Wow. Who knew that if I stayed away from the ring long enough, I’d actually start to miss it?

Nobody warns you about that. Not even after six years. The lifers keep it to themselves like a family recipe and let you find out at two a.m. on some stranger’s terrace, warm glass in hand, in a body that has forgotten how to sit still. Not that I’m complaining. Everyone around me has been thrilled to tell me I had a decent year in UNW. That I landed on STAMPEDE right as the culture shifted and, with less experience than half this locker room, I took the opportunity and ran with it as far as it would go. Not bad for my first full year.

Not everyone can say that.

Even with my little… mishaps, I was one of the best wrestlers on any UNW roster. Sans the trophies, obviously, but who cares about those when a new season is about to start? So I logged on to remind you I exist. Lately my life has been more cinematic than it has any right to be.

Two magazine profiles, one denied restaurant reservation that made headlines anyway, and a breakup I never actually had. All summer. Don’t say I don’t give you material.

Think of my calendar as a members-only club. There’s no guest list. No plus-ones allowed. A velvet rope, plus a brilliant publicist who also happens to be my shooting guard—on standby, unlimited range, already loose.

She’ll put thirty on you before you’ve finished your sentence. Before you’ve finished typing it. You’ll be mid “Hey, quick question—” and it’s next quarter, you’re still waiting, and she’s already onto someone who asked better.

(She likes me. That’s the only reason you get a callback.)

So, no. Thursday’s out. The Thursday after that’s out too. But keep trying. She respects persistence. Even more when it comes with a date, a time, and a reason you deserve the slot.

(Nazar na lage.)

I can’t speak for anyone else, and why would I? That would be giving them far too much credit.

Here’s the real question, and I doubt most of you can answer it honestly. Have you ever known, beneath every muscle, every scar, every ounce of God-given talent, that you were being shoved down the exact road you were already meant to take? My father did his own stunts. My mother’s cheekbones were immortalized in magazines. I was doing round-offs across a marble foyer before I could spell “foyer,” and nobody in that house ever asked if I’d be famous. The only question was which door I’d eventually walk through, of my own free will.

It’s a feeling so raw that not even backstage politics can touch it, and pilates certainly can’t stretch it out.

Maybe it’s a body thing. Maybe it’s a core thing (ten years of gymnastics; I’d know). Who the heck knows? What I do know is that something in my fingertips is telling me not one person entering this season is going to pass me. Let alone be permitted to carry my boots past catering.

So hopefully you can ask Mr. Unlimited to break out the good china, because that’s where most of you will be staying for most of the season as is… gives you time to finish reading that novel you carry with you from flight to flight, hoping to go viral for reading something deep enough that people might actually start to think you had a pulse.

We both know the truth, but that’s alright, sometimes you dress the part until the part starts paying rent.

Most people use the off-season to reflect. They replay the mishaps, the near-misses, all the things that might have happened.

I don’t.

My mother has a rule from the runway she rightfully emparted to me: “Never look at the photos from the shoot you didn’t get. Keep walking. Looking back is loser behavior.”

I wasn’t joking the first time I said it: “I’m a freaking brand.” Most of the girls on this roster can only dream of that, and I walked into this bitch already wearing it. No skill needed. No talent needed. Just the raw expression of my own desire.

I said it. I wanted it. I went after it.

Now, some of you will say I fell short. The draft dragged in a truckload of new faces from elsewhere, and suddenly I’m neck-deep in competition that couldn’t tell bronzer from lip balm from cleansing serum. Fine. When someone might be better than me, even if it’s only because circumstance happened to flatter her, I can admit it.

That doesn’t happen often, so enjoy the moment.

I can recognize how close I came. I can recognize how much farther I have to go. I’ve watched the tape. Twice. (Bon, plus de deux fois.)

But there is not one person breathing on this roster who will stop me from returning to prominence, or from becoming the only name in Stampede worth a push notification.

End Game has come and gone. We’re still here… not surprised. Spark Mayberry took the hit on the last night so the rest of us didn’t have to, and that’s a girl’s girl move if I’ve ever seen one.

I lost the Mercedes KV Battle Royal. It didn’t go the way I thought it would either. I never had much of a connection to her, and I won’t bad-mouth someone who put her body on the line, even when there’s tea to spill, and made a name for herself as UNW Knockouts Champion. I will say, I pray she had good wrestling gears to accept the title, which, respectfully, is its own kind of tragedy... if she didn’t. That happened. Everybody can move on.

