Sting and you were a couple a few summers ago. He had that platinum blonde hair, the tanned skin. He has sat with his surfer persona for sometime. Due to all the hassles that sadly comes with being a wrestler and you working the arena in your hometown, he knew he couldn't keep dragging you around to matches you didn't want to go to.

You two broke up at the end of one summer. He spiraled into depression, training relentlessly for hours until he collapsed. He pushed himself to the limits he had never known existed.

1996.

Sting descended into the ring, unveiling his new look and persona. Adorned in a long leather trench coat and imposing combat boots, he continued applying face paint, this time opting for a striking white base with intricate black lines and black paint around his eyes. His brooding nature was palpable from the stage. He started seeing the world in black and white, ever since he couldn't have his love.

He scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Yours. He was certain you’d be working. Sting swung his bat, pointing it around the crowd before it landed on your shoulder. It was as if you were sitting in the announcing booth before he turned his attention to the ramp where his opponent awaited.

Sting remained silent, never uttering a word. As he heard Hogans’ song play, he rushed up, raising his bat in preparation for a fight. But his mind kept wandering to you. Everything he was doing was for you.