other way around though.

Never the champion. Always the hero.

That's the way professional wrestling works. And despite popular belief, not all wrestling is scripted. Okay, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of it may be scripted now. But Daddy let me in on a little secret when he retired, most of the stuff we saw on T.V was real life and in real time.

But it's all a distant memory now, and I know that things have changed since then. The long road trips, the chaos of the violent art. Professional wrestling put a strain on my parents' relationship. And it also took a toll on me. Even after he retired, even after the ring lights turned off and the arena went dark.

Despite the glory that my dad's career brought him, it brought sadness and neglect to me and my mom. Daddy's career was always more important than his family it seemed, though he tried to play it off like he was a big family man when the cameras were rolling.

I just know he'd pay more attention to me if I were born a boy like he wanted. He wanted a legacy to follow in his footsteps, wrestle like he did. And I didn't really want to do that.

Girls can wrestle too, in fact it's much bigger for us females now than it used to be, but I just didn't want to live my life neglecting my family like my dad did to us.

I wish I could tell my dad how he made me feel, how little I was to him. But after going out with my mom for some errands, leaving me with the neighbor, I never saw them again.

He wrapped his car around a tree taking my mom's life with him.

Some say he was drunk and it was an accident. Others say he did it on purpose because he had mental issues and wrestling can cause some major trauma to the head. I like to believe that my parents were enjoying a nice ride to wherever they were going and a sweet, helpless little deer jumped out in front of them, causing my dad to swerve off the road and the entire thing was just a big freak accident.

I was nine when that happened. My dad had just retired a few months before and I'll never learn what caused the accident. Because I refused to look into it or listen to what reports said had happened.

I believe in my own story for the sake of my heart and I'm okay with knowing that I might be lying to myself.

I'm okay pretending that my dad loved me when he died. But I hate that he took a piece of my self-worth with him.

"Nova Satterlee?" A male voice echoes from behind me, echoing around the arena, making his way from the stairs in the stands and down to center stage, where I still stand in utter disbelief.

"That's me." I turn to see Shawn McMillin. The owner of it all.

I remember watching him on screen as well. Him and his dad, Victor, have a very large reputation in the wrestling world—or more so their ego is very large which takes up half the space of this arena, almost like a fog lingering thickly above us as the clicks of his probably-too-expensive dress shoes gets closer to where I'm standing. However, together, Victor and Shawn McMillin maintained one of the greatest sports ever to be aired on television, if you ask me, and to this day the business alone is bringing in billions. And despite the utter stench of arrogance that permeates off of Shawn–I can smell it the closer he gets–this world of wrestling has kept the interest of thousands and thousands of people by stabilizing entertainment in their homes all because of a dream that the McMillin family had.

Which is similar to why I'm here. A dream.

One I might not be able to understand but I followed my heart and this is where it led me.

He finally approaches me with his navy-blue suit, slicked back, graying hair, black loafers—they are in fact too expensive—and a very cocky smile. He's got the kind of on-screen personality that people despise because, naturally, he did that himself for the entertainment of millions all to secure the views. I'm just hoping his hubristic attitude and grossly alarming entitlement is only for the camera.

"Welcome to UWE." Shawn's hands go wide as he gestures to the world in front of us. UWE stands for United Wrestling Entertainment, and it's the biggest and baddest in the world.

"So glad to finally meet you. My assistant told me great things about you, including your passion for the sport." He tips his head up toward the ring, expecting me to follow his eyesight and completely underestimating the fact that women have a sixth sense for pervy-ism which is what hints me to his disgusting attempt to sneak a glance at my chest when he thinks I've looked away.

Barf.

I knew I should have dressed more conservatively, mentally cursing myself for thinking sexy was more important than respect in a moment of desperation to want to fit in. I know this scene and I know it's an environment filled with men but this dress called to me when I went through my closet and I've always enjoyed wearing things that accentuated the curvature of my body because I've never been stick-skinny. My dress is a long-sleeve, black blazer-dress with a deep neckline and gold button accents that are actually functioning buttons seeing as they're what's holding my dress together. It hits about a few inches above my knees so it's not too short but with the added appeal of my thick, tan legs–thanks to my velvet-black pumps–I look a little taller which makes my dress look a little shorter.

Before I can allow myself to feel any more nerves, I shake off the invasion of Shawns eyes and I smile at him like I know how. Sweet but professional. Then, I take a deep breath and nod my head.

