Take What You Want
The smell of an arena is something you never really get used to, no matter how many you grew up in. It’s a cocktail of stale popcorn, pyrotechnic smoke, sweat, and that distinct, metallic scent of heated lighting rigs. To most people, it smells like a circus. To me, it smelled like home. But tonight, the air in the Kansas City arena felt heavier than usual. It felt suffocating.
I adjusted the strap of my gear bag, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the handle. Being a woman in this business in 2003 was a war of attrition. Being a Wight in this business—Paul "The Big Show" Wight’s younger sister—meant the war was fought on two fronts. I had to prove I wasn't just here because of my brother's size and legacy, and I had to navigate the shark tank of locker room politics without getting eaten alive.
And the biggest shark in the tank was currently leaning against a crate near the Gorilla position, water bottle in hand, watching me.
Paul Levesque. Triple H. The Game.
He was in the prime of his "Evolution" era—arrogant, untouchable, and draped in the kind of power that made grown men nervous to make eye contact. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my first car, the World Heavyweight Championship title resting on a road case next to him like a casually discarded accessory.
I tried to keep my eyes forward, intending to walk past him without incident. My brother and he were currently on-screen enemies, which meant, by the unwritten rules of the road, I needed to keep my distance. Fraternizing with the enemy, even if the enmity was scripted, was frowned upon.
"YN," his voice rumbled out, low and gravelly. It wasn't a question; it was a summons.
I stopped, taking a breath to steady my heart rate. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was an intense, electric awareness that I had been fighting for six months. "Hunter," I replied, turning to face him. I kept my face neutral, the mask I’d perfected in developmental.
He took a slow sip of water, his eyes never leaving mine. He had that intensity, that cerebral assassin gaze that dissected you to find the weak point. "Good match tonight. Your selling is improving."
A compliment from the top guy? That was rare currency. "Thanks. I'm trying to make sure the crowd actually buys it when I get thrown around."
"They buy it," he said, pushing himself off the crate and stepping into my personal space. The hallway was bustling with producers and referees, yet it felt like the noise dropped away. "But you’re holding back. You’re wrestling like you’re afraid to hurt someone. You’re a Wight. You’ve got power. Use it."
"I don't want to be stiff," I countered defensively.
"There's a difference between being stiff and being believable," he murmured, stepping closer. He was so close I could smell his cologne—something expensive and woody that cut through the arena funk. "You need to take what you want, YN. In the ring. And out of it."
The double entendre hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. My breath hitched. For months, there had been these moments. Stolen glances during catering, lingering touches when we went over spots for mixed tag matches, the way he’d watch my matches from the monitor when he thought I didn't see him.
"I should go," I whispered, my voice betraying me. "My brother is waiting for me."
Hunter smirked, that distinct corner-of-the-mouth lift that drove the fans crazy. "Tell the Giant I said hello. And tell him to watch his back on Monday."
He picked up his title belt, slinging it over his shoulder, and walked away without looking back. I stood there for a full minute, my legs feeling like jelly, before I could force myself to move toward the exit.
The drive to the hotel was a blur. My brother, Paul, was driving our rental, complaining about the catering and the travel schedule. I loved him to death—he was my protector, my rock—but tonight, his voice was just white noise. My mind was stuck on that hallway. Take what you want.
"YNN? You listening?" Paul asked, glancing at me.
"Yeah," I lied. "Just tired. That bump off the apron took it out of me."
"You need to be careful," he said, his tone shifting to big-brother mode. "And stay away from Hunter. I saw him talking to you."
My stomach tightened. "He was just giving me advice on the match, Paul. It’s professional."
"Nothing with him is just professional," Paul grumbled, turning into the Marriott parking lot. "He’s playing the game, 24/7. He’s got Flair in his ear and that belt on his shoulder. He’s looking for leverage. Don't be leverage, YN."
"I can handle myself," I said, perhaps a bit too sharply.
We checked in, and I immediately retreated to my room. I needed silence. I needed to decompress. I showered, scrubbing off the layers of body oil and makeup, trying to wash away the confusion. I changed into a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, staring at the cityscape of Kansas City through the hotel window.
I couldn't sleep. The adrenaline from the match and the interaction with Hunter was still coursing through my veins.
