The sun dipped behind the Vegas skyline, painting the walls of LJ’s apartment in a fading hue of gold. The place still looked half-lived-in, law books half-stacked, photos leaning against walls, a few unopened boxes shoved beneath the desk. He hadn't really settled in, not with everything else pulling him in a dozen directions.
He stood by the kitchen counter, his thumb slipping under the seal of a formal envelope — University of Texas School of Law, the crest printed proudly at the top corner.
He’d been waiting for this.
LJ Kasey unfolded the letter, eyes scanning each line with growing stillness.
“Dear Mr. Kasey…”
“…after careful consideration of your application…”
“…we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer admission at this time due to unresolved eligibility concerns regarding international student status.”
“…we encourage you to explore other academic opportunities…”
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t curse.
Didn’t even blink.
He just slowly folded the paper, deliberately, precisely, and walked it over to the bin. He slid it in, not torn, not crumpled, just gone. The trash lid clicked shut with a soft, mechanical finality.
His jaw set, brows tightening just enough to betray the weight behind his silence.
He’d known there was a chance. A “technicality.” That word they use when it’s not about your merit, but something bigger than you, paperwork, borders, bureaucracy. Still felt like a rejection. Still felt like something he’d worked toward was being quietly revoked without apology.
He leaned on the counter, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep him steady. The bookshelf across the room caught his eye, outlines of legal texts, application guides, printouts with notes he hadn’t touched in weeks. All that preparation.
All that hope. Gone.
And in that moment to tell him and remind him that all hope wasn’t lost, his phone lit up with a familiar ringtone. It was Ally calling.
He hesitated for just a moment before answering, pressing the phone to his ear with a soft, "Hey angel."
Her voice came through warm, intuitive, like she already knew, "You got bad news, didn’t you?”
He exhaled, a wry little laugh caught in the back of his throat, "Yeah. I went and picked up the post today and there was a letter there from U-T. Just finally got around to reading it.”
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked, gently. No pressure, just presence.
LJ leaned back against the counter, his eyes scanning the apartment again, "They basically said thanks, but no thanks. Something about eligibility issues. Translation: we don’t know what to do with a British kid who hasn’t jumped through every hoop yet. Blah blah fuckin’ blah.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ally muttered under her breath, "You worked your ass off. You’ve earned that spot ten times over.”
“Doesn’t really change the outcome, does it?” he said, voice low but not bitter, "They were the only reason Texas still made sense for me. Actually the reason it made any sense is you and Ashlynn.”
There was a brief pause on the other end. Not awkward, just real.
“You still have options, hun” she said carefully, "UNLV’s got a solid program. Boyd’s no joke.”
“I know.” He pushed off the counter and walked into the living room, fingers trailing along the edge of a stack of law books, "It’s not about settling. It's just sometimes, the universe has a way of nudging you in the direction you were probably meant to go all along.”
Ally stayed quiet, letting him talk.
He glanced around his apartment still sparse, still temporary in feel, like he’d been holding back from making it feel like home, “But if I stay here…” he started, his voice softening, “I don’t want to keep doing the long-distance shuffle. Not just for me but for you and in a way for Ashlynn.”
She didn’t say anything right away and that pause told him everything. She was listening. Thinking. Feeling.
“I’m not trying to rush anything,” he added quickly, almost stumbling over the next words, "It’s just...the idea of waking up next to you, not having to count days or flights or FaceTimes...it sounds like something real. Something we could build. Together.”
Ally was quiet for another breath. Then, “Are you asking me to move in with you, Kasey?”
He laughed softly, running a hand through his hair, "Not officially. Not yet. Just planting the seed, potentially.”
There was a smile in her voice when she answered, "Well, water it right, and we’ll see what grows.”
LJ felt something ease in his chest, not relief, exactly, but possibility. Real, grounded possibility, "Thanks for calling,” he said finally, quieter now, "You always seem to know when to show up.”
“That’s ‘cause I know you better than you think,” she said, and he could almost see her smirk, "What time is that flight of yours, I need help picking out the right outfits for Spain.”
He grinned, "I have a visit to make but I’m taking off first thing tomorrow and I’ll be there before you know it.”
And just like that, the rejection lost its sting. Not forgotten. But no longer the defining note of his day.
“Boyd’s Eye View”
Las Vegas, NV
Early Afternoon
The August sun was already brutal when LJ Kasey stepped onto the campus of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, not because it was heavy, but because he needed something to do with his hands.
Miles had dropped him off without a word of protest, unusually quiet. He hadn’t even made a joke, and that was miles off-brand.
The William S. Boyd School of Law sat nestled just off the main drag of campus, a modern building of concrete and glass. LJ hesitated before walking in, taking in the clean lines, the buzz of conversation, the air of quiet urgency inside.