"Yes, I'm very excited to start. I remember watching my dad right here-"

"Right, so we really should get you to the meeting," he interrupts me, and I almost have to force myself to not blink aggressively, which is something I would do if trying to attentively look for the audacity of this mother fucker if only to shove it down his throat.

But he's my boss now. So, I swallow down the sudden urge to call this man a raging dick for being so disrespectful and let him get away with it…this time.

I don't usually let people step all over me so easily. I've had to make my own way in this world after my parents' death and I damn well know that women hardly stand a chance as it is. But in a world as cutthroat as this, sometimes you have to pick and choose the battles worth fighting for, and having this ignorant slug of a man interrupt me isn't something I'm going to let fester.

"Of course," I respond, not wanting to say anything he'd feel obligated to interrupt.

"Right this way."

I have no idea what to expect, but it's my time to shine.

***

Shawn leads me up the walkway through the entrance behind the stage. I only ever imagined what it would be like to walk down this runway with a big entrance, fancy fire shows, loud music, and all of the confidence in the world.

I've seen so many do it when I'd watch the shows, either from the front row of the stadium or from the plush carpet of my home.

My dad's walk-down song was some kind of over-the-top rendition of Sabotage by the Beastie Boys and he always had the craziest lights thrown around the stadium.

We turn a corner down to another hall and I let out a sigh of anticipation when we stop at a red door and he reaches to turn the knob.

Shawn opens the door to a large, dimly lit conference room. I'm not prepared for him to put his hand on my lower back to scooch me through the threshold of the doorframe, feeling myself inwardly cringe.

"Would you like to introduce yourself?" Shawn is so close to me—too close.

Though he's not too much taller than my five-four, it just feels like he's overcrowding me in every way possible, and it doesn't help that he smells like fried onions despite how nicely he's dressed.

"Hi, I'm Nova Satterlee. I'm joining the creative writing team as a writer's assistant." I nod my head, smiling confidently as I make eye contact with as many people as I can in the room.

I impress myself with my ability to speak, but really, I've never been one with stage fright. I've always done pretty well in large crowds and group tasks. I almost always end up taking the lead while others slide by like floaters, allowing me to take full reign on whatever it was we'd be working on.

Watching my dad maneuver a crowd the way he did really gave me inspiration to be just as big and bold as him one day. Though I'm more reserved about my confidence whereas wrestlers show it off like a fancy car.

I also knew that I needed to make sure that I presented myself in a respectable way before others automatically shunned me to the confined shadows of my dad's failure as an on-screen hero. Because people have actually done that before, called me the product of a loser.

I really did get made fun of for who my dad was despite being a big star. Sure, he lost a few times—okay, a lot of times—but he did it with pride and honor and he never let his character become something he wasn't. Evil.

But I laugh at the irony knowing damn well that my dad was kind of a dick in real life. Especially when it came to the likes of his own daughter.

So, even though I'm nervous and anxious for this to go the way I want it, I take after my dad and conjure up all of my confidence, never letting it waver no matter what people might think of me. Until…

Dark.

Black.

Irises.

My breath hitches as I feel the power radiating from the stare of a pair of dark, black irises. I can feel the fight for attention in them as they burn through my skin. First up, then down. Did I just get chills?

I look away for a brief second, the control I had just seconds ago disappearing as I attempt to swallow the lump in my throat. I tuck my hair behind my ear, trying to pretend to focus on what Shawn has started rambling about. But even my ears aren't paying attention. Every nerve ending in my body is buzzing with the need to look back up, to see those eyes which I can feel burning into my skin.

But I force myself to keep my head down for a few moments longer, needing to suppress the violent heat that's spreading over the surface of my skin in a wave of goosebumps.

Just when I finally think I've gained some kind of control over my suddenly debilitated self, I look over to Shawn first to see him throwing his hands around in some kind of frantic manner, really diving in deep about shit that has nothing to do with me or much more this company, really.

And then I feel it again.

The gravitational pull of a heated gaze, begging me to look its way.

But this time when I look up, I feel the melting sensation of ice swarm my skin as he smirks at me and it creates a feeling so feral in me, I almost don't know what to do next, breathing included. I'm so taken aback by the sudden rush of liquid heat pooling between my thighs, I have to force my eyes to break from his soul-searing gaze. But I only get so far before I find myself curiously wondering over the rest of him.