Against my better judgment, I decided to go down to the hotel bar. Usually, the "boys" took over the bar, and it was rowdy, but it was nearly 2:00 AM. Hopefully, it would be winding down. I just needed a club soda and a change of scenery.
The hotel bar was dimly lit, jazz playing softly over the speakers. It was mostly empty, save for a few road agents in the corner and a solitary figure sitting at the far end of the bar.
Of course.
It was him. He had ditched the suit jacket and tie, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He was nursing a drink, staring at the ice melting in the glass.
I froze in the entryway. I should turn around. I should go back upstairs, lock the door, and forget this crush that was threatening to ruin my career. But my feet didn't listen. They carried me across the plush carpet until I was standing a few feet away from him.
He didn't look up, but I knew he sensed me. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Adrenaline," I answered, sliding onto the stool two seats away from him. A respectful distance. "You?"
"Thinking," he said. He signaled the bartender, pointing to my empty spot on the bar top. "Club soda with lime, right?"
I blinked, surprised. "You noticed?"
"I notice everything, YN. It’s my job." He finally turned to look at me. In the dim amber light of the bar, the arrogant 'King of Kings' facade was softened. He looked tired. Not physical fatigue, but the mental exhaustion of carrying the weight of the company on his back.
"My brother thinks you're trying to manipulate me," I blurted out. I clamped my hand over my mouth immediately. Why did I say that?
Hunter chuckled, a low, genuine sound that did weird things to my insides. "Your brother is a smart man. Paranoid, but smart."
"Are you?" I asked, lowering my hand. "Manipulating me?"
He swiveled his stool so he was facing me fully. The intensity was back, but it was different now. Intimate. "I don't play games with things that actually matter, YN. The ring? The belt? The politics? That’s all chess. But this?" He gestured vaguely between us. "I don't know what this is yet. But it's not a game."
The bartender set my drink down. I took a long sip, the carbonation burning my throat. "There is no 'this,' Hunter. You're the top heel. I'm a rookie face. I'm the Big Show's sister. We are literally on opposite sides of every line drawn in this company."
"Lines are made to be crossed," he said softly. He picked up his glass and moved to the stool directly next to me. The heat radiating off him was palpable. "You think I talk to every rookie diva in the hallway? You think I watch their matches?"
"Maybe you're just scouting weaknesses," I whispered.
"The only weakness I've found," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, "is that I can't seem to get you out of my head. And it's distracting. I don't like being distracted."
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was dangerous territory. If anyone walked in—Ric Flair, Randy Orton, my brother—it would be a disaster. But I couldn't pull away. The magnetic pull was too strong.
"I'm not a distraction," I said, trying to regain some ground. "I'm a competitor."
"You're a woman," he corrected. "A beautiful, intelligent, dangerous woman who walks around this locker room like she doesn't know she owns the place. It drives me crazy."
He reached out, his rough fingers grazing the back of my hand which rested on the bar. The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. I looked down at his hand—large, taped fingers, capable of so much violence, yet touching me with such unexpected gentleness.
"Hunter..."
"Paul," he corrected. "When it's just us, it's Paul."
"Paul," I tested the name. It felt heavy on my tongue. "We can't do this."
"Why?"
"Because of the fallout. The locker room would tear me apart. They’d say I’m sleeping my way to the top. My brother would kill you. Or try to at least."
"Let me worry about the locker room. And your brother," he said dismissively. "I’m not asking you to marry me, YN. I’m asking you to stop pretending you don't feel this tension. It’s been months. Every time we’re in the same room, the air changes. You know it."
I did know it. I had spent so many nights denying it, telling myself it was just admiration for his talent, or fear of his status. But looking at him now, stripped of the lights and the cameras, I knew it was more.
"I'm scared," I admitted. A rare moment of vulnerability.
"Good," he said. "Fear keeps you sharp."
He leaned in, his face inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. The world narrowed down to just the space between us. I waited for him to close the gap, my lips parting slightly, but he pulled back at the last second.
"Get some sleep, YN," he said, standing up abruptly. He threw a twenty on the bar. "We have an early call time for travel tomorrow."
He walked away, leaving me breathless and confused on the barstool. It was the ultimate power move. He had brought me to the edge and then left me there. And god help me, it only made me want him more.
