The Long Haul
The arena floor is a strange place when the lights are off. It’s a cavern of concrete and steel, smelling of stale popcorn, ozone, and that distinct, dusty scent of the canvas that never really leaves your nose once you’ve spent half a life inhaling it.
I like being early. It’s an old habit, one born from anxiety and a need for control, but mostly because I like the silence before the storm. I like to walk the ramp when nobody is watching, check the tension of the ropes, and get my head right. Since coming back, I’ve tried to be more present. Less bitter. More… Phil.
But lately, I’m never the first one there.
It was a Tuesday in Grand Rapids, freezing cold outside, the kind of Michigan chill that settles in your bones. I walked through the curtain, coffee in hand, expecting an empty ring. Instead, I heard the rhythmic thud-thud-squeak of someone running the ropes.
It was YN. Or as most people knew her as YRN.
I’d seen her around, obviously. She was twenty-seven, had a good look, and moved well, but she was quiet. In a business built on loudmouths and peacocks, being quiet makes you invisible. Or it makes you dangerous. I hadn't decided which one she was yet.
She was wearing oversized sweats and a beanie, hitting the ropes with a terrifying intensity. She wasn't just going through the motions; she was leaning into the rebound, snapping back, her boots digging into the canvas.
I stayed in the shadows of the tech area, just watching. The ring crew hadn’t even finished setting up the barricades yet, and she was already breaking a sweat. She stopped, checked her footing, and then threw herself into a bump. Flat back. Perfect form. She laid there for a second, staring at the lights high above, then scrambled up and did it again.
Music was blaring from a portable speaker she had propped up on the ring steps. It wasn’t the usual modern pop or heavy metal most of the locker room blasted. It was Creedence Clearwater Revival. Fortunate Son.
She ran drills for twenty minutes straight. Then, the song changed. The opening riffs of Alabama’s Roll On (Eighteen Wheeler) started.
Immediately, YN stopped. She didn't just pause; she practically scrambled to the speaker, her hand slapping the skip button with an urgency that seemed out of place for such a calm morning. The next song queued up. The Eagles. Hotel California.
She skipped that one too, faster than the first.
She waited until the opening chords of Simple Man by Skynyrd played before she took a deep breath, wiped her face, and went back to the ropes.
I took a sip of my coffee, the steam curling against my nose. Interesting.
She wasn't performing for anyone. There were no producers here yet. No Triple H. No cameras. She was doing the work because the work needed doing. I watched her walk over to a turnbuckle pad that looked slightly loose. She didn't call for a tech. She just knelt down, unlaced the tie, tightened it herself, and smoothed it out.
Then, she pulled an iPad out of her bag. She sat on the apron, legs dangling, and started watching something. I moved closer, quiet in my sneakers. She was watching her match from a house show in Toledo two nights ago. She’d pause it, frown, rewind, and watch a specific transition again.
"You're turning your hip too early on the suplex," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the empty bowl.
YN jumped, nearly dropping the iPad. She whipped around, wide-eyed, before her expression settled into that stoic mask she usually wore.
"Jesus, Phil," she breathed out, hand on her chest. "You scared the hell out of me."
Not Punk. Not Sir. Not Mr. Brooks.
Phil.
It stopped me in my tracks. Nobody called me Phil backstage unless we go way back, like Paul Heyman way back. Even the younger kids who tried to be respectful usually stuck to "Punk."
"Sorry," I said, leaning against the barricade. "Didn't mean to spook you. But I was watching you from the tunnel. You're telegraphing the reversal because you're turning your hip before the other girl even locks up."
She looked at me, then looked down at the screen. She scrubbed the video back. She watched it, her eyes narrowing. She watched it again.
"Dammit," she whispered. "You're right. I'm rushing it."
"Why are you here so early, YN?" I asked, hopping over the barricade.
"Quieter," she said simply. She grabbed a plastic cup from the steps. It was filled with a milky brown liquid and ice cubes that were mostly melted. "Plus, the ring crew needed a hand with the LED boards. One of the guys has a bad back, figured I’d help lift the heavy stuff."
"You helped set up the stage?"
"Yeah." She took a sip of her drink.
"Is that... Iced Chai?" I asked, looking at the condensation on the cup. "It’s ten degrees outside."
She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "I run hot. Plus, coffee makes me jittery. Chai keeps me level."
She hopped off the apron. "Thanks for the tip, Phil. I'm gonna go shower before the chaos starts."
She gathered her stuff, gave me a nod, and walked off toward the back. I watched her go. She walked with a purpose, head down, avoiding eye contact with the few security guards loitering around.
Later that day, catering was in full swing. The noise level was excruciating. Laughter, clattering forks, people shouting over tables. I sat in my usual corner, trying to eat my meal in peace, but my eyes kept drifting.