He hadn’t walked into a law school building since he sent in all his applications. He has one door slam shut. But this one, well, maybe it wasn’t a door yet. Maybe it was a window. Maybe it was just a crack in the wall, enough to breathe through.
The woman at the front desk was polite, almost too polite, when he explained why he was there. She made a few calls, eyebrows lifting as she scribbled something down, "You’ve been invited to audit Professor Roth’s constitutional law lecture. He’s familiar with you. Not from wrestling,” she added with a knowing smile, "From your essays.”
That surprised him. Pleasantly. And from there she gave him the directions.
Law Classroom, 2nd Floor
The lecture hall wasn’t full. Roth, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp voice, was discussing Marbury v. Madison, pacing back and forth.
LJ sat near the back, quietly. He should’ve been bored, distracted. But he wasn’t.
This? This was a mental match. Verbal combat. Footwork of the mind and he loved every minute of it. He loved it the way he loved counter-wrestling in the ring. Anticipating, reacting, adapting.
The classroom smelled like paper and air conditioning — old wood polish and new ambition. Rows of stadium-style seating curved around the heart of the room, where Professor Roth stood, chalk in one hand and a thick casebook in the other. The overhead lights cast a soft hum over the scene, just bright enough to keep minds sharp but not sterile.
LJ took a seat near the back, his black hoodie a quiet contrast to the collared shirts and laptop screens glowing in front of him. He kept his hands tucked into his sleeves — not cold, just uncertain. He had faced down bloodthirsty crowds, steel ladders, and furious competitors.
But this? This was different.
There was no bell to signal the start. Roth simply lifted his head and spoke, commanding the room without ever raising his voice.
“Marbury v. Madison. Judicial review. The foundation. Why do we care about a case from 1803? Because it’s still pulling the strings today. Now tell me—who wins when the court decides it has the final say?”
The room stirred. A girl in the front raised her hand, gave an answer. It wasn’t wrong. But Roth didn’t smile.
“That’s the surface,” he replied, "You want to be lawyers? Get under the skin of the law. Pick at it. Make it bleed.”
LJ blinked. He leaned forward, just slightly.
This wasn’t like televised debates or courtroom dramas. It wasn’t theatrical. It was... surgical. And honest.
Roth kept walking.
“John Marshall made himself the most powerful man in America by pretending to limit himself. That’s power. Knowing how to lose a battle, but win the war.”
LJ had no notes. No laptop. Just a borrowed legal pad with the corner torn from where an old SCW sticker used to be. He wrote only three words: “Lose. Control. Strategy.”
His mind wandered, not away from the lecture, but deeper into it. Roth was talking about interpretation, balance, the power to define the rules. LJ thought about wrestling. About ring generals. About Carter, about Miles, about matches that had been lost not from lack of skill, but from misreading the moment.
Wasn’t that all this was? Strategy. Tempo. Reading the room and flipping it. He didn’t need to be the loudest. Just the smartest. The most adaptable.
For the first time in a long time, LJ felt his brain stretch. Like someone had pulled open a window he didn’t know was locked. He watched students challenge Roth, some timid, some cocky, some wildly off-base, and saw how the professor batted each one down or propped them up. Never cruel. Always exact. And then...
“Mr. Kasey,” Roth called suddenly, without looking up.
Every head in the room turned, staring directly at him.
LJ straightened, "Y-yes?”
“I invited Mr. Kasey here as a guest when I found out he was paying us a visit to Boyd. And yes, I know that you’re not enrolled. Yet. But I’ve read your writing. The one on statutory overbreadth.”
“You did?”
“Sharp. Unpolished but sharp. You know how to cut through the clutter. Just don’t let your instinct scare you away from nuance.” It was the highest praise LJ had heard in weeks...hell...months, maybe.
Roth tossed a dry-erase marker in the air and caught it with a grin, "All right," Professor Roth said, uncapping a green dry-erase marker with a quick snap, "Let’s switch our talk to power and optics. Let’s talk about Korematsu v. United States. Who here thinks the government got it right?"
A few students shifted in their seats. No hands went up. No one wanted to defend the internment of Japanese Americans, even under the weight of war-time necessity. Roth tapped the board once, then turned to the class.
"Then here’s a better question. What do you do when the law supports an immoral decision? When legality and justice don’t shake hands?" He let that question hang, "Anyone?"
Silence. A few half-formed thoughts started to bubble, hesitant murmurs and stalling phrases. Roth was patient, but his gaze started to flick toward the back.
"Mr. Kasey. Since you are an invited guest, I’m going to give you a rare chance to shine in my class. I know you are not from our particular neck of the woods but knowing your work, I would love to hear your opinions. Impress me."