Two weeks passed. Two weeks of torture.
We traveled from city to city, the grind of the road wearing us down. We exchanged glances, brief nods in the hallway, but he didn't approach me again. It was as if that night at the bar had been a hallucination.
We were in Chicago now. Raw was live. The energy in the building was frantic. I had a mixed tag match.
The match was chaotic. During the climax, I was thrown to the outside. I hit the floor hard, selling the impact. As I pulled myself up using the barricade, I looked up the ramp.
Triple H was standing there. He wasn't scheduled to be out yet. He was just standing at the top of the stage, arms crossed, watching.
The crowd noticed him and the booing started, a low rumble that grew into a roar. He ignored them. He was watching me.
I locked eyes with him for a split second before rolling back into the ring to hit my finisher. I pinned my opponent, the ref counting one, two, three. My music hit, but I didn't celebrate. I looked back up the ramp, but he was gone.
Later that night, I was packing my bag in the women’s locker room, trying to hurry. I wanted to get out of the arena before the main event traffic jam.
"YN!"
I turned to see a production assistant panting in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Hunter wants to see you. In his locker room. Now."
The room went silent. The other girls stopped what they were doing, exchanging looks. Jealousy, pity, curiosity—I saw it all.
"Tell him I'm leaving," I said, trying to be brave.
"He said it's about the roster changes for the European tour," the PA insisted. "He said it's mandatory."
I sighed, zipping my bag. "Fine."
I walked the long concrete hallway toward the main event locker rooms. This was the elite territory. I knocked on the door marked with his name.
"It's open."
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. It wasn't a locker room; it was a suite. Leather couches, a flat-screen TV reviewing match footage, a spread of food.
He was standing by the TV, reviewing the tape of my match from earlier. He hit pause on the frame where I was looking up the ramp at him.
"You hesitated," he said, not turning around.
"I was surprised to see you there," I replied, closing the door behind me. The lock clicked with a sound that felt incredibly final.
"I wanted to see if you still had the fire," he said, turning to face me. He was still in his gear—trunks, boots, knee pads—having just finished the main event segment. He was glistening with sweat, his hair wet and slicked back. The raw physicality of him was overwhelming.
"And?" I asked, setting my bag down. "Do I?"
"You're getting there." He walked over to me, stopping just a foot away. The room felt suddenly small. "But you're still thinking too much. You're thinking about who's watching. You're thinking about the consequences."
"I have to live with the consequences, Paul. You don't. You're the Game. You run this place. I'm just..."
"You're just what?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "Just a Wight? Just a girl? Stop defining yourself by everyone else's standards."
He reached out, grabbing my upper arms. His grip was firm, possessive. "You think I played games that night at the bar, don’t you? I didn't kiss you because I knew if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. And we were in public."
My breath caught in my throat. "We aren't in public now."
The air crackled. The tension that had been building for months, the unspoken words, the stolen glances—it all culminated in this moment.
"No," he growled. "We aren't."
He crashed his lips onto mine.
It wasn't a gentle, movie-star kiss. It was hungry, desperate, and aggressive. It tasted like power and adrenaline. I gasped against his mouth, my hands instinctively flying up to tangle in his wet hair. He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against my chest, and pulled me flush against his body.
I felt dwarfed by him, yet empowered. I matched his intensity, kissing him back with all the frustration and longing I had been suppressing. He walked me backward until my legs hit the edge of the leather couch, and I sat down heavily, pulling him with me.
He broke the kiss for a second, his forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing heavily. His eyes were dark, dilated, searching mine for any sign of hesitation.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered roughly. "Tell me to leave, and I will walk out that door and never touch you again."
I looked at him—really looked at him. I saw the man beneath the gimmick. I saw the desire and the risk he was taking. If my brother walked in, if Vince walked in... it would be chaos.
"Don't you dare stop," I breathed.
He didn't need to be told twice. He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over my waist, pulling me closer as if he could merge us into one being. The world outside this room—the fans, the titles, the politics, my brother—it all ceased to exist.
My mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with the reality of the situation. I was in Triple H’s locker room. I was kissing the top star in the industry. I was breaking every rule in the book and potentially lighting a fuse that would blow up my life.