YN was sitting at a small round table in the back. She wasn't alone, which surprised me. She was sitting with Logan Paul.
Now, Logan and I... we come from different worlds. I respected his athleticism, but the personality clash was real. He was loud, brash, and lived for the camera. YN was the antithesis of that. Yet, there they were. Logan was talking animatedly with his mouth full, waving a fork around, and YN was just listening, nodding occasionally, a small, genuine smile on her face.
I saw Logan reach into a bag and pull out a Tupperware container. He slid it across the table to her like it was contraband.
YN’s face lit up. I mean, actually lit up. She popped the lid. It looked like Mac & Cheese with fried chicken cut up in it. She took a bite and practically melted into her chair.
"Hey, Phil!"
I looked up. Seth Rollins was walking past, a plate of food in hand. "You staring at the kids?"
"Just observing, Colby," I corrected, using his real name instinctively because YN had put it in my head.
Seth paused, smirking. "She's good people. YN. Works harder than anyone I've seen in a long time. First one in, last one out."
"I noticed," I said. "What's the deal with her and the YouTuber?"
"Logan? They've been best friends since they were ten years old. Growing up in Ohio or something. He's fiercely protective of her. And she keeps him grounded. It’s weird, but it works."
Seth walked off, leaving me with that information. Best friends since ten. That explained why someone like her tolerated someone like him. Loyalty. I respected that.
Over the next few months, I found myself looking for her. It became a routine. I’d come in early, and she’d be there. Sometimes we’d talk, sometimes we wouldn't. I started getting in the ring with her, rolling around, showing her chain wrestling techniques that the Performance Center sometimes glossed over in favor of high spots.
She was a sponge. She absorbed everything. And she never complained.
I noticed the naming thing more and more.
I watched her walk past Triple H in the hallway. "Afternoon, Paul."
He nodded back, "Afternoon, YN."
She bumped into Rhea Ripley. "Hey, Dems, love the new gear."
Rhea grinned, dropping the Mami persona instantly. "Thanks, YNN."
She handed a water bottle to Charlotte. "Here you go, Ash."
It was disarming. It stripped away the gimmick and reminded everyone that we were just people in spandex playing make-believe. I asked her about it once, while we were stretching before a show in St. Louis.
"Why do you do that?" I asked. "Call everyone by their actual names? Most of us don’t even know what the other’s names actually are."
She paused mid-stretch. "Because when the red light turns off, the character should turn off, right? It’s easy to get lost in the show. Calling someone by their name... I don't know. It reminds them that I see them, not the billboard version of them. And it reminds me that I'm just YN."
"Smart," I grunted. "Keeps the ego in check."
"Exactly," she said.
It was in June, during a long tour loop through the Midwest, that the walls finally came down.
We were stuck at an airport in Chicago, delayed for four hours due to storms. The roster was scattered across the terminal, sleeping on floors or arguing with gate agents. I found a quiet corner near a closed Hudson News stand. YN was there, sitting on her carry-on, headphones around her neck. She looked exhausted.
I sat down on the floor across from her. "Rough night?"
"Matches were sloppy," she sighed. "I missed a cue with Becky. She was nice about it, but I hate making mistakes."
"Becky Lynch is a pro. She knows it happens," I assured her.
I noticed she was drinking that damn Iced Chai again, even though the AC in the terminal was blasting.
"So," I started, trying to bridge the gap. "I've been meaning to ask you. The playlist."
She tensed up slightly. "What about it?"
"You have a very specific taste for a twenty-seven-year-old. But you always skip Alabama and The Eagles. Every single time. Even though you clearly have them on the playlist."
She looked down at her boots. She picked at a loose thread on her jeans. For a long time, I didn't think she was going to answer. The overhead announcement droned on about a gate change for a flight to Denver.
"My dad," she said softly. Her voice was steady, but there was a crack in the foundation. "He was a trucker. Long haul. He loved that old stuff. Seger, Skynyrd, The Eagles."
She took a shaky breath. "He died when I was seventeen. June. Just before my senior year started. Lymphoma. It was... fast. Ugly."
I felt a knot form in my stomach. I knew about loss. I knew about the anger and the void it leaves.
"Roll On was his anthem," she continued, her eyes fixed on the floor tiles. "He’d play it every time he left for a haul made sure it was loud enough I could hear it out the windows of the rig as he was rolling away. And Hotel California... that was his favorite song in the world. He tried to teach me to play the solo on guitar a hundred times. I never got it right."
She looked up at me, her eyes glassy but dry. "I keep them on the playlist because I want to feel like he's there with me in the ring. But I have to skip them because... if I hear them, really hear them, I won't be able to wrestle. I’ll just break down. It’s a stupid game I play with myself. Keep him close, but not too close to hurt."
