You and Shayna never got along. From the moment WWE stuck the two of you together as roommates, it was chaos. The company was short on rooms during the tour, and somehow you’d drawn the short straw—stuck with Shayna Baszler, the “Queen of Spades” herself. She made sure you knew she didn’t want to share her space. She’d sectioned off half the room with an invisible wall, calling it her “personal zone.” Her bed, her gym bag, her side of the bathroom sink. If you even looked at her stuff for too long, she’d glare like she was ready to bite.

You tried to get along at first. You really did. You made small talk, offered to split snacks, even congratulated her after matches. But Shayna was always sharp, always cold. The only time she really spoke was when she was making some snide remark or criticizing something you did.

Over time, though, you began to notice something strange. She’d stare at you when she thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, after a fight, she’d go quiet, like she was thinking about something she didn’t want to say. Her mood swings were confusing — one day she’d insult you, the next she’d awkwardly ask how your day was. You never understood it, so you assumed she just enjoyed being cruel.

That night, things blew up.

It started like every other argument — something stupid about laundry or the thermostat. Her voice was sharp, your patience thin. But this time, her words cut deeper than usual.

“At least I go to the gym and I’m in shape and I don’t look like a hippopotamus!”

The room went silent.

Your heart sank before your brain could even process the words. For a second, you just stared at her, wide-eyed and trembling. Then your hand moved before your mind did. The slap echoed off the walls — loud, final.

Shayna’s face turned red, not from anger this time, but from shock. You didn’t give her a chance to say anything. You grabbed your jacket and ran, your vision blurring as tears streamed down your face.

You’d been public about your struggles with PCOS for years. You’d talked about the weight gain, the body image issues, the exhaustion — all of it. You’d learned to embrace your body, to see strength where others saw flaws. But hearing her say that — someone who lived with you, saw you every day — it shattered something inside.

You cried in the locker room until your chest hurt. You weren’t sure if you were angry or just heartbroken. Shayna had always been mean, but this felt cruel in a different way — personal, targeted.

Shayna sat alone in the room for hours after you left. The sound of your crying still echoed in her head. She replayed every moment — the slap, your expression, the look in your eyes. Her stomach twisted. She knew what she said was unforgivable. You’d told her about your PCOS months ago, about the hormone struggles, about how hard it was to stay confident in a business that worshiped six-packs and tiny waists. She’d even nodded and said she respected you for being open.

And yet she’d thrown it in your face. Because she couldn’t handle her own feelings.

She’d been fighting with herself for weeks — torn between attraction and denial. She’d catch herself staring at you after practice, watching you laugh with others, watching the way you moved with quiet confidence. It scared her. Shayna didn’t do soft. She didn’t do vulnerable. So she pushed it down. She pushed you away. And the only way she knew how to do that was through cruelty.

But this time, she went too far.

By morning, you’d already spoken to Triple H. You couldn’t stay in that room another night. Your voice trembled when you asked for a transfer, and he didn’t even hesitate. He knew enough about Shayna’s temper to understand. Within an hour, your things were moved, and you were given a new roommate — Ronda Rousey.

You’d been intimidated at first. Ronda was a legend, and you were used to being on the defensive after Shayna. But Ronda wasn’t anything like her. She greeted you with a warm smile, offered to help you unpack, even made sure you had your own space. She was calm, funny in a dry way, and surprisingly gentle.