Part II

Walter Calder sat at his desk, watching the rain slide down the windows of his office, the Seattle skyline swallowed by low clouds and gray light.

Seattle hadn’t always been home. The Pacific Northwest had, just never one place for long. He’d settled in the city when he started Pacific Championship Wrestling, not out of love for it, but out of necessity. Portland was already claimed by a promoter who no longer mattered. When that promotion folded, PCW absorbed the pieces worth keeping, good hands, a few reliable referees. The rest drifted south, east, or out of the business entirely.

The Golden State had been a financial nightmare back then. Every square foot crawling with competitors. Every handshake hiding an agenda. So, Seattle it was.

It was here that Walt raised his family. Here that PCW grew from a regional experiment into the most powerful wrestling promotion on the West Coast. It shouldn’t have happened. Historically, wrestling struggled out west. The crowds were fickle. The markets unreliable.

But Walt had struck gold. Or, more accurately, Sterling.

Glenn Sterling had come out of California, but he’d made his name in Texas. Harlan Whitlock had the look, the buildings, the money, but he never understood how to book a personality as big as Glenn’s. So, eventually, Harlan did what he always did when something didn’t fit neatly into his world.

He traded it away. The talent exchange sent Sterling north, and in doing so, changed PCW forever. Walt had a reputation for getting the most out of his wrestlers. Other promotions were known for too many voices in the locker room or, in Harlan’s case, none at all. At PCW, there was no confusion. Everyone knew the buck started and stopped with Walter Calder.

Not everyone liked him. Some wrestlers clashed with Walt constantly but stayed because success followed him. Others believed in themselves more than they believed in his system and left. Walt didn’t stop them. He never begged anyone to stay.

Not every push worked. Not every idea landed. There were plenty of misses, wrestlers Walt believed in who couldn’t handle the pressure, who folded when the weight of being the face of a company settled on their shoulders.

Glenn Sterling never did. Sterling thrived under it. A multi-time PCW Heavyweight Champion. A World Champion. Glenn understood wrestling at every level—timing, psychology, presence. He knew how to make a crowd love him. He knew how to make them hate him. Sometimes, he made them hate him enough to throw full drinks into the ring. And Glenn loved every second of it.

Walter knew he needed Glenn on board if this was going to work. Truly work. Glenn was at a point in his career where he didn’t need change. He could walk into almost any promotion and make the same money, more if he went east. New York would pay him handsomely for the name alone.

But Glenn had stayed.

To his credit, he’d always been loyal to Walter. Walt had seen what other promoters hadn’t: not just a good wrestler, but a star. He’d emptied accounts, leveraged savings, and strapped a rocket to Glenn’s back when the risk scared everyone else away.

It paid off.

And Glenn never forgot it. Still, goodwill had a shelf life. Walt knew Glenn wouldn’t wrestle forever, and he knew the window to turn one name into something bigger was already narrowing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled him out of the rain-soaked skyline.

“Come in,” Walt said, just as the door began to open. “Ah, Glenn. Thanks for coming in on such short notice.” Walt stood and offered his hand. “How’s the family?”

Glenn took the chair across from the desk, removing his signature sunglasses. He set them carefully beside him, adjusted his cufflinks, and leaned back.

“They’re good,” he said. “Had to cut things short to get back.”

Walt nodded. “I know. And I appreciate it. I wouldn’t have asked if this wasn’t important.” He paused. “I wanted you to hear this from me. Not through the telephone game.”

Glenn straightened slightly. Walt didn’t waste the moment.

Walt folded his hands on the desk. "PCW is finished. December 31st, we close the doors for good." He paused, watching Glenn's face. "But January 1st, we reopen as something else. Something with no boundaries." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "Global Wrestling Entertainment."

Glenn leaned forward slightly, eyebrow raised. "Global?"

“Borders don’t mean what they used to,” Walt said. “You’re proof of that. Power doesn’t respect geography.”

Glenn smiled. “And the rest of The League? They on board?”

Walt's face remained stone. "I extended the offer. None of them took it."

Glenn's smile dimmed like a bulb losing power. "When that many people say no, Walt, they might be onto something."