I looked at this girl—this woman—who scrubbed floors, set up stages, and took bumps for a living, carrying that kind of ghost around with her. It explained the work ethic. The need to be busy. The silence.
"It's not stupid," I said, my voice dropping to a low rumble. "It’s survival."
I leaned forward. "He'd be proud of you, you know. The way you respect this business. The way you work."
She offered a weak, watery smile. "I hope so. Thanks, Phil."
That was the shift. Before, I was a mentor. After that night in Chicago, I became… something else. I stopped just watching her matches; I started protecting her spot on the card. I’d pull aside producers and suggest finishes that made her look stronger. I’d sit with her in catering so she didn't have to sit alone when Logan wasn't there.
I started seeing the gaps in her life where a father should have been, and without even asking permission, I started stepping into them.
I checked her rental car tires before we left arenas. I made sure she was eating enough real food and not just protein bars. When she had a bad match and came through the curtain furious with herself, I was the one waiting there to tell her to breathe.
The first time it happened, we were in backstage in Atlanta.
She had just finished a tag match with Charlotte against two of the newer NXT call-ups. It had been a chaotic mess. Bodies flying everywhere, missed spots. YN had taken a stiff knee to the nose and was holding an ice pack to her face, sitting on a crate near the loading dock.
I walked over, inspecting the damage. "Let me see."
She moved the ice pack. It was swollen, bruising already, but not broken.
"You're fine," I told her. "Just cosmetic. You'll look tough."
She let out a frustrated groan. "I was out of position, Phil. I should have seen it coming. I hesitated."
"You didn't hesitate," I said firmly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You were compensating for the other girl being out of place. You took the hit to save the spot. That’s what a leader does. Don't beat yourself up for being the glue holding the match together."
She looked up at me, the adrenaline fading, leaving her looking young and vulnerable. "You really think so?"
"I know so. Now go get changed, we’ve got a long drive."
She stood up, wincing slightly. She looked at me, exhausted but grateful. "Thanks, Dad."
She froze.
I froze.
The air left the loading dock. She went pale, her eyes wide with horror. "Oh my god. Phil, I—I am so sorry. I didn't mean—I was just—"
She was stammering, backtracking, looking like she wanted the concrete floor to swallow her whole.
I looked at her. I thought about the girl running ropes alone in the cold. I thought about the Iced Chai. I thought about the trucker who loved the Eagles.
I smiled. A real, genuine smile.
"It's okay, kid," I said. "Go get your bag. I'll pull the car around."
She stared at me for another second, searching my face for mockery or anger. She found neither. She nodded, a flush rising on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the match, and scurried off.
When she came back, she didn't say anything about it. But when we got to the hotel that night, she texted me: Goodnight, Dad.
I stared at the phone screen for a long time. Goodnight, kid, I typed back.
From that day on, the name Phil died. I was Dad.
It wasn't a joke. It wasn't an ironic nickname like the rest of the locker room gave each other. It was sincere. And god help anyone who looked at us sideways for it.
The dynamic shifted publicly, too. Logan noticed it first. He came up to me one day at a Pay-Per-View.
"Take care of her," he said, dropping the influencer persona completely. He looked dead serious. "She listens to you. She needs... she needs that."
"I know," I said. "I got her."
Logan nodded, satisfied, and went back to being loud.
Then came AJ.
My wife, April, came to visit during the Royal Rumble weekend. She had heard me talk about YN for months. I think she was curious to meet the "kid" I wouldn't shut up about.
We were in the family viewing area. YN walked in, hair wet from a shower, wearing her hoodie. She saw me and lit up, then saw April and hesitated.
"YN, come here," I waved her over. "This is April."
YN walked over, extending a hand. "It is so nice to finally meet you, AJ—I mean, April. Phil talks about you constantly."
April took her hand, then pulled her into a hug. April has an instinct for these things. She pulled back and looked YN up and down. "So you're the one keeping him sane? Thank you. Seriously."
YN laughed, a bit shyly. "I think he keeps me sane, mostly."
They clicked immediately. It was bizarre. They sat in the corner talking about comic books and the absurdity of wrestling politics while I stretched. By the end of the weekend, as we were saying goodbye, YN hugged April.
"Safe travels, Mom," YN said, teasingly but with that same underlying sincerity.
April laughed, kissing her on the cheek. "Be good, sweetie. Don't let Dad get into any unnecessary fights."
And just like that, we were a family. A weird, traveling, dysfunctional carnival family.
But wrestling is a cruel business. It gives you high highs, and then it reminds you that gravity is undefeated.
SummerSlam. Detroit. Ford Field.
It was the biggest night of the year. 60,000 people. YN was in a triple threat match for the Women's Title. It was the biggest match of her career. She was nervous. I could see her pacing in the Gorilla position, bouncing on her toes.
Triple H was at the monitor, headset on. I was standing next to him. Logan was there too, looking unusually pale.
