#readeristouchstarved

September 22nd, 2008, Cincinnati, Ohio

You wake up to the sound of the alarm you set on your phone, buzzing on the hotel nightstand. You slowly open your eyes, the late summer morning sun peeking in through the blinds. The hotel room is quiet, aside from the old AC unit running and the alarm blaring into your ears. You let out a tired sigh, rolling over and practically slapping your phone off the nightstand to turn off your alarm. You slowly sit up, looking at the clock on the microwave. 7:30 AM. Letting out a yawn, you stretch your arms over your head before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “I was not made for this,” you whisper to yourself, even though there was no one around you to even listen. Another city, another arena. Life on the road with WWE is exhausting, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

You’re a production assistant for WWE, specifically Monday Night Raw, always running around, giving cues from gorilla or the production truck. It’s a high-pressure job, but since graduating college last year with a degree in Media Production, you had learned how to navigate. Long hours, constantly in different cities, it definitely took a toll on you sometimes. Your good at your job. Dependable.

And unfortunately, completely and hopelessly in love with CM Punk.

Well, not literally. Just a big, fat, huge crush on him. Whenever you stood backstage or in gorilla, you always made sure to catch a glance at him before he headed out onto the ramp. You’ve talked a few times. Short conversations. Quick questions. “Have you seen my gear bag?” “Is Gorilla backed up?” That kind of thing. But every time, your heart does a little gymnastics routine in your chest, and your brain forgets how to form full sentences. You scoff at yourself thinking about him again, before hopping out of the warm bed and making your way into the bathroom. You quickly turn on the shower, before slowly and tiredly undressing out of an old, oversized Misfit’s tee you wore as a sleep shirt. “Punk and Cody tonight,” you say to yourself, before stepping into the shower and feeling the warm water hit your back. Just that alone was enough to put you back to sleep. As you ran your hands through your hair, you thought about tonight. You had checked the sheet last night—segment seven. You’ll be posted near Gorilla for most of the show. Close enough to hear the crowd roar. Close enough to maybe—just maybe—catch a moment. You shake your head and chuckle. “I’m being delusional,” you say to yourself. After a quick (more like 20 minute) shower, you step out of the tub and wrap yourself in a warm towel. You pick up your phone from the counter and check the time—7:45 AM. You have about 30 minutes to get ready. With a sigh, you set your phone down and rush out of the bathroom, kneeling in front of your suitcase.

A vintage band tee you swear is almost as old as you, and a pair of black skinny jeans. Perfect.

You quickly blow-dry your hair and pull it into a high ponytail. You’re not much of a makeup wearer, but you apply a bit of light foundation and mascara, along with a soft brown eyeshadow—not too much, but just enough to be noticeable.

After slipping into a pair of black boots, you grab your backstage lanyard and your bag, packed with just the essentials: your laptop, a pen and notepad, your wallet, and some old chewing gum you probably should’ve thrown out months ago. You take one last glance around the hotel room to make sure you didn’t forget anything, then head out, the door clicking shut behind you. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit by early morning light spilling in through the narrow windows at the far end. You press the elevator button and shift your weight, the nerves you’ve been pushing down starting to creep in.

It’s just another show, you remind yourself. You’ve done this a hundred times. But your stomach still flips a little when you remember whose match you’ll be cueing tonight.

CM Punk.

The elevator dings, and you step in, smoothing down your shirt and adjusting your lanyard as the doors close. The ride is short, but it gives you just enough time to psych yourself up. Be cool. Be professional. Don’t let the fact that you’ve had a crush on the guy for over a year turn you into a mess when he walks by. Again.

Outside, the late summer air is warm but breezy, the city of Cincinnati already starting to come to life. You walk the few blocks to the U.S. Bank Arena, the weight of your bag slung over your shoulder and the comforting hum of traffic filling your ears.

When you reach the arena’s backstage entrance, you flash your credentials to security and step inside. The familiar scent of coffee, sweat, and stage equipment hits you instantly. You make your way down the long, concrete hallway toward the production area, offering quick nods and “mornings” to crew members, road agents, and techs as they pass. The show call sheet is already printed and taped to the wall near Gorilla—your name is next to segment seven.

Punk vs. Cody.

You swallow a lump in your throat and keep moving.

Just before you reach your usual setup, you hear a familiar voice from behind you.

"Morning, Jen."

You freeze for half a second before turning around. There he is—hoodie on, sleeves rolled up, a cup of coffee in hand and that unmistakable smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His dark hair was pulled in a low short pony, two strands framing his face.

CM Punk.

You blink. "Morning," you manage, trying to sound casual.

He glances at the clipboard in your hand. “Running the cue for segment seven?”

You nod. “Yep. You and Cody tonight.”

Punk takes a sip of his coffee and leans casually against the wall. “Guess I better be on my best behavior, huh?”

You smile, raising an eyebrow. “That’d be a first.”

He laughs—low and genuine—and you feel your chest tighten slightly.

“Well,” he says, straightening up, “if I mess up, at least I know who to blame.”

Before you can respond, he gives you a playful wink and walks off down the hallway, leaving you standing there, heart racing and suddenly very, very awake.

As he walks down the hallway, presumably towards catering, you’re standing there, completely in awe. Was that flirting? you thought to yourself. Your face feels warm, and you quickly glance around to make sure no one noticed how flustered you are. Thankfully, the hallway is mostly empty—just a couple of crew members wheeling lighting rigs past, too busy to notice the girl standing there, blinking like she just got hit with a steel chair to the feelings.