A pause but LJ didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, the pad in front of him filled with messy notes and phrases, but he wasn’t reading from them now. His voice was calm and steady as he adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath.
“Korematsu’s a case that exposes the fragility of constitutional promises. Legality was used as a shield for prejudice and the Court let fear dictate reason. But I think that’s the point, Professor. The law didn’t fail because it was wrong on paper. It failed because the people interpreting it stopped asking why the Constitution exists in the first place.” A few heads turned as they heard this tall man with a thick accent speak. LJ just kept going, "Judicial restraint, deference to the executive during war, those are doctrines. But they’re only as strong as the integrity behind them. And in Korematsu, the Court wasn’t interpreting the Constitution. It was hiding behind it.”
Roth’s eyes narrowed, not in irritation, but interest. LJ straightened up and met his gaze.
“The job of a lawyer isn’t just to argue what the law says. It’s to ask whether what it says is worth defending. If we stop asking why, we stop being lawyers and start being parrots.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, the kind of quiet that means something had landed hard and true. Then Roth smirked.
“There it is,” he said softly, turning back to the board, "A scalpel instead of a sledgehammer.”
He tapped LJ’s name on the attendance sheet, where he had penciled his name in as a potential visitor, the one he’d scribbled down in the margin.
“Next time, Mr. Kasey, sit in the front row. The back’s too far for good ideas to echo.”
LJ didn’t grin, not outwardly, but there was a flicker of fire in his chest that hadn’t been there earlier. Not since the letter from Texas. Not since the doors had started to close. Maybe this one was opening.
Maybe law wasn’t his backup plan. Maybe it was also who he was.
Outside the Lecture Hall, Just After Class
The classroom emptied slowly. Some students offered LJ a passing nod, others a curious glance. A few lingered longer than they needed to, just close enough to eavesdrop. Professor Roth gathered his materials deliberately, waiting. LJ stood, slipping his notebook under one arm, not quite sure if he should leave or not.
“Mr. Kasey,” Roth called out, "May I have a quick word?”
LJ approached the front of the room, cautious but composed, "Yes, sir?”
Roth leaned against the desk, arms folded across a faded navy blazer. His expression wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t dismissive either, it was clinical and curious. Like he was studying LJ now under a different lens.
“How many lectures have you sat in here at Boyd?”
“This is the third,” LJ admitted, he would pop up and sit in on something to get a few feels for things but he had remained uncertain about what or where he was going to go, “I didn't want to be that guy, so I tried to stay low profile.”
“Mm.” Roth raised a brow, "Well, you failed spectacularly at that today.”
LJ blinked, unsure if that was a compliment or not. Roth let the silence linger before continuing.
“I’ve had students who talk well. I’ve had students who write well. But rarely both. And rarer still, students who don’t flinch at the hard questions.”
“I wasn’t trying to show off,” LJ said honestly, "Just, I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”
“I know,” Roth replied, "That’s why I want you here. Not just as a visitor.”
LJ’s breath caught slightly. Roth pushed off the desk and moved a little closer, arms still crossed, voice low and firm.
“Let me make things very clear for you, Mr. Kasey. William S. Boyd isn’t a fallback school. We don’t traffic in legacy admissions or celebrity placements. We deal in fire, discipline and rigor. I don’t care where you come from, who your brother is, or your mothers, and yes I know them both, or whatever title you’ve lost recently...if you bring the same level of insight to your briefs as you just brought to that argument, you’ll go far.” He paused briefly, “But only if you commit. Half-in doesn’t fly here. If you want this? Show me. Show this school.”
LJ nodded slowly, that familiar knot in his chest loosening. This wasn’t charity. This was a challenge.
“Yes, sir,” he said, "I really do want this.”
Roth gave a brief nod, then added, almost as an afterthought:
“And next time? Don’t wait to be called on. Own the room. You’re not in the shadows anymore, Mr. Kasey. Oh and good luck in Ibiza.”
It’s Time
Ibiza, Spain
The sun hung just low enough over the Mediterranean, that it had casted a warm, golden glow over the sparkling coastline. The scent of salt, sweat, and sunblock lingered in the breeze as tourists wandered the beach, but LJ Kasey didn’t notice any of it. He stood alone near the edge of a cliff walk that provided him the spectacular sight, the crashing of waves below a distant roar. There was no smile. No easy swagger. Just intensity and a storm beneath the surface.
“I’ve been patient long enough.”
His voice was low but sharp, slicing through the warm air like a blade. He didn’t bother facing the camera crew fully yet, he was still staring off at the horizon, letting the words come naturally.
“Summer Xxxtreme passed me by. Sat on the sidelines, watching. I felt the cheers, the jeers, the gold changing hands and I stood still. Not by choice. Not because I couldn’t compete. But because I had to wait. Again.”