Walt spread his hands. "This isn't an ultimatum. Everyone's existing contracts remain intact until then. I'm offering you first consideration." He settled back in his chair, shoulders relaxed but eyes vigilant.

Glenn's gaze drifted to the rain-streaked window. "The clock's ticking on my career," he said, voice lower than before. "Been thinking it might be time to ease back. See more of my place in Malibu." His fingers drummed once on the armrest. "If we're talking contract endings, maybe it's the universe telling me something."

Walt's stomach tightened as the realization hit him: Glenn wasn't negotiating. The man who had carried his company for years was genuinely considering walking away.

The usual tools—championship belts, main event spots, appeals to their shared history—wouldn't work here. Glenn had outgrown them all.

"Before you decide," Walt said, keeping his voice neutral despite the panic rising in his chest, "there's more to discuss."

Glenn's eyes lifted from the floor.

"The regional limitations are gone," Walt continued. "But I'm not asking you to live out of a suitcase." He leaned forward slightly. "Our headquarters will be in Los Angeles."

Glenn's shoulders pulled back, his chin lifting almost imperceptibly.

"Southern California?" The question hung between them.

Walt allowed himself the smallest nod.

"Right in the heart of the entertainment industry," he said.

A current seemed to pass through Glenn's body. Glenn didn’t smile—but his eyes sharpened, focused in a way Walt recognized immediately.

Movie sets. Cameras. Access. Family.

Everything Glenn had been circling without committing to. Walt had known exactly where to aim. Truth be told, Walter had never intended to leave Seattle.

But intention was a luxury. Like any good businessman, he adjusted. He thought on his feet, shaped opportunity out of necessity, and solved the problem the moment it revealed itself.

Hollywood would work.

New beginnings beckoned. Miles from Seattle's rain-soaked skyline. Miles from everything that came before. Glenn rose from his chair and thrust his hand forward, grinning broadly.

"Well," Glenn said, flashing a smile that could blind a cameraman, "I guess Los Angeles gets the pleasure of your company."

Walt clasped the offered hand with measured pressure, his lips curving upward while his eyes remained calculating.

“Excellent,” Walt said evenly. “Glad to hear it, Sterling.”

He kept his excitement buried. Walt had learned long ago that the moment you revealed how badly you wanted something was the moment you started losing leverage.

“I’ll have the contract sent over as soon as it’s ready,” he added.

Walt walked Glenn to the door, watching him disappear down the hall.

Another item checked off the list.

There was still a television deal to secure. Still the matter of untangling himself from The League. Still dozens of details that would determine whether this idea lived or died.

But he had his champion.

As the door closed, one thought lingered longer than the rest.

Glenn Sterling wouldn’t last forever.

And Walt already knew what mattered most wasn’t keeping him—

It was deciding who came next.

The end of the year was closing in fast and Walt still didn’t have a television deal. Weeks had passed since his last conversation with Harbor Point Media, and the silence hadn’t broken. He couldn’t tell whether the move to Los Angeles would help his case or quickly bury it. Hollywood sounded impressive. Until it didn’t.

The phone buzzed on his desk.

Harlan Whitlock.

Walt rubbed his temples. Of course.

By the time he answered, he was already bracing himself. Harlan never seemed to recognize the space between dialing a number and someone actually picking up.

“My favorite Texan,” Walt said, forcing a light tone.

“Ahh, my favorite Seattle-an,” Harlan shot back.

Walt couldn’t tell if it was friendly or mocking. With Harlan, it was usually both.

“What’s going on, Harlan?” Walt said. He skipped the small talk. He didn’t have room for it.

“The boys ain’t happy, Walt,” Harlan said, surprisingly direct. “And by boys, I mean the wrestlers and the promoters.” He paused. “Now, you know me…wrestlin’ was never my great love. But I did enjoy the people. The friendships.”

Walt exhaled slowly. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said back at the Conference,” Harlan continued. “Figured you should know, you’ve got my blessing.”

Walt froze.

“That’s… not what I expected,” he said carefully.

“You weren’t wrong,” Harlan replied. “Things are changin’. I don’t much care to be around when they do.”

“Are you asking for a spot on the staff?” Walt asked, already dreading the answer. Of all the men he didn’t want inside his operation, Harlan sat at the top of the list.

