Categories > TV > WWE
“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to meet her.”
“Do she got a booty?”
“Be serious.”
“I am being serious, do she got a booty?”
“Meet her and find out.”
“Tyler, you know I hate being set up. I’m not interested in dating. I’m interested in having sex. I’m sure she’s a nice girl, and I’m sure you and Leighla mean well, but the answer is no.”
Seth Rollins, the man also known as Tyler Black, and less notably as Colby, sighed heavily. He and his companion, Dean Ambrose—formerly Jon Moxley, and legally Jonathan Good—were doing a media blitz for their employer, World Wrestling Entertainment. It was their second one in as many weeks, and this time they were in the Chicago area.
“She’s a nice girl, Jon, and just your type. I think if you’d give her a chance, just meet up with her for coffee or something, you might like her. At the rate you’re going with casual sex, you’re going to catch herpes, and I’m going to laugh,” Tyler insisted.
“A love with armor can never harm her. Or in this case, can never harm me.”
“Condoms don’t stop everything, y’know.”
“But they are 99.9% effective at preventing both pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. I never leave the house without one.”
“Are you ever going to settle down?”
“Never, and you know what my motto is.”
“Jon…”
“Don’t be silly, wrap your willy.”
Tyler rolled his eyes, planting his face firmly in the palm of his hand; Jon merely shot him a cocky grin in response.
“Not this again…”
“Don’t be a fool, holster your tool.”
“Kill me now.”
“Don’t be a sucker, glove up before you fuck her.”
“Alright already, that’s enough!”
“Hey, you started it.”
“Fine, I won’t say another word about it. And would you please do me a favor this morning?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Don’t creep on the women.”
“But it’s so much fun.”
“They don’t think it’s fun, and they’ll make sure we’re not asked back again,” Tyler retorted.
“Maybe that’s the point. I hate interviews. Can’t I just be a wrestler, and not the go-to guy for promotional work?”
“You didn’t mind Cabana’s podcast.”
“I know Cabana. I like Cabana. Cabana’s my boy.”
“You know who else knows Cabana? And considers him their boy?”
“…Lemme guess, this is the one he and Alex Shelley keep trying to set me up with, too. Just how exactly did you assholes meet this chick? And are we talking tequila flavored nipples?”
The production assistant in the catering area threw Jon an odd look as he heard this, but quickly handed him a cup of coffee and scurried off when a look of loathing was tossed his way.
“She’s Shelley’s wife’s best friend. He met both of them when he took that summer course at AIC. She lives here in Chicago, and she’s an artist. She works in paint and photography, and she’s a wrestling fan, obviously.”
“And how does Leighla know her?”
“She and Leighla have worked on shoots together before. They’re good friends,” Tyler continued, as Jon found the hallway that lead to the green room. “Hey, when did you get coffee?”
It was at this point that Jon began to tune his partner out, no longer interested in humoring the inane notion Tyler had about getting him a girlfriend. His eyes darted around the hall, before locking with the jade green gaze of the woman sitting in the green room, holding a sketchbook.
Most women who met the gaze of the most notorious manwhore to ever grace the locker rooms of the major independent promotions found themselves unable to speak, or stop themselves from turning at least six shades of red. The sketch artist in question was a different creature, she merely raised an eyebrow, nodded an acknowledgement to him, and continued to stare, glancing down every now and then to perfect a stroke of her pencil; for the first time in his life, Jon found that he was the one unable to speak, and turning a few shades pinker than normal. She had beaten him at his own game, so to speak, and before he could stop himself, Jon had taken a seat next to her.
“Hi there.”
“Hi.”
“I’m Dean Ambrose.”
“I’m Janie Stewart, nice to meet you, Dean Ambrose. Now, hold still, I need to finish.”
“You’re sketching me?”
“You catch on quick, Ambrose. Yes, I’m sketching you.”
“Care to tell me why?”
“You want the sexy version or the honest version?”
“In my experience, the sexy version usually is the honest version, so please, enlighten me.”
“Alright then, Mr. Ambrose, as you wish. Your body is a work of art, sculpted from the finest marble, shaped by expert hands. And, if I am not being too forward, I’d love to have you pose nude for me.”
Jon’s jaw dropped, as Janie threw her head back, laughing loudly at his shock; his heart skipped a beat, and he struggled not to let it show as the loud fit of mirth died down into quiet giggles.
“Oh man, the look on your face, I can’t believe you fell for that shit. No, I do think you’re sexy, but not in the conventional way. I do a lot of people watching, and I sketch those who draw my eye. And, I know Dean Ambrose isn’t your real name. You don’t look like a Dean,” she chuckled.