His golden-brown skin is marked with some tribal tattoos, covering the entirety of his right arm from his shoulder down to his wrist. Long, thick, curly black hair is tied up into a top-knot revealing his shaved sides. A strong jawline that tenses as he grinds his teeth. Those dangerously dark eyes are still raking up and down my body in a fit of what looks severely too close to hunger.

Of course, I know who this is.

This is one of the most villainously characterized men in the business right now. He's all bark and even more bite. And I've been watching him for years.

Zayden Stone.

He is just as beautiful in person as he is on the screen. Even more so, really. The features of this man paint so many incredibly forbidden fantasies in my head. Fantasies I know are too far out of the realm for discussion.

He's too close, even though he sits the furthest back in the room. The room is just not big enough to hold the tension currently gripping me as he stares at me, and I squirm under the involuntary attack of pebbles taking wave over my body.

I have to remain professional if they're ever going to respect me, especially once they find out who my dad is; the guy who always lost. But it's silly of me to assume they don't already know.

Does he really have to keep staring at me like that?

I blush recalling the time he ripped his shirt in two as he prepared to battle his opponent, revealing the scripted sentence that follows down his back against his spine. Though, I've never been close enough to read what it says. My body heats thinking maybe now I'll finally get the chance.

In a sudden moment, I'm shaken out of my trance when I feel the slimeball next to me place his hand on my shoulder, hearing that he's already talking about my father, which makes me wince a little.

But I can't expect anyone here to not bring up my father–he played a big role in his day–so I push down the overwhelming feeling of abandonment and put on my best Satterlee smile as Shawn continues to talk wrestling politics like the showman that he is, and I look around the room once more only to be caught off guard by a piercing blue light.

But it's not a light at all really, it's more of a reflective, metaphorical light coming from another set of eyes. Of course, everyone is looking in my direction, and though I didn't anticipate being gawked at by Zayden Stone, I also don't expect to be captivated by eyes that are less familiar to me.

Hunter Dodge.

He's the bad boy with the school-boy smile. His short, blonde hair hangs in wet, tight curls just over his ocean-colored eyes, which eat me up just as Zayd's did seconds ago. Hunter has a blank canvas of pale skin, shirtless so that I can see every hard inch of his body. Heat radiates over my skin as I try not to play victim to his stare. But it's all too much.

He's newer to the lineup of UWE. But he's climbed his way to the top of the bad boy's club rather quickly, mainly because he's a hit with the ladies which means he makes for a great storyline addition.

I see him whisper something under his breath and I shift my gaze slightly to look at the person sitting next to him, and it's apparent they're both talking about me. I can't seem to escape the attack of butterflies as I watch honey brown eyes also tearing through my soul like a category five tornado.

Krew Rivers.

His complexion is tanned next to Hunter's and is home to minimal black tattoos in the form of scripted words and various flowers and roman numerals. His deep brown hair is styled in a disconnected undercut giving him a deadly but dapper appeal. The thick of his facial hair is trimmed perfectly while still looking gruff and he's etched like a fucking god.

They all are.

I break his stare to look at the room as a whole and everyone else is now watching Shawn, but these three men stay staring at me.

I lose my focus, everything feeling too hot and too overwhelming. I'm here to do a job, my dream job, not be gawked at by barbaric men who bleed and bruise for a living.

Everything I thought about being here, living out my dream, following lightly in my father's footsteps, feeling a sense of power, was all wrong.

I wasn't supposed to feel like this.

Claimed.

I try to pull my focus back onto Shawn, who is now rambling about his father's legacy and some bullshit about honor and pride, none of which he possesses himself.

But I feel the pull of the hardened stares again and of course, curiosity gets the best of me. Do they know that they're staring at me? Do they even recognize each other, all three of them ripping me in half with just their eyes? Those dangerous, mesmerizing, god-fearing eyes. And why do I suddenly feel warm all over?

It's at this very moment, I know that there's no way I'll be able to work with these men willingly. With, near, or around. Good thing they're the main-screen personalities and I'm just a background character because the tension is too much.

They're quite the opposite of everything I believe in. Dark, rude, monstrous. They're the villains of the stories that play out on Monday and Friday nights.

Always the champions. Never the heroes.

And I think I've just been sought out as their prize