“Oh, hell no,” Harlan laughed. “Truth is, I’m fixin’ to step away from wrestling altogether. Puttin’ all my eggs in my dealerships.”

Walt said nothing.

"Thing is," Harlan drawled, "I've still got that TV station. Your show could be on air across Texas by next month."

Walt's grip tightened on the receiver. The offer he'd been waiting for, wrapped in that familiar Texas twang.

"Course, it ain't charity," Harlan added.

"Let's hear the number," Walt said, keeping his voice neutral.

“Four hundred thousand,” Harlan replied without hesitation. “Yearly. Paid quarterly. You handle production. I handle the airtime.”

Walt didn’t respond right away. Walt leaned back in his chair. The offer made sense. It was fair. It was familiar. And it was exactly the kind of deal that kept wrestling small. Texas wasn’t just a market, it was leverage. Proof of concept. But it was also a ceiling. The number didn’t surprise him, though it still stung. If this was all he secured, he wasn’t building something new. He was inheriting someone else’s lane.

“Send me the terms,” Walt said finally. “I’ll take a look.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Knew you’d see it my way,” Harlan said, already satisfied. “Figured I’d rather get paid on the way out than complain on the way down.”

Walt let the assumption hang in the air. When the line clicked dead, he found himself staring at the darkened screen, the words he hadn't actually spoken still caught in his throat. Harlan had heard what he wanted to hear, commitment where there was only consideration. The phone's display had barely begun to fade when it flashed to life again with another call. 

Walt half-expected Harlan’s name to reappear, second thoughts already forming. That would’ve been on brand.

Instead, the screen read:

Point Harbor Media.

Walt answered. “This is Walter.”

“Walter, my boy, Thomas Kline,” came the voice. “How’s it going?”

Before Walt could respond, another voice cut in.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Marianne, we’ve got you loud and clear,” Thomas said, his tone shifting. “Just waiting on one more.”

A beat.

“Hi, everyone.”

Daniel Reeves.

Walt sat up straighter. This wasn’t casual. This was deliberate.

“Walt,” Thomas said, “sorry for the surprise call. But I haven’t stopped thinking about our last meeting. Big ideas. Really big ideas.” He paused. “And it got me wondering, why doesn’t Harbor Point...take point on this?”

Walt felt his pulse spike.

“Nationwide distribution,” Thomas continued. “Our affiliates. Our partners. We put your product across the U.S.”

It sounded too clean. Too easy.

“What are the terms?” Walt asked.

Thomas didn’t rush the answer.

“There’s no license fee,” he said. “No airtime costs.” A pause. “But this isn’t a traditional buy.”

Walt listened.

“We handle national distribution,” Thomas continued. “We sell the advertising. Revenue splits fifty-five to forty-five. Our favor.”

Walt didn’t react.

“Production stays with you,” Marianne added. “All of it. And we’ll need approval on broadcast standards.”

“And exclusivity?” Walt asked.

“Full domestic exclusivity,” Thomas said. “No regional broadcasts. No side deals. Our affiliates need consistency.”

International remained untouched.

“And the term length?” Walt asked.

“Two years,” Thomas replied. “With a six-month performance review.”

Daniel finally spoke. “This isn’t a test run, Walt. This is scale.”

Walt leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the rain tracing the glass.

No airtime fees.

Nationwide reach.

Minimal leverage.

It wasn’t a good deal. It was the only one that changed the game.

“Send me the paperwork,” Walt said.

“Glad to hear it,” Thomas replied smoothly. “We’re excited about this.”

The call ended. Walt remained seated, the room suddenly quiet.

Two offers.

One future.

Harlan had offered him comfort. Point Harbor had offered him consequence. And Walt already knew which one he was going to choose.

December was slipping away. Walt stared at his calendar, each remaining day crossed off with the same red marker. A soft chime from his laptop broke the silence. He let it sit there, unanswered, for nearly a minute before finally clicking over to his inbox. The new message waited without fanfare, its subject line as plain as office stationery:

Talent List – Review Copies Attached

Walt opened the email and began scrolling. Video links. Names. Short notes. Nothing polished. Nothing framed. Just footage, matches pulled from small buildings, handheld cameras, uneven lighting. The kind of wrestling that still lived on the margins.

