A King Without a Throne

The snap of the ring ropes. The thud of boots against the canvas. The roar of the Carolina crowd swelling with every near fall. Glenn Sterling took it all in from behind the commentary desk, arms folded, eyes narrowed. The venue wasn’t much—a run-down civic center packed beyond its capacity, cheap bleachers straining under the weight of screaming fans. But none of that mattered. The energy inside was alive. It was wrestling at its rawest, at its loudest, at its most real. And Glenn Sterling was still the biggest name in the building.

The moment he walked in, people noticed. A hush of respect followed him, whispers trailing in his wake. Wrestlers straightened up, production guys nodded his way, and the local promoter practically tripped over himself to shake Glenn’s hand. Now, here he was, headset on, playing the part of the respected veteran calling the action.

It was a damn joke.

He wasn’t just watching—he was coaching, his instincts refusing to stay quiet. His partner at the desk gave the usual, exaggerated play-by-play, hyping up the match in broad, shallow strokes. Glenn, on the other hand, saw everything. The footwork. The timing. The mistakes.

“This kid’s got potential,” the commentator beside him beamed, his voice carrying over the broadcast.

Glenn exhaled through his nose. Potential don’t mean a damn thing if you ain’t got polish.

He leaned closer to the mic, his voice dripping with authority. “He’s green. You can see it in his transitions. He hesitates too much, giving his opponent time to adjust. If he had any damn sense, he’d cut that space off, control the pace.”

"Kind of like yourself in the broadcast booth." His partner let out a nervous chuckle, probably regretting whatever script he’d planned for the night. Glenn wasn’t here to play along—he never had been.

The match continued, but Glenn could barely sit still. The commentary desk felt small. The distance between him and the ring felt unnatural. He should be in there teaching these kids how to do it right, not sitting behind a microphone analyzing their half-baked performances.

By the main event, he needed a drink.

Backstage was a mess of bodies moving in controlled chaos. Young guys pacing, getting their heads right. Veterans stretching out stiff joints. Agents barking cues. Glenn watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning everything.

Then he heard the unmistakable click of heels.

Vivian Sterling moved like she was above it all—because she was. Perfectly styled hair, a designer dress that didn’t belong in a dingy locker room, and an expression that suggested she was always three steps ahead of the conversation. She stepped up beside Glenn, her presence demanding his attention.

“I know that look,” she murmured.

Glenn barely glanced her way. “What look?”

Vivian smirked. “The one you get when you realize you ain’t done.”

He scoffed, adjusting his sleeves. “I came to call a match, not have some existential crisis in a gymnasium.”

Vivian wasn’t fazed. “Uh-huh. And yet, here you are. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching these kids like you’re scouting for a comeback tour.”

Glenn rolled his shoulders. “They don’t have it anymore,” he muttered. “They don’t know how to control the damn ring. It’s all flips and no fight.”

Vivian leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “And that bothers you.”

Glenn stayed silent.

She tilted her head, reading him like she always did. “Face it, darling. You’re miserable behind that desk. You know where you belong.”

His jaw tensed.

She was right.

She always was.

The show wrapped up a little after eleven. Glenn slipped out before the final bell, not because he didn’t want to stay, but because he didn’t want to get caught in another “one more match” conversation. As he stepped outside, the night air was crisp, the buzz of the fans still lingering behind him. He reached for his car door—

Then he heard it.

“STER-LING! STER-LING! STER-LING!”

Fans had spotted him by the parking lot, their voices raw from hours of screaming, yet still strong enough to chant his name.

Glenn Sterling. The Golden Boy. The King.

He should’ve just gotten in the car. Instead, he turned. Not much. Just enough to let the moment sink in. Just enough to remember that feeling. Then, with a slow exhale, he slid into the driver’s seat. His hands gripped the wheel. His reflection stared back at him in the rearview mirror. He told himself he wasn’t thinking about it. But deep down, he knew. There was still one last chapter to write.