Background actors’ lives matter, too. Every good party needs people to fill the room and make the host look popular. Someone has to stand near the punch bowl and clap on cue, God bless them. Extras get cast all the time. They’ll never hit the milestones some of us hit, and most of them will never hear their own name called on a card, but hey, the union dues still clear.

Okay, who am I kidding?

When was the last time any of them stole a moment from me? On camera, in the ring, at catering? Important, sure. Absolutely. Just don’t expect them to come for the queen. You don’t sign up for background work and then act surprised when the credits roll without you.

Then there’s our UNW Women’s World Champion, Santina Perez.

Santina, I hope you’ve got a firm but warm grip on that title. Hold it as tight as you need to, because the second I lift it off your shoulder, you’ll be in your nail tech’s DMs bright and early like she owes you money, for her messing up your cuticals. Those claws are going to shatter trying to keep hold of something that is, quite frankly, only taking the scenic route to get to me.

Point blank.

And let’s not pretend I don’t know how you actually got that belt. You never had to go through me for it, not really. The one time we shared a ring, I was fresh off suspension and you were just getting loose before the real fight. Efficient. I’ll give you that much.

And how could I possibly forget our fearless leader?

Our little MVP. Our Queen of Grapples. The Mother, the Saint, and the Holy Spirit. The Ace of UNW, and quite possibly the second-most marketable face in this company after mine.

Hanako Nanami.

Hanako, don’t get used to me complimenting you. This isn’t a pattern. I just can’t say much against you. Last season you gave me one of the best matches of my career. You did Stampede proud, and you carried the UNW Women’s World Championship to heights it probably won’t see as often now that you’ve stumbled and dropped it.

At The Ninth Anniversary Show, I got to share a ring with you. And if I can be a bit of a stan (low-key, okay, high-key) I wouldn’t trade that loss. But I can’t let it stand, can I?

I didn’t get the clean shot back to you either. Different story, less flattering, we don’t need to relive it yet, I want it when it matters most. But I see exactly what happened to that belt, even if I wasn’t the one standing across from her when it did.

So when you finally get off those crutches, I hope to see you back in the ring very soon. I’ll be coming to collect that loss with interest, like whatever tacky layaway plan our contemporaries use to afford designer. And when we meet again, everything you think you know about me will be useless.

You won’t recognize me the second time.

(I barely recognized me the first time.)

Rest up, champ. You’ve earned it. Just don’t deprive Stampede of one of its few bright spots. Between you and Punch, I genuinely can’t decide who’s more tolerable. At least I don’t hate either of you as much as I hate everyone else.

Now that the Hallmark portion of this promo is over, let me be clear.

Ryan. Season Two. Cut sharper, priced higher, and every seam reinforced where somebody tried to pull last year.

You’ll notice the silhouette has changed. Last season’s line has been recalled, and I’d advise everyone to burn what they still have in the closet.

This year, the silhouette is a warning label.

Warning: (I AM THE MOST DANGEROUS WOMAN ENTERING THIS SEASON.)

Not because I failed to back it up last season. Because I backed up every word, and made mistakes doing it. Sports, social media, and the front row at Paris Fashion Week all run on the same principle: if you want to hold the room, you have to be willing to take risks and make mistakes. I made mine in my rookie season.

I can turn the worst headline imaginable into a publicity stunt. Hand me any caption you like and I’ll make it a headline your publicist (if you had one) wish they’d thought of.

Lightning never has to strike me twice… I’ve never lost on social media, ever.

Santina and Hanako both beat the version of me that was lost. That version is gone. We burned her like the tents at Fyre Festival: cheap, viral, (documentary is still on YouTube)

I can wrestle.

Everyone on this roster knows it. If they don’t, or they choose to live in ignorance, that’s fine. It’ll make my job easier.

Some women do it for the gold. Some do it for the exposure. I do it pour l’amour du jeu, and the gold is simply a very well-made, hand-crafted accessory.

And last season doesn’t get to define me. It can pay the cancelation fee.

You cannot wrestle the same girl twice and expect her not to grow. Who the hell do you think I am, Wyndham Everdeen? Arre, please. We’ve already seen how that story ends.

I’m not a fan, and if I were anywhere near her, it wouldn’t take long to prove it. One straight kick to the face and she’d be doubled over, reconsidering every choice she’s ever made. Maybe motherhood would suit her better. Maybe she can defy time and turn back the clock once more.

Tellement tragique...

