The night had faded into the early hours of the morning by the time Vince Maston finally settled into his office at the IRW arena. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, and his laptop sat open on his desk, showing just one tab: the overnight television ratings report. He drummed his fingers against the wooden surface, impatience bubbling up as he awaited Gavin Lindman's call.
Then, the phone buzzed. Vince grabbed it eagerly.
"Tell me you've got the numbers," he said, diving right in.
On the other end, Gavin's voice was upbeat, almost teasing. "You bet I do. And Vince? You're going to want to hear this."
Vince straightened up, intrigued. "Go ahead."
"We pulled in a 0.9," Gavin announced.
For a moment, Vince just blinked, trying to wrap his head around the figure. "...Wait. 0.9?"
"Yep. That's up from last week's 0.5."
A long, shaky breath escaped Vince—a sigh he hadn't realized he was holding all night. Relief washed over him like a tide.
"That's nearly double," Vince murmured, leaning back in his chair.
"More than double in key demographics," Gavin chimed in. "For ages 18 to 34? We hit a 1.2. The network's already calling it the best IRW rating in over two years."
Vince rubbed his face, a small, incredulous laugh slipping out. "Jesus… Gavin, that's—"
"—Exactly what you needed," Gavin jumped in. "Red TV isn't going to kick us to the curb anytime soon if this keeps up."
Vince couldn't help but grin. "Good. That's the reaction I was hoping for."
Just then, he heard another beep—Lance Dawson was calling in. Vince merged the calls. "Lance, you're on."
Lance's voice came through, sounding almost in disbelief. "Vince… I've been staring at these numbers for ten minutes. I can't remember the last time we saw a jump like this. I honestly thought those days were behind us."
"They're not behind us," Vince replied firmly. "They've just been lying low. Now we've stirred them awake."
"You've definitely done something," Lance chuckled. "Even the arena staff were buzzing about the show on their way out tonight. You know how rare that is?"
Vince took a slower breath this time. This wasn't the end of the journey—not by a long shot—but for the first time since taking over IRW, he felt a glimmer of hope. This might actually work.
"Alright," Vince said, his tone sharpening back to its usual edge. "This is great. But it's just the first step. We keep pushing. Gavin, keep tabs on the press. Lance, make sure the talent hears about these numbers. They need to know they're part of something that's finally gaining momentum."
"Already on it," Gavin replied.
_____
By the time Vince strolled into the women's locker room, most of the arena had already cleared out. The ring crew was busy taking down the set outside, and the soft hum of generators created a low buzz in the background. He knocked gently on the door before stepping inside.
Inside, the women were winding down after the show. Tracey Prince was perched on a bench, still in her gear but with a towel draped over her shoulders. Off to one side, Evelyn Sharma was tying her hair up while having a quiet chat with Maya Hart, who leaned casually against a locker, phone in hand. The room fell silent as Vince walked in.
"Relax," Vince said quickly, raising his hands with a playful grin. "No firings. I promise."
A wave of laughter broke the tension. Tracey smirked. "Good. You had us worried there for a second, boss."
"I came here because I wanted to chat about last night," Vince said, stepping further in. "What you three did out there? That's the kind of energy this division needs. The crowd was hooked. You all made people care."
Evelyn shifted a bit, clearly unsure how to take the compliment. "Honestly… I didn't think anyone would even notice me. I mean, I'm new. I figured I'd just go out there, lose, and fade into the background."
"They noticed," Vince said firmly. "You played your part perfectly. The fans loved the fire you showed. You made them believe you could actually beat Tracey, even if just for a moment. That's what hooks them."
Evelyn smiled faintly, clearly uplifted by the praise.
Maya raised an eyebrow. "And me decking Tracey at the end?"
Vince grinned. "That was the cherry on top. The crowd's reaction? Music to my ears. You're a natural heel, Maya. That attitude? Spot on. You're going to have them hating your guts in no time."
Maya smirked proudly. "Good. I've always been better at making people mad than making them like me anyway."
Tracey chuckled. "She's not lying."
Vince turned to Tracey next. "And you—you're the backbone of this division. You carried that match."
Tracey exhaled, her shoulders easing. "I thought I botched half the promo. My hands were shaking holding the mic."
"They didn't see it," Vince assured her. "What they saw was their champion standing tall, issuing an open challenge, and setting the tone for the division. That's all that matters."
There was a pause as the women absorbed his words. For a long time, they'd been treated like afterthoughts, their matches shoved into the same 10-15 minute slot every week. But now, they felt like they mattered.
Evelyn hesitated before speaking. "So… what happens next?"
Vince leaned against the lockers, folding his arms. "Next, we keep building on this. Tracey and Maya, we tease your clash over the title—keep the heat simmering. Evelyn, you stay in the mix as the scrappy underdog. People already see you as someone with heart. We'll play to that."
Maya smirked. "Translation: I keep running my mouth and stirring things up?"
"Exactly," Vince said with a chuckle. "But keep it sharp. We're not doing cartoon villains here. I want real attitude, real bite. Make people believe you hate Tracey's guts."
Tracey rolled her eyes playfully. "That part won't be hard."
"Good," Vince said. "Then we're on the right track."