Wednesday – 1:08 PM – Hartford Civic Center, Hartford, Connecticut
The arena smelled faintly of hot dogs and the musty concrete that came with old venues. The ring crew was setting up under the yellowish glare of work lights, production staff weaving cables across the floor.
J.J. dropped his duffel in the corner of the locker room and made his way to the booking board. A cluster of wrestlers stood around it, scanning the taped sheet.
Tonight's Match
There it was:
J.J. Styles & Al Snow vs. The New Age Outlaws
Tony Garea noticed him reading it. "Snow'll keep you steady out there. But Road Dogg and Gunn? They'll work the crowd like crazy. Keep your head on a swivel — they'll make you look good if you keep up, but they'll eat you alive if you slack."
First Words with Al Snow
Al Snow wandered over, a Head mannequin tucked under one arm like a pet.
"You Styles?"
"Yeah."
"Good. We'll keep it simple — crowd work early, hot tag to you, you run wild, finish clean. Just remember: they're louder than they are dangerous."
J.J. smirked. "That a warning or reassurance?"
Al grinned. "Both."
Stephanie's Observation
On the way back to grab his boots, J.J. passed the production area. Stephanie was there, headset around her neck, talking to a floor manager.
"You're teaming with Snow?" she asked without preamble.
"Yeah. First time working with him."
Her lips curved slightly. "Al's unpredictable. That can be good… or really bad. Just don't let him pull you into doing something stupid to pop the boys in the back."
J.J. raised a brow. "That happen a lot?"
She gave him a look that said more than you'd believe before turning back to her notes.
Hartford Civic Center – 8:54 PM
The crowd was already electric from an earlier Rock promo.
When Al Snow's music hit, the arena buzzed with a mix of cheers and "We want Head!" chants.
J.J. followed him out, the opening riffs of "Violence Fetish" by Disturbed tearing through the speakers.
He kept his stride calm, eyes forward — lone wolf demeanor in full effect — but the reaction was different tonight. A pocket of fans near the barricade were already holding hand-made "STYLES" signs.
The Opening
Road Dogg started on the mic, running through his famous intro, working Hartford into a frenzy. Billy Gunn flexed obnoxiously, grinning at J.J. like a man who thought he was untouchable.
Al started the match, trading quick holds with Road Dogg while Gunn leaned over the ropes, jawing at J.J. The crowd was eating it up.
The Build-Up
Every time J.J. reached for a tag, Road Dogg or Gunn would cut Al off. The Outlaws controlled the pace, clowning around, taunting the audience, and keeping the heat building. The Hartford crowd started chanting "STYLES! STYLES!" — exactly what the agents wanted.
Finally, Al slipped out of a corner trap and dove for the tag.
The Hot Tag
J.J. exploded into the ring — stiff forearms to Gunn, a snap suplex on Road Dogg, then a spinning back kick that staggered Gunn. He hit the ropes, ducked a clothesline, and nailed a Modified GTS on Road Dogg that brought the crowd to their feet.
Billy tried to break the pin, but Al tackled him to the mat, and the ref counted three.
Backstage Aftermath
Back in gorilla, Al slapped him on the back. "See? Not so bad."
From the corner of his eye, J.J. caught Stephanie watching the monitor. She said nothing, just met his gaze and gave a single approving nod before walking away.
In WWF '98, that nod meant more than a dozen compliments.
Hartford Civic Center – 10:17 PM – Locker Room
The air was thick with post-match chatter and the smell of sweat. A few guys were replaying spots from the night on a tiny monitor in the corner, while others were already half-dressed, ready to hit the road.
Road Dogg walked in first, grinning. "Not bad, kid. You didn't freeze up out there. Most rookies do the first time we put the brakes on 'em."
Billy Gunn smirked from across the room. "Yeah, but don't get used to that win. Next time, I'm kicking your head into the fifth row."
J.J. just smiled faintly. "I'll make sure to duck."
That got a laugh from a few of the boys.
The Rib
As he reached for his duffel, he noticed his boots were missing. Bradshaw leaned back in his chair, pretending to examine the ceiling.
"Looking for something, Styles?"
J.J. didn't bite. "Nope. Just wondering which cowboy in here has small enough feet to wear my boots."
Ron Simmons barked out a laugh, and a second later, Bradshaw tossed the boots back. "You'll do fine," he muttered, almost like it was a reluctant stamp of approval.
The Hallway
Later, on the way to the parking lot, J.J. spotted Stephanie standing by a production crate, reviewing a run sheet.
"You handled them well," she said without looking up.
"The Outlaws?"
"No. The locker room." She glanced at him then, her expression neutral but her tone softer than usual. "That matters as much as what happens in the ring. Maybe more."
J.J. nodded. "Guess I'll just have to keep proving I belong."
She gave the faintest hint of a smirk. "That's the idea."
With that, she walked off toward the production truck, leaving him with more questions than answers — and just enough motivation to keep pushing.