He finally turned, jaw set, eyes burning with determination. His SCW T-shirt was damp with sweat, hair messily tied back. No glamour. Just grit.
“But now? I’m done waiting. And just lingering on my horizon is “Felix ‘The Cat’ Hernandez…”
A bitter smirk twisted on his lips.
“I so love to hear just how clever you are. And mate, I’ll give you that. Slippery. Opportunistic. And you’ve got no problem cutting a corner when the ref’s distracted, do you? Whether it’s Bill or Bea watching your back, you always seem to find your way into someone else’s spotlight, clawing for scraps of attention like the alley cat you are. But this week, in Ibiza, you won’t be slinking away with a win.”
He stepped forward, closer now, the camera catching every word with striking clarity.
“Because you’re not stepping in the ring with just a name. You’re stepping in the ring with a man who has not a damn thing to lose and everything to prove. I’ve tasted blood. I’ve tasted heartbreak. And now, I want gold. And the only thing standing in my way right now is you. You want to cheat? Go for it. Have Bill trip me up. Let Bea run her mouth. Stack the odds like a deck of marked cards, it doesn’t matter.”
His voice dropped, quiet but lethal.
“You know damn well that I’m smarter than you. That I’m faster than you. And I’ve bled enough to know when it’s time to unleash hell.”
He pointed to the crest of the SCW logo on his sleeve.
“This brand doesn’t hand out titles. You earn them. And I’ve been scraping my knuckles raw trying to climb this mountain while everyone points at my brother, my past, or my failures. But Felix…”
A cold glint sparked in his eyes.
“You? You’re going to be my example. The world is going to remember Ibiza not for the party that is this entire cycle, or the clubs or the beaches, but because that was the night LJ Kasey flipped the switch. That was the night I started my ascent. That was the night I cracked your jaw wide open and planted my flag in this division. No more shadows. No more silence. I’m done being overlooked.”
He stepped away from the ledge, past the camera crew, voice trailing off like a promise spoken in stone.
“Now I dominate.”
His silhouette was sharp, rigid. He is a man holding the weight of every loss, every missed opportunity, every sideways glance that told him he wasn't there yet. But something had shifted.
He looked up, eyes reflecting orange and gold from the sun, but the glint in them was colder. Steadier.
“Felix Hernandez, I feel like you and I were a long time coming.”
He scoffed, pacing a step to the side, dragging a hand back through his hair.
“I’ve watched you make a joke of matches. Cheat, slip through the cracks, turn every match into a cheap circus act with your little entourage flapping at ringside like seagulls around a dumpster. And somehow, you keep finding ways to stay relevant. JUST BARELY but relevant. But this week? You’re not getting clever. You’re not getting cute. You're not walking out on your feet. I’ll make sure of that one, bruv.”
LJ’s voice was a slow burn now, gaining power with every syllable.
“I’ve had to claw and scrape just for scraps. Watching other people leapfrog over me because of flash, legacy, or because they’re willing to sell out. I’ve been humble. I’ve been hungry. And I’ve been patient.”
His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck tight with restraint.
“But patience doesn’t get you gold. So here’s the truth, Felix; this isn’t about you. Not really. You’re just the one who has to suffer for it. You’re the first stop on my warpath, the first brick I’m tearing down in the wall that’s been built between me and SCW gold. You just happened to draw the short straw.”
He stared dead into the camera now, no smirk, no grin, just steel.
“I want championships. I want to be undeniable. And I am done playing politely about it all. Bill and Bea can bark from ringside all they want. Try to slide brass knuckles into your boot or trip me when the ref’s distracted, I’m actually counting on it. Because when you throw everything at me and still lose, there’s no excuse left to hide behind.”
“You think I’m just Miles’ little brother? Just another name riding a last name?”
He shook his head slowly.
“You don’t get it. I’ve never wanted to live in his shadow. I’ve wanted to burn my own path with a blowtorch. But you and everyone else kept writing me off like I was a footnote in someone else’s story.”
He steps closer again, fists clenched at his sides.
“But I’m not a footnote. I’m the rewrite. And come Ibiza, I make my statement in blood and broken pride. Yours.”
He let the silence hang for a second, eyes narrowing.
“Let’s see how many of your little tricks can save you when I get my hands on you, Felix. Let’s see what’s left of the smirk when the lights hit your face and I’m the one getting my hand raised.”
He turns, walking toward the steep stairs that lead down to the shoreline.
“No more waiting. No more hoping. I’m going to take it. And you, Felix...you’re just the one who gets to scream first.”
He didn't look back as the shot faded out — just the sound of waves crashing behind him and the fire of resolve burning in his wake.