He let the first clip play.

“Rick Holloway,” Walt said quietly. Solid footwork. Knew where the camera was. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing new either.

He clicked ahead.

“Chris Donnelly.” Reliable. Safe. The kind of guy promoters trusted because they never had to worry about him. Walt scrolled past before the match finished.

Another clip loaded.

“Phoenix Black,” he muttered. Flashy entrance. Loud gear. A little too aware of himself. Walt watched long enough to confirm the instinct, then moved on.

As of now, only Glenn Sterling had signed. Walt knew that. Glenn was the foundation. The name. The proof. But one name didn’t build a company. It only bought time.

He needed balance. New blood. Familiar faces. Enough history to feel legitimate, enough unknowns to feel like discovery. Walt stopped scrolling. He rewound the clip already playing. Watched again. Then once more.

“Cody Cage,” Walt said quietly to the empty office.

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on the screen. There was something there. Timing. Presence. The confidence of someone who didn’t yet know how good he could be.

A small smile crossed Walt’s face.

“You might be it,” he said. “You might be the next one.”

Glenn Sterling would sign. Walt had no doubt about that. Glenn would be the centerpiece when this thing launched, the familiar face that made people pay attention. But Glenn didn’t have much left. Not really.

If this was going to be a new era, it couldn’t be carried by the last one forever. Someone else would have to take that weight. Someone younger. Someone hungry. Someone untested. Walt leaned back in his chair, the rain tapping against the window behind him, the office half-packed with boxes. It sounded cynical when you said it out loud.

But wrestling wasn’t built on sentiment. It wasn’t life or death. For him, though, this was make or break. Every dollar. Every relationship. Every bridge he hadn’t already burned was being fed into this idea. Once the incorporation papers were signed, there would be no rewinding the tape. No safe version. No quiet exit. Walt looked back at the screen, at Cody Cage frozen mid-motion.

“The house goes with it,” he said to no one.

It was the night before the first press conference. Spread across Walt’s desk were the articles of incorporation. Behind them, the finalized contract with Harbor Point Media, just needing Walter's signature. And on the monitor just beyond, an unread email from Harlan Whitlock, terms agreed, a Texas deal waiting to be activated.

Tomorrow everything would become public.

The roster would be announced.

The first show revealed.

The logo finally given a face.

There would be no ambiguity after that.

Walt gathered the stack of papers and flipped through them until he reached the Harbor Point agreement. He tapped his pen against the desk once. Twice. Then his eyes drifted back to the screen.

Harlan’s email was short. Confident. Certain. Walt set the pen down. Instead, he reached for the keyboard.

> Harlan—everything looks good.

> –WC

He hit send.

Walt turned back to the paperwork. At the top of the first page, in clean black type, the name stared back at him:

Fans Wrestling League d/b/a FWL

The Fans Wrestling League.

It was a small choice. One word at the end of the name. And it changed everything. By calling it a League, Walt wasn’t just launching a company, he was overwriting the one PCW had belonged to for decades. In the eyes of the public, there would be no distinction. No old structure. No shared governance.

There would only be the League.

He lifted the pen, made his mark. Three strokes, the W, the C, the line beneath them both. Permanent. Irreversible. Walt settled against his chair and exhaled. 

“Done,” he said to the empty room.

Walt didn’t smile. He looked once more at the desk, contracts, commitments, and consequences neatly aligned. Every path forward now led through the same door.

There was no version of tomorrow where this stayed small. He glanced at the notecards waiting beside the paperwork. Talking points. Names. Carefully chosen language meant to sound inevitable instead of aggressive. He didn’t rehearse them.

He already knew what he was going to say.

Tomorrow, the roster would be announced.

Tomorrow, the first show would be named.

Tomorrow, The League would belong to him.

Tonight, everyone else slept. The promoters who had laughed him out of conference rooms. The wrestlers who still believed the old system protected them. The executives who thought wrestling was harmless when kept in its place.

Walt felt no guilt.

He had come to them first. He had offered them a place in what was coming.

They declined.

That was enough.

Walt turned off the desk lamp and let the office fall into darkness. By the time the world woke up, the decision would already be made.