The Only One Who Gets It

The neon sign for 94.3 The Roar buzzed and flickered against the gray Charlotte skyline, its harsh red glow cutting through the early evening drizzle. Inside the soundproofed studio, Jackie Rowe adjusted his headphones and studied the man sitting across from him with barely concealed distaste.

Glenn "The Golden Boy" Sterling wasn't just wearing a suit—he was inhabiting it. The three-piece Italian designer ensemble probably cost more than Jackie's monthly mortgage. Sterling reclined in the studio chair like a king on a throne, one leg crossed over the other, his opulent time piece gleaming under the studio lights.

Pompous bastard hasn't changed a bit, Jackie thought, memories of Sterling's infamous post-fight interviews flashing through his mind.

"Two minutes till we're live," the producer called through the glass.

Jackie nodded, then leaned forward. "Look, Sterling, my listeners expect real talk. No PR bullshit, alright? That's not what we do here."

Glenn's lips sculpted into what could generously be called a smile. "Oh, I'm counting on it, Jackie boy." His voice carried that distinctive blend of southern cadence and professional wrestler, that had made him both beloved and despised throughout his career. "Your listeners deserve nothing but the truth from The Golden Boy."

The ON AIR light blinked to life, bathing the room in a crimson glow that matched the tension crackling between them.

"Welcome back to Rowe Rage Radio, Charlotte's undisputed king of sports talk!" Jackie Rowe's raspy voice punched through the airwaves, crackling with the signature fiery indignation that had earned him his cult following. "I'm your host, Jackie Rowe, and folks, buckle up—today's show is either gonna be a five-star classic or a complete disaster, depending on which side of the fence you're standing on."

He leaned toward his guest, eyes narrowing. "Sitting across from me is Charlotte wrestling royalty, a man whose gold-plated resume is matched only by his gold-plated ego—Hall of Famer Glenn 'The Golden Boy' Sterling." Jackie paused, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he studied his guest. "What are we up to now, Glenn? Five? Six-time World Champion?"

Glenn reclined in his chair with practiced nonchalance, sunlight glinting off his gold watch as he adjusted his designer glasses. "Seven, Jackie. Seven-time World Champion." He tapped the table with each word for emphasis. "But hey—" he flashed his million-dollar smile, "—who's counting when you've shattered as many records as I have, right?"

Glenn offered a theatrical bow from his seated position. "Charmed to grace your humble program, Jackie."

Jackie cut straight to the chase. "Alright, Glenn, let's cut the crap and get to it. You saw the Tapout article, you saw the backlash. I gotta ask you straight up—what's your reaction to people saying SFL is scripted?"

A beat of silence followed. Any other wrestler would have bristled, would have defended their sport's legitimacy with fire and fury. But Glenn Sterling was no longer a wrestler, he was a now a fighter. Glenn merely tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he leaned into the microphone.

"My dear boy," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey, "of course it was."

Jackie blinked twice, momentarily thrown off his rhythm. "Wait... what?"

Glenn straightened his already perfect tie, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Everything I do is a masterpiece of performance. I don't just fight—I entertain. I craft moments. I create magic. That's why people remember my name while the rest of these lads are just hoping to be part of the conversation."

Is he working me? Jackie wondered, years of media experience suddenly insufficient in the face of Sterling's audacity. The man had always been unpredictable, but this was something else entirely.

"So, you're saying you weren't actually fighting?" Jackie pressed, leaning forward. "That it was all just an act?"

Glenn exhaled dramatically, fixing Jackie with a look of exaggerated patience, as if explaining quantum physics to a toddler.

"Look at you, trying to dissect greatness with that armchair psychology." He shook his head with practiced patience, as he waved away Jackie's question like swatting an annoying fly. "Jackie, let me break it down for your listeners—whether it was scripted, unscripted, divine intervention, or carved into the bedrock of wrestling history itself, when the dust settled and the smoke cleared..."

He leaned forward, voice dropping to a theatrical near-whisper, perfectly calibrated to force thousands of commuters to turn up their radios. His eyes locked with Jackie's, savoring the moment with the timing of a seasoned performer who knew exactly how long to hold the audience in suspense.

"Glenn Sterling didn't just show up." He punctuated each word with a light tap of his championship ring against the microphone. "Glenn Sterling delivered."

Jackie felt his face flush with frustration. This was classic Sterling—redirecting, manipulating, turning every interaction into his own personal stage show. And the worst part? It made for absolutely fantastic radio.

"You do realize you're the only guy not losing his mind over this, right?" Jackie countered, arms crossed defensively. "Rumor has it, Matthew's breaking glass in bars, Cade Mercer is on the verge of a meltdown, Jax Braddock is questioning everything—"

Glenn lifted a manicured hand, stopping Jackie mid-sentence.

"Because they don't understand the game," he said, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper that forced listeners to lean in closer. "They're out there feeling things. Wrestling with their emotions."

The contempt in his voice was blatant as he leaned back, surveying the studio like a general overlooking a battlefield. "Meanwhile, I'm doing what I've always done—showing up and getting richer while everyone else scrambles to figure out how to fix their shattered little egos."

Jackie couldn't help but laugh—not with amusement, but with disbelief. Twenty years in sports radio, and Glenn Sterling was still the most infuriating interview he'd ever conducted. The man was either the greatest fighter who ever lived or the most committed con artist in sports history. Maybe both.

"Man, you are something else," Jackie shook his head, genuinely impressed despite himself. "You really don't give a damn, do you?"

Glenn flashed that signature Sterling grin—the one that had graced magazine covers, promotional posters, and highlight reels for over a decade. It never quite reached his eyes, which remained calculating, always measuring the impact of his performance.

"Of course I don't, Jackie," he replied with practiced certainty. "Because I'm the only one who gets it."

The statement stretched between them, heavy with implication. Jackie knew he should press further, should demand clarification, should pin Sterling down on what exactly "it" was. But as Glenn Sterling reclined in his chair, utterly at ease while the entire SFL world burned around him, Jackie realized the truth: Sterling thrived in chaos. Always had. Whether in the cage or out of it, the man knew exactly what he was doing. Creating his legacy, one controversy at a time.

The red ON AIR light continued to glow, and across the Carolinas, thousands of listeners sat riveted, hanging on every word of a man who had elevated fighting to an art form—and maybe, just maybe, had been playing them all along.