Thursday Morning – Albany, New York – 8:14 AM
The motel's thin curtains didn't block much sunlight, and the pounding in J.J. Styles' skull wasn't from a hangover — it was from the miles, the bumps, and the restless hotel sleep that came after a high-energy night.
The alarm clock read 8:14 AM. Checkout was at eleven, but the road didn't wait. Raw was in Buffalo on Monday, but before that there were house shows in Scranton, Wilkes-Barre, and Syracuse. No planes — all by car and van.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, rubbing at the stiffness in his neck. His gear bag sat by the door, the zipper half-open, one knee pad still hanging out like it was trying to escape the trip ahead.
The Breakfast Test
Downstairs, the so-called "continental breakfast" was stale bagels and burnt coffee. Bradshaw was already there with Faarooq, laughing about something that probably wasn't all that funny.
"Morning, rookie," Bradshaw said with a grin that wasn't entirely friendly. "Better eat. We're hitting the road in twenty."
Godfather and D'Lo wandered in next, trading jokes about a club they'd visited after the show. Steve Blackman sat in the corner, eating oatmeal like it was a military ration.
J.J. grabbed coffee and a bagel, sitting near Blackman. The silent nod the veteran gave him was about as close as you got to approval from The Lethal Weapon.
The Ride Shuffle
The travel coordinator had posted the ride sheet on the lobby wall. That was the politics of the road — who you rode with mattered. You didn't always get a choice, and sometimes guys tested rookies by sticking them in awkward pairings.
J.J. scanned the sheet.
Car 3: Hardcore Holly (driver), Al Snow, J.J. Styles, Stephanie McMahon (producer seat).
He wasn't sure if that was fate or someone playing games, but either way, he'd have to deal with Holly behind the wheel.
On the Road
Two hours into the trip, Al Snow was telling a bizarre story about wrestling in a flea market while carrying a mannequin head. Stephanie sat in the front seat, headset around her neck, occasionally relaying messages on her cell to someone in Stamford.
Holly kept his eyes on the road but broke into the conversation just long enough to say, "Styles, you got lucky last night. Don't start thinking you're hot stuff."
J.J. leaned back in his seat, smirking faintly. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Stephanie glanced back over her shoulder for a second, the corner of her mouth twitching upward before she looked forward again.
The House Show Circuit
That night's show in Scranton wasn't televised, but it was where you earned your stripes. No commentary, no TitanTron — just you, the crowd, and your opponent.
J.J. was booked against Steve Blackman. The match was stiff but clean, and Blackman tested his strikes, forcing J.J. to keep up. After a ten-minute bout, Blackman let him score the win with the modified GTS — but only because he'd made J.J. work for it.
Back in the locker room afterward, Blackman simply said, "Not bad. Keep tightening your footwork."
Saturday Night – Syracuse, New York – After the Show
The locker room smelled of sweat, Tiger Balm, and a faint trace of beer. The house show crowd had been loud, but the match card had been short — enough time for everyone to head to the bar down the street afterward.
J.J. was changing out of his gear when Road Dogg and Hardcore Holly came over.
"Hey, kid," Road Dogg said with his usual cocky grin. "Some of the boys are heading over to Murphy's Tavern. Tradition says the new guy buys the first round."
Holly folded his arms, his eyes sharp. "And if you can't handle it, you're paying for the second round too."
It wasn't a request.
Murphy's Tavern
The place was packed with locals who'd just come from the show, some still wearing Austin 3:16 and DX shirts. The wrestlers had their own table in the back, pitchers of beer already waiting.
It started light — cheers, a few jokes about J.J.'s MMA background — but then the "game" began. They called it the Rookie Gauntlet: each veteran took turns giving him a drink, and he had to keep up without saying no.
The Turning Point
By the fourth round, it wasn't the alcohol that got to him — it was the pace. He could see it in their faces: they wanted to watch him stumble, maybe do something embarrassing that would stick with him for months.
Instead, J.J. leaned back, grinned, and started telling a story about a bare-knuckle fight in a Manila back alley — embellishing just enough to keep them hooked.
Halfway through the tale, Bradshaw barked out a laugh. Road Dogg slapped the table. Even Holly cracked a small smile.
Back at the Motel
As they walked back, Holly gave him a short nod. "You didn't puke. Didn't get stupid. That's good. Means you might last."
Stephanie was leaning against the motel's front wall, waiting for a late-night call to Stamford. She looked at him, eyebrow raised. "So, did they try to run you through the rookie test?"