“And just how do you know that’s not my real name?”
“You’re a pro-wrestler, and correct me if I’m wrong, you rarely ever go by your real names.”
“Ah, so you’re a fan. You would be correct, my name is Jon. So, are you a casual fan, or a diehard fan?”
“Casual, but I know a couple of indy boys. My friend and I did a summer seminar at AIC with Alex Shelley—of course, to me, he’s still Paddy Martin, that smartass Irish kid—we bonded over art, and he’s married to said friend.”
“Your friend, is she a sketch artist too?”
“Nina’s a sculptor, for hobby. I introduced them, after I conned her into going so that I’d be able to study painting, and Paddy wanted to find out how good she was with her, uh, hands, if you catch my drift,” Janie grinned, winking.
“A woman with a sense of humor, that’s sexy. I like it. So, is Janie short for anything?”
“I’d assume Jon is short for Jonathan, right? Janie is short for Janine.”
“Ms. Stewart?”
A production assistant appeared at the door, holding a clipboard.
“Five minute warning.”
“Thanks!”
“Janie, when’s the last time you went to a WWE show?”
“It’s been awhile, why?”
“Come to the show tonight.”
“I don’t have tickets.”
“Let me worry about that, you just show your pretty face at the door at 7:30. Maybe after we can grab a burger or coffee.”
“If I didn’t know better, Jonny, I’d say you were trying to ask me out,” Jamie laughed, winking.
“Maybe I am.”
“Alright. I’m in, on one condition.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’ll let you buy me coffee tonight, if you go to the Pier with me tomorrow night.”
“The Pier?”
“You’ve never been to Navy Pier?”
“No?”
“Okay, yeah we’re definitely going. I hope you like carnivals, Jonny.”
“Ms. Stewart, two minutes!”
“Gotta jet. And hey, will you tell CJ I said hi, and to send Leighla my love?”
“If I knew anyone named CJ…”
“Oh, duh, forgot. You know him as Tyler. Thanks!”
As Janie made her way out to the news desk for her interview, Jon realized who she was. Tyler collapsed into the spot vacated by the short, bespectacled brunette, draining what was left of the concoction he referred to as bulletproof coffee from his cup, before glancing over at Jon.
“Told you so,” he grinned.
“Do she got a booty?”
“Be serious.”
“I am being serious, do she got a booty?”
“Meet her and find out.”
“Tyler, you know I hate being set up. I’m not interested in dating. I’m interested in having sex. I’m sure she’s a nice girl, and I’m sure you and Leighla mean well, but the answer is no.”
Seth Rollins, the man also known as Tyler Black, and less notably as Colby, sighed heavily. He and his companion, Dean Ambrose—formerly Jon Moxley, and legally Jonathan Good—were doing a media blitz for their employer, World Wrestling Entertainment. It was their second one in as many weeks, and this time they were in the Chicago area.
“She’s a nice girl, Jon, and just your type. I think if you’d give her a chance, just meet up with her for coffee or something, you might like her. At the rate you’re going with casual sex, you’re going to catch herpes, and I’m going to laugh,” Tyler insisted.
“A love with armor can never harm her. Or in this case, can never harm me.”
“Condoms don’t stop everything, y’know.”
“But they are 99.9% effective at preventing both pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. I never leave the house without one.”
“Are you ever going to settle down?”
“Never, and you know what my motto is.”
“Jon…”
“Don’t be silly, wrap your willy.”
Tyler rolled his eyes, planting his face firmly in the palm of his hand; Jon merely shot him a cocky grin in response.
“Not this again…”
“Don’t be a fool, holster your tool.”
“Kill me now.”
“Don’t be a sucker, glove up before you fuck her.”
“Alright already, that’s enough!”
“Hey, you started it.”
“Fine, I won’t say another word about it. And would you please do me a favor this morning?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Don’t creep on the women.”
“But it’s so much fun.”
“They don’t think it’s fun, and they’ll make sure we’re not asked back again,” Tyler retorted.
“Maybe that’s the point. I hate interviews. Can’t I just be a wrestler, and not the go-to guy for promotional work?”
“You didn’t mind Cabana’s podcast.”
“I know Cabana. I like Cabana. Cabana’s my boy.”
“You know who else knows Cabana? And considers him their boy?”
“…Lemme guess, this is the one he and Alex Shelley keep trying to set me up with, too. Just how exactly did you assholes meet this chick? And are we talking tequila flavored nipples?”
