Tuesday – 2:18 PM – FleetCenter, Boston, Massachusetts
The smell of popcorn, beer, and cold air hit J.J. as soon as he walked through the loading dock. Boston crowds were notoriously loud — and merciless. If they liked you, you'd hear it. If they didn't… you'd hear that even louder.
He passed The Godfather chatting with some crew, then Steve Blackman quietly stretching in the corner. The locker room was a mix of pre-show ritual: headphones, card games, protein shakes, and the occasional shot of whiskey from a hidden flask.
Tonight's Match
Tony Garea met him at the board.
"Styles, you're with Steve Blackman. Ten minutes. No run-ins, clean finish — you over. Keep it crisp, he'll match your pace."
Blackman was one of the few guys in the locker room who actually liked working with technical styles. J.J. saw it in his eyes — no ego, no hazing, just business.
Backstage Moment with Stephanie
On the way to catering, J.J. spotted Stephanie near the production crates, flipping through her notes again.
"You're with Blackman?" she asked without looking up.
"Yeah."
She glanced up, almost smirking. "Good. He'll test your timing. Don't get cocky just because you're going over."
"You think I'd get cocky?" he said with a faint grin.
Stephanie raised an eyebrow. "You're nineteen and undefeated. I'd bet money on it."
The Match – FleetCenter
The Boston crowd was hot from the start. Blackman opened with a flurry — stiff kicks, fast takedowns. J.J. countered with chain wrestling, working the mat, targeting the arm for a setup to the kimura lock.
Mid-match, they traded control so smoothly the crowd started chanting "THIS IS AWESOME!" — rare for a house show in 1998.
The finish came when Blackman missed a roundhouse, J.J. catching him in the Modified GTS for the three count.
Post-Match Respect
As they walked back up the ramp, Blackman gave him a quick handshake — not the limp "good job" handshake rookies often got, but a firm one that meant something.
Backstage, Mick Foley passed him in the hallway. "Boston likes you. That's a good sign."
FleetCenter – 9:47 PM – Locker Room
The sound of the crowd was still echoing faintly through the concrete walls when J.J. walked back in. Blackman peeled the tape from his wrists in silence, gave a small nod, and went back to his post-match routine.
Across the room, Bradshaw was holding court, laughing loudly with Ron Simmons and a couple of agents. When J.J. passed, Bradshaw's eyes flicked over. No smile. No words. Just a slow sip of beer.
The "Bench Test"
The Undertaker was sitting on one of the old wooden benches, talking quietly with Kane. When J.J. approached to grab his bag, Taker's voice cut through the low rumble of the room.
"You kept your cool out there," he said without looking up. "Boston crowd's not easy."
It wasn't loud praise, but in WWF '98, even a few words from Taker were gold.
The Split Locker Room
Some guys, like Foley, Blackman, and Owen Hart, gave J.J. a nod or a pat on the back. Others kept their distance. Hardcore Holly smirked from across the room like he was already planning their rematch.
Mark Henry passed by and muttered, "Nice GTS, kid," before heading out.
Stephanie Again
On the way out of the building, Stephanie was waiting near the production crates with her coat over her arm. She looked him over like she was checking for damage.
"You didn't gas out," she said simply. "That's good. Vince notices that stuff."
"You always keeping tabs on me?" he asked, half-joking.
She smirked faintly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just making sure the investment pays off."
Before he could answer, she turned toward the exit, joining a group of agents heading for the vans.
Tuesday – 11:16 PM – I-95 North, Somewhere in New England
The van's heater rattled like it was hanging on by a thread. J.J. sat in the middle row between D'Lo Brown and Steve Blackman, the smell of gym bags and drive-thru food filling the air.
Bradshaw and Ron Simmons had claimed the back seat, trading stories about Texas road fights. In the front, Tony Garea navigated in the dark, a Styrofoam cup of coffee wedged between the dashboard and the windshield.
The Diner Stop
About an hour in, they pulled into a 24-hour diner with flickering neon lights. Inside, the booths were sticky, the jukebox was stuck on old Springsteen tracks, and the waitress looked like she'd been working since 1983.
They ordered the kind of food that would make any trainer cringe — stacks of pancakes, greasy bacon, milkshakes. Blackman stuck to black coffee and eggs.
Bradshaw raised a brow at J.J. "Kid, you eat like that every night, you'll be blown up in five minutes."
J.J. smirked. "Guess I'll just have to wrestle faster than my metabolism."
That earned a chuckle from Ron Simmons.
Fitting In
By the time they got back on the road, the mood had shifted. The earlier stiffness from some of the guys was easing, replaced by casual chatter and the kind of locker room banter that could go from brutal insults to genuine advice in the same breath.
Blackman gave J.J. a few pointers on pacing in longer matches. D'Lo told him which cities had the best gyms and worst hotels.
Bradshaw still didn't fully drop his guard, but he was at least talking to J.J. instead of about him.
Arrival
At 2:43 AM, they rolled into a modest roadside hotel in Hartford. Everyone grabbed their bags in silence, exhaustion finally winning out.
As J.J. stepped out of the van, Stephanie was just arriving in a separate production car. She glanced at him across the parking lot, gave a faint nod — almost like an unspoken good job — and headed inside without a word.
For now, that was enough.