The Golden Boy’s Last Stand

The whiskey in Glenn Sterling’s glass had gone warm, the ice nearly melted, he hadn't taken a sip in minutes. The glow of the television bathed the lounge in flickering blues and whites, casting silhouettes on the walls of an estate that once felt alive. Now, silence stretched through the hallways, too heavy, too still.

The Jolt Fighting logo burned on the screen, larger than life. Promo packages rolled, fighters throwing knockout blows, submission holds locked in so tight they made even Glenn's old injuries ache. The broadcast team droned on about the future, the next evolution of combat sports.

"The next evolution." Glenn scoffed, low and bitter, but the sound barely filled the space around him. He told himself he didn’t care. He almost believed it. Then, a name flashed across the screen. A name he recognized. Phil “Mega Force” Meyers. An old rival, a man Glenn had beaten clean in his prime, now being rebranded as a legend. His image played in slow motion, arms raised, his highlights stitched together into something grander than reality.

After the success of Strike Force Legends, the world of wrestling and MMA seemed to not only co-exist, but meld together as wrestlers no longer snuffed their nose at MMA, and fighters from MMA never said no at inviting a wrestler into the octagon. Glenn exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. The past was a funny thing. It either got forgotten, or it got rewritten.

A click of heels against the marble floor broke the silence. Vivian Sterling stepped into the room, a glass of wine in hand, poised as always. She took one look at Glenn’s expression and smirked.

“I know that look.”

Glenn didn’t turn. Didn’t have to.

“What look?” he muttered, voice rough, his grip tightening around the glass.

“The one you get when you are on the verge of something crazy.”

Glenn let out a dry chuckle, finally taking a sip. It burned, but not enough to shake the feeling gnawing at him.

“Maybe they’ll forget I exist,” he said, nodding toward the screen.

Vivian rolled her eyes, stepping closer. “This new world...whatever it is. Wrestling or fighting, will never forget The Golden Boy.”

She always knew what to say. Always knew how to feed his ego, how to keep him from slipping too far into doubt. But this time, it wasn’t just talk. Because she was right. Glenn stared at the screen again, at the rising stars, the so-called legends. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, feeling the weight of years on his body—but not enough to stop him. His fingers tapped against his glass, his jaw tightening.

It wasn’t about proving anything. It wasn’t about one more payday, one more match, one more spotlight. It was about reminding the world exactly who the hell he was. His eyes flickered toward Vivian, a slow smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

“Guess we’ll see if they come calling.”

But deep down, Glenn already knew the answer.

They would.

And when they did?

He’d be ready.