J.J. smirked. "They tried."
Her lips curved into a half-smile before she went back to her headset.
Monday – Buffalo, New York – 4:27 PM
The KeyBank Center (then known as Marine Midland Arena) was already buzzing hours before showtime. Production crew rolled cables, set lights, and tested pyro. The faint hum of the crowd outside seeped through the concrete walls.
J.J. Styles stepped into the building with his duffel slung over his shoulder, the sound of Violence Fetish playing in his head like a phantom. Tonight, the world would hear it for real.
The Card
Tony Garea, clipboard in hand, caught him by the gorilla position.
"You're up in the second hour," Garea said. "Styles vs. Bob Holly — three segments, including the commercial break. Keep it snug, but don't go into business for yourself. Vince wants to see if you can work live TV without freezing."
Holly. Of course.
It wasn't lost on J.J. that this was both a test and a trap. Holly was notorious for working stiff, especially with rookies, and doing it in front of a live audience meant the stakes were higher.
Backstage Atmosphere
The Rock strolled by, sunglasses on, tossing a casual "Good luck, kid" over his shoulder. Mick Foley stopped long enough to whisper, "Keep your hands up when Bob comes in for that clothesline. Trust me."
Stephanie was at the production table, headset on, flipping through notes. She didn't acknowledge him directly, but he caught her watching his warm-up from the corner of her eye.
The Entrance
Second hour. The lights dimmed. Violence Fetish hit the speakers. The guttural scream at the start cut through the arena, and the crowd — curious, maybe skeptical — turned their attention to the stage.
J.J. stepped out into the smoke, lone wolf eyes scanning the audience. No pandering, no theatrics — just focused aggression as he made his way to the ring.
The Match
The bell rang. Holly didn't waste time — stiff forearm to the jaw, then a snap suplex that rattled the mat. J.J. rolled through, taking the punishment but firing back with tight, technical counters.
Midway through, Holly hit a crushing spinebuster, leaning in close as they got up. "Let's see if you've got something, kid."
J.J. responded with a sudden roundhouse to the ribs, shifting momentum. The final minute was a blur: reversal, knee strike, hook — Modified GTS — and the crowd popped at the impact.
One… two… three.
The ref raised his hand. Holly gave a small, grudging nod before rolling out of the ring.
Aftermath
Backstage, Vince McMahon himself approached. "Good instincts. You kept the pace. We'll see what you can do next week."
Stephanie passed by shortly after, voice calm but eyes glinting. "Not bad, Styles. Not bad at all."
Monday Night – 11:54 PM – Buffalo Niagara International Airport
The adrenaline from Raw had faded into the hollow exhaustion that hit after a live show. Wrestlers moved through the terminal in clumps — some in sweats and hoodies, others still half in gear because they'd been too rushed to shower properly before leaving the arena.
Flights in 1998 WWF weren't glamorous. They were late, overbooked, and full of half-asleep fans trying to sneak pictures with disposable cameras.
J.J. found himself in line with Bradshaw, D'Lo Brown, and Stephanie. Bradshaw was telling a loud story about knocking a guy out in a bar fight, his voice carrying over the din. Stephanie was quieter, flipping through a binder of production notes.
The Flight That Didn't Happen
When they reached the counter, the agent broke the news: the connecting flight to Boston was delayed until morning. That meant a night in Buffalo instead of moving on to the next loop.
The veterans didn't look thrilled, but they'd been through it before. WWF travel wasn't about sticking to a plan — it was about surviving chaos.
The Hotel Lobby Scene
WWF's travel office scrambled to book rooms at a nearby Marriott. By the time the shuttle dropped them off, it was nearly 1:30 AM. Wrestlers were scattered across the lobby, some making calls, others heading to the bar.
J.J. was checking in when Stephanie came up beside him.
"Tough match tonight," she said casually, sliding her room keycard into her pocket. "Holly's not exactly… gentle."
"He's got his style," J.J. replied, smirking faintly.
Stephanie's eyes lingered on him for a beat longer than necessary. "You didn't fold. That matters more than you think."
With that, she walked off toward the elevators, leaving him wondering if that was praise, a test, or both.
Room 213
He dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the bed without even pulling back the sheets. The muffled laughter of wrestlers down the hall faded into silence as sleep hit him hard.
Tomorrow, it would all start again — a new town, a new crowd, another match. And somewhere in the chaos, he had to keep climbing.