Because that’s what she is to UNW now. She’s the heirloom they take out of the vault every year, polish, and set at the head of the table for the photograph. Everybody claps. Nobody eats off it. She’s returned so many times she should be collecting frequent flyer points, one comeback stamped right over the last like a passport nobody’s checking anymore. And it doesn’t have to be about wrestling, does it? It can just be about the vibes, the nostalgia marketing, and whatever else keeps the lights on.

(Encore.)

Somewhere a marketing intern is asking which shade of nostalgia we’re going with this year.

Sepia. It’s always sepia.

The audacity.

I doubt UNW is desperate for attention, clicks, views, or whatever else, but whatever happened to paying legends for their likenesses on action figures? My father’s has been on a shelf since 1987, and a check still shows up every quarter. Ask me how I know what a legend is owed.

There’s a new UNW video game due next year, isn’t there?

Non?

I think several people need to clear the way and let someone else step up. One roster spot at a time. If I’m already sick of looking at the old guard, imagine how my peers feel.

That doesn’t mean I don’t respect what they did. Oh no. I do.

There’s only so much secondhand embarrassment fans can pay to watch, cheering for someone who doesn’t know how to leave the stage.

It’s cute. It may even be riveting in certain respects. But with all this change around us, how are they supposed to keep up?

That’s elder abuse of the highest order.

#ProtectTheNanas.

They paved the way for us. The least we can do is show that we care and honor the sacrifices they made pre-CTE. Post-CTE? I don’t really know. (Wouldn’t shock me if they prepacked it with our contracts.) Some people simply enjoy running their heads into the same limestone wall.

I suppose I should wrap this up. My driver has been idling since the second paragraph, and I have pictures for the ’gram to take and smiles to give.

My goal for next season isn’t very different from what I was already doing.

PROVING MYSELF A HOUSEHOLD NAME.

I’m going to find bigger and better competition, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. The talent was never the question. The results are coming. And every one of you knows it.

The other girls can squabble over who’s the best. They can post their Amalfi dinners and their borrowed jets and whatever stupid, expensive things they bought in the off-season. I heard someone got engaged in a hot air balloon over some mountains. If true, I’m thrilled for her. Truly. I hope the ring survives the lady’s group chat. They can argue about who’s a mess, who’s chopped, and whatever else helps them sleep at night.

I don’t have time for it. While they’re busy, I’ll be the one raising the UNW Women’s World Championship when no one expects it.

That’s the difference between iconic and forgettable. Revered and last week’s blind item.

I don’t need a boyfriend to choose my battles for me. I have a girlfriend, and I don’t need to ask her for a thing. She’s richer than most of the people who sign your paychecks, and she’s never once had to learn what a per diem is. Doesn’t stop her from treating me like something kept behind glass. I let her.

I’m not afraid of ruining my manicure, and my favorite sport is dropping my heel onto the necks of social climbers.

Fact check: the heels are from Thom Browne’s Spring 2027 collection. Built to stun. Heavy enough to close an airway in seconds.

Aside from that, I’m looking for trouble.

My social media hasn’t been the same since I waltzed into this company, graced your screens, and talked all the shit I talked.

“But Ryan, are you admitting you talk shit for fun?”

Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?

Every word of it happened, and I’m not taking one back. Je ne regrette rien. Take the mouth away and whoever’s left isn’t me. That mouth got me through the door, and not one of you kept it shut long enough for it to stop mattering. Pay attention, bestie: if you want to get rid of someone, you don’t hand her a microphone and give her airtime.

But the mouth was the trailer. The wrestling is the feature.

And last season, in a handful of moments (that night at The Anniversary Show, every second Hanako let me keep) you got a look at the feature. Maybe I talked that loud because it kept everyone from asking what else I had.

(Peut-être.)

Turns out I had plenty. That’s the girl I’m bringing into this season. The mouth stays. She’ll always be part of me. She just doesn’t get to be the main event anymore. I don’t need to run mine much these days. Just enough to remind you I’m multifaceted.

Even when I was gone, things weren’t the same, were they?

(C’était pareil?)

Things were catastrophically boring without me in the building.

Enfin, I’m glad we had this little chat. It’s been fun, but I still have the rest of my vacation to enjoy. When in Rome—

Actually, it was Venice.

Now I’m off to Indonesia, to a tree house, for a few weeks, to drink cocktails I can’t pronounce and leave the rest of you to fight over the scraps. Enjoy every second of the quiet, because when I get back, I’m going to do exactly what I always do: be myself, be expensive, and remain one of the only people here who isn’t afraid of being disliked.

Being me got me into the party.

Being me will keep me on the list long after I decide to leave it.

(And for the record? I did miss the ring. Pas vous. Lui.)

Can’t say the same, that I missed any of you.