I pulled back just an inch, my hands cupping his face, staring into those intense eyes that were usually so cold but were now burning with heat.
"I can not believe this is happening," I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
He smirked, that same damn smirk that caused half the trouble in the first place, but his thumb traced my lower lip with surprising tenderness. "Believe it, YN. Because I'm not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."
"My brother..."
"Will get over it," he said firmly. "Or he'll deal with me. But right now? I don't care about your brother. I don't care about the show. I only care about you."
He kissed my neck, sending shivers down my spine that curled my toes. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."
"Six months?" I guessed, my voice shaky.
"Since the day you signed your contract," he murmured against my skin. "I saw you walk in, head held high, looking like you were ready to fight the world. And I knew. I knew I had to have you."
I leaned back into the couch, surrendering to the feeling. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was wrong in all the ways that made it feel right.
"What happens tomorrow?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper as his hands moved to the small of my back.
He pulled back to look at me, his expression serious. The Game was back, but this time, he was on my side. "Tomorrow, we go to work. We dominate. You climb the ladder. I keep the belt. We keep this..." he gestured between us, "...ours. For now. Until you're ready to tell the world to go to hell."
"And if I'm never ready?"
"Then we keep it ours forever," he said simply. "But you're a Wight. And you're with me. You'll be ready."
He was right. I could feel the change happening already. The fear was receding, replaced by a strange sense of confidence. I wasn't just a rookie anymore. I wasn't just the Big Show's little sister. I was the woman who had captured the King of Kings.
"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."
He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Good."
He leaned in again, and the rest of the world faded to black. I knew there would be storms ahead. I knew my brother would scream, the locker room would gossip, and the dirt sheets would run wild. But as his arms wrapped around me, solid and unyielding, I realized I didn't care.
I was playing the game now. And for the first time, I felt like I was winning.
The next morning, the sun was blinding as it cut through the hotel curtains. I woke up disoriented, the heavy arm draped over my waist pinning me to the mattress. For a second, panic flared. Then, the memories of the night before came rushing back.
I turned my head carefully. Paul—Hunter—was asleep beside me, face buried in the pillow, looking younger and more peaceful than I had ever seen him.
I carefully slid out from under his arm, grabbing my robe. I walked to the window and peered out at the bustling city of Chicago below.
My phone, sitting on the nightstand, buzzed. I glanced at the screen. It was a text from my brother: We leave for the airport in 30. Where are you?
I looked back at the sleeping man in the bed. The Cerebral Assassin. The man who ruthlessly buried talent to stay on top. The man who had held me all night like I was the most precious thing in the world.
I picked up the phone and typed back: I'll meet you there. I had an early workout.
A lie. The first of many, probably.
Hunter stirred, rolling over and squinting against the sunlight. He saw me standing by the window and smiled sleepily. "Morning."
"Morning," I said, clutching the robe tighter. "I have to go. Paul is asking for me."
He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist, revealing the bruises and scratches from his match the night before. "Let him wait."
"I can't. Not yet."
He nodded, understanding the unspoken boundaries we still had to navigate. "Alright. But tonight, in St. Louis? You're riding with me."
"My brother..."
"Tell him you're learning from the best," he said, that arrogant glint returning to his eye. "Tell him you're studying the game."
I couldn't help but laugh. It was insane. It was reckless. "You're impossible."
"I'm the best," he corrected. He got out of bed and walked over to me, planting a firm kiss on my forehead. "Go. Before I decide to keep you here all day and make us both miss the flight."
I quickly dressed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. As I reached the door, I turned back. He was watching me, leaning against the wall, confident and commanding.
"Hey, YN?"
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said last night," he said, his voice serious. "This isn't a storyline. It's real."
I nodded, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "I know."
I slipped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me. I leaned against the wall for a moment, taking a deep breath. I checked my reflection in the mirror at the end of the hall. My hair was a bit messy, my lips slightly swollen, my eyes bright.
I looked like a woman with a secret.
I walked toward the elevator, heading down to meet my brother, to face the locker room, to enter the lion's den. But I wasn't afraid anymore.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, hearing the echo of Hunter’s voice in my head. Take what you want.
I smiled to myself as the elevator doors opened. The game had changed. And I was ready to play.