You shake your head, trying to snap out of it. Get it together, Jenny. You’ve got a show to run.

Still, as you turn and head back toward the production area, clipboard in hand, you can’t wipe the stupid grin off your face. CM Punk—straight-edge, sarcastic, ridiculously cool CM Punk—just winked at you. Joked with you. Maybe even flirted with you.

You try not to read too much into it. He’s friendly with everyone. He jokes around a lot. Doesn’t mean anything... right?

Right.

Before you can spiral into thinking about it further, you hear your name being called from behind.

“Jenny!”

You turn around to see your coworker Sarah strutting toward you, a cup of coffee in hand and her ever-perfect ponytail swishing behind her. Sarah was… everything you sometimes wished you could be. Tall, effortlessly pretty, all legs and lashes. Blonde bombshell, piercing blue eyes. Maybe 115 pounds soaking wet, standing at 5'6". You’re pretty sure she had a new guy every other week—and not just from catering.

“Hey, Jen,” she calls again, finally reaching you with a bright, blinding smile. “You look nice today. Cute shirt.”

You glance down at your old Rush tee. It’s not exactly high fashion, but the compliment still makes you feel a little less invisible. “Thanks,” you reply, trying to sound casual.

“Did you get the notes in yet for segment seven?”

You blink, snapping out of your CM Punk-induced haze. “Oh—yeah. I just updated the formatting notes and sent them to Gorilla and the truck.”

“Cool,” she says, tapping a few things into her phone. "so how are you and John?"

John.

Your now ex boyfriend who works in catering.

"we uh...we broke up," you say, awkwardly rubbing your shoulder.

Sarah glances up from her phone, squinting slightly. "Oh, i'm sorry to hear that. You, okay? You look... flushed.”

You shake your head quickly. “I’m good. Just—y’know. Morning rush.”

She shrugs, unconvinced but too busy to dig. “Alright, just don’t forget Punk’s music cue comes off a hot segment. You’ve got like five seconds to fire it, or the truck will panic.”

“Got it,” you say, already flipping through your notes.

Sarah gives a quick nod, then heads off down the hallway toward Cody’s locker room.

You exhale, pressing your clipboard to your chest.

It’s fine. Everything’s under control.

Sort of.

Later that afternoon, the arena was slowly coming to life. Rigging was set, lighting tests were halfway done, and crew members moved with purpose, checking cables and adjusting monitors as pyro rehearsals went off in the distance with loud, echoing bursts.

You’re standing off to the side near Gorilla, flipping through your updated call sheet, a half-eaten bagel in your other hand. Segment notes, timing cues, adjusted graphics—your brain is spinning with details. The morning had been a nonstop blur, and this was the first real break you’d had all day. Snagging a moment to eat, even if it was just half a bagel, felt like a small but well-earned victory. You took another bite of the bagel, eyes still scanning your notes for the fifth time when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“Please tell me I’m still in segment seven and they didn’t move me again.”

You turn to see Cody Rhodes walking toward you, gear bag slung over his shoulder and a slightly exasperated look on his face. You quickly wipe the bagel crumbs from your mouth, before giving him a small smile.

“You’re still in seven, don’t worry. You and Punk—same timing, just a little tighter now because Miz and Morrison’s segment got bumped.”

He lets out a dramatic sigh, dropping his bag onto a crate. “Figures.”

You laugh, offering him the last piece of your bagel. “Welcome to Monday Night RAW.”

He grins, waving it off. “Thanks, but I’m trying not to carb-load today. Gotta stay pretty.”

You roll your eyes. “You wrestle. What is one bite of an everything bagel gonna do?”

Cody leans back against the wall, chuckling. “True. So, who’s cueing the entrance tonight? You?”

“Yep,” you say, holding up the clipboard. “I’ll be at Gorilla, making sure your entrance doesn’t crash and burn.”

“Sounds good,” he says with a wink, then looked toward the curtain. “Punk know about the time shift yet?”

“He does. I told him earlier.”

Cody nods slowly. “Cool. He’s been in his head lately. Just want to make sure he’s good.”

You raise a brow. “In his head?”

Cody shrugs. “Y’know. Quiet. Even more than usual. He’ll be fine. He always is.”

You make a mental note of that. Punk didn’t seem off earlier—but then again, he was always a little hard to read.

“Well,” Cody says, pushing off the wall, “guess I’ll go find something to do before someone moves me to segment twelve.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you call after him as he walks away, waving.

You turn back to your clipboard and take a sip of lukewarm coffee from your paper cup. You… genuinely like Cody. He’s strong, handsome, sometimes full of himself, but a genuinely nice guy beyond the ring. Did you ever imagine going out with him? Definitely not. But as a friend, you appreciate having someone solid to rely on.

Then there’s Punk.

He’s a different kind of energy—intense, sharp, magnetic in a way that both excites and terrifies you. He’s unpredictable, never quite giving you the full picture, like he’s guarding something you wish you could understand. And when he looks at you—really looks—you feel like the world shrinks just enough to make your heart race and your thoughts scatter.

You catch yourself wondering if he notices how, you watch him, or if you’re just another face in the crowd.

No. Not just another face.