The production assistant in the catering area threw Jon an odd look as he heard this, but quickly handed him a cup of coffee and scurried off when a look of loathing was tossed his way.
“She’s Shelley’s wife’s best friend. He met both of them when he took that summer course at AIC. She lives here in Chicago, and she’s an artist. She works in paint and photography, and she’s a wrestling fan, obviously.”
“And how does Leighla know her?”
“She and Leighla have worked on shoots together before. They’re good friends,” Tyler continued, as Jon found the hallway that lead to the green room. “Hey, when did you get coffee?”
It was at this point that Jon began to tune his partner out, no longer interested in humoring the inane notion Tyler had about getting him a girlfriend. His eyes darted around the hall, before locking with the jade green gaze of the woman sitting in the green room, holding a sketchbook.
Most women who met the gaze of the most notorious manwhore to ever grace the locker rooms of the major independent promotions found themselves unable to speak, or stop themselves from turning at least six shades of red. The sketch artist in question was a different creature, she merely raised an eyebrow, nodded an acknowledgement to him, and continued to stare, glancing down every now and then to perfect a stroke of her pencil; for the first time in his life, Jon found that he was the one unable to speak, and turning a few shades pinker than normal. She had beaten him at his own game, so to speak, and before he could stop himself, Jon had taken a seat next to her.
“Hi there.”
“Hi.”
“I’m Dean Ambrose.”
“I’m Janie Stewart, nice to meet you, Dean Ambrose. Now, hold still, I need to finish.”
“You’re sketching me?”
“You catch on quick, Ambrose. Yes, I’m sketching you.”
“Care to tell me why?”
“You want the sexy version or the honest version?”
“In my experience, the sexy version usually is the honest version, so please, enlighten me.”
“Alright then, Mr. Ambrose, as you wish. Your body is a work of art, sculpted from the finest marble, shaped by expert hands. And, if I am not being too forward, I’d love to have you pose nude for me.”
Jon’s jaw dropped, as Janie threw her head back, laughing loudly at his shock; his heart skipped a beat, and he struggled not to let it show as the loud fit of mirth died down into quiet giggles.
“Oh man, the look on your face, I can’t believe you fell for that shit. No, I do think you’re sexy, but not in the conventional way. I do a lot of people watching, and I sketch those who draw my eye. And, I know Dean Ambrose isn’t your real name. You don’t look like a Dean,” she chuckled.
“And just how do you know that’s not my real name?”
“You’re a pro-wrestler, and correct me if I’m wrong, you rarely ever go by your real names.”
“Ah, so you’re a fan. You would be correct, my name is Jon. So, are you a casual fan, or a diehard fan?”
“Casual, but I know a couple of indy boys. My friend and I did a summer seminar at AIC with Alex Shelley—of course, to me, he’s still Paddy Martin, that smartass Irish kid—we bonded over art, and he’s married to said friend.”
“Your friend, is she a sketch artist too?”
“Nina’s a sculptor, for hobby. I introduced them, after I conned her into going so that I’d be able to study painting, and Paddy wanted to find out how good she was with her, uh, hands, if you catch my drift,” Janie grinned, winking.
“A woman with a sense of humor, that’s sexy. I like it. So, is Janie short for anything?”
“I’d assume Jon is short for Jonathan, right? Janie is short for Janine.”
“Ms. Stewart?”
A production assistant appeared at the door, holding a clipboard.
“Five minute warning.”
“Thanks!”
“Janie, when’s the last time you went to a WWE show?”
“It’s been awhile, why?”
“Come to the show tonight.”
“I don’t have tickets.”
“Let me worry about that, you just show your pretty face at the door at 7:30. Maybe after we can grab a burger or coffee.”
“If I didn’t know better, Jonny, I’d say you were trying to ask me out,” Jamie laughed, winking.
“Maybe I am.”
“Alright. I’m in, on one condition.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’ll let you buy me coffee tonight, if you go to the Pier with me tomorrow night.”
“The Pier?”
“You’ve never been to Navy Pier?”
“No?”
“Okay, yeah we’re definitely going. I hope you like carnivals, Jonny.”
“Ms. Stewart, two minutes!”
“Gotta jet. And hey, will you tell CJ I said hi, and to send Leighla my love?”
“If I knew anyone named CJ…”
“Oh, duh, forgot. You know him as Tyler. Thanks!”
As Janie made her way out to the news desk for her interview, Jon realized who she was. Tyler collapsed into the spot vacated by the short, bespectacled brunette, draining what was left of the concoction he referred to as bulletproof coffee from his cup, before glancing over at Jon.
“Told you so,” he grinned.
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