"She's ready," I told them. "She's got this."
"She's earned it," Paul muttered, eyes on the screens.
The match started. It was electric. YN was moving like water—smooth, aggressive. She hit her spots perfectly. The crowd was behind her. They sensed her authenticity.
Then came the spot.
It was a high-risk maneuver from the top rope to the outside. A moonsault onto two opponents standing on the floor. It’s a move she’s done a hundred times in practice. I’ve watched her do it.
She climbed the turnbuckle. She looked out at the crowd. She launched.
But something went wrong. One of the opponents didn't catch her right. Or maybe she over-rotated. It happened in a blur.
She missed the catch. Her body hit the thinly padded concrete with a sickening thud that the microphones picked up. Her neck snapped back at an angle that made my blood freeze.
The crowd went silent. That terrible, heavy silence that sucks the air out of a stadium.
YN didn't move.
"Cut the feed!" Paul yelled into his headset. "Get the doc out there! Now!"
I didn't wait. I sprinted through the curtain.
I broke character. I broke protocol. I didn't care.
I ran down that long ramp, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I saw the referee throwing up the 'X' sign with frantic, terrified motions.
"YN!" I screamed.
I slid under the bottom rope and out to the floor. The doctors were already there, immobilizing her neck. She was face down, motionless.
"Don't move her!" I roared at a cameraman who was getting too close. "Back the fuck up!"
I dropped to my knees beside her head. Her eyes were open, staring at the concrete. They were filled with tears.
"Dad?" she whispered. Her voice was so small. So scared. "I can't feel my hands."
My world stopped. The noise of 60,000 people faded into a dull buzz.
"I'm here," I said, my voice shaking. I grabbed her hand, squeezing it, praying for her to squeeze back. "I'm right here, YNN. Look at me. Just look at me."
"I can't feel them, Dad. I'm scared."
"I know, baby. I know. We got you."
I looked up and saw Logan sprinting down the ramp. Triple H was right behind him, moving faster than I'd seen him move in years.
"Paul, we need the stretcher!" I barked at the COO of the company. He nodded, his face grim, and began directing the EMTs.
Logan knelt on her other side. "YNN? YNN, it’s Lo. You’re okay. We’re gonna get you out of here."
"Logan?" she whimpered.
"I'm here." He took her other hand.
We formed a shield around her. Me, the punk rebel. Logan, the outsider. Paul, the authority. All the politics, all the heat, all the bullshit of the business dissolved. We were just men terrified for a girl we loved.
They carefully rolled her onto the board. She cried out in pain, a sharp, jagged sound that cut through me.
"I've got you," I kept repeating, my face inches from hers. "I'm not leaving. I am not leaving you."
We walked beside the stretcher all the way up the ramp. I held her hand the entire way. The crowd clapped—respectful, hushed applause—but I didn't acknowledge them. I only had eyes for her.
Backstage was a blur of flashing lights and shouting EMTs. They loaded her into the ambulance.
"Family only!" the EMT shouted as he tried to close the doors.
"I'm her father," I lied. It wasn't a lie. Not really.
"I'm coming too," Logan insisted, trying to push past.
"One person!" the EMT yelled.
I looked at Logan. "Follow us. Bring Paul. Bring her bag."
Logan nodded, tears streaming down his face. "Go. Don't let her be alone."
I climbed into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut, sealing us in with the beep of monitors and the smell of antiseptic.
The ride to the hospital was the longest twenty minutes of my life. I sat there, still in my wrestling gear, holding the hand of a girl who had become my daughter in every way that mattered.
"Phil?" she mumbled, the shock starting to set in.
"Dad," I corrected her gently, brushing a stray hair off her forehead. "I'm Dad."
She managed a weak squeeze of my fingers. A squeeze.
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for an hour. She had grip.
"I missed the spot," she murmured, a tear sliding down her temple into her ear. "I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin anything," I said fiercely. "You're the toughest person I know. You're going to be fine. We're going to fix this. And when you're ready, we're going to watch the tape, and we're going to figure out what went wrong so it never happens again. But right now, you just breathe."
She closed her eyes. The ambulance hit a bump, and she winced.
I started humming. I don't sing. I hate singing. But in that moment, it was the only thing I could think of to distract her.
I hummed the opening notes of Hotel California.
Her eyes fluttered open. A faint smile touched her lips.
"You hate that song," she whispered.
"It's growing on me," I lied.
We sat there in the flashing red light, the siren wailing above us. I wasn't CM Punk, the Best in the World. I wasn't the voice of the voiceless. I was just a dad, holding his daughter's hand, waiting for the road to end so we could start the long haul of putting her back together.
And I knew, no matter how long it took, I wasn't going anywhere. I was the first one in, and I’d be the last one out. That’s what dads do.