The following afternoon, Vince found himself seated in IRW's cramped booking office with Mark Rivera, the company's booker. The walls were lined with outdated filing cabinets crammed full with old match sheets, abandoned storylines, and archival footage. Behind Mark's desk was a single corkboard with pinned photographs of every wrestler on the roster—most of the wrestlers stared vacantly back at Vince, their personality as undefined as their matches!
Mark was a man in his forties, bald on top, tired-eyed, and cautious. He sat across from Vince and made eye contact, but he appeared uncertain as to how much control he actually had over the direction of IRW. Vince could sense it. If he wanted Mark on his side, he could not bulldoze him.
"I don't want to step on your toes, Mark," Vince said calmly. "You've been doing this for a long time. I just want to we are on the same page. We can make IRW something people will talk about again if we can work together."
Mark mustered up some skeptical eye contact, but he was listening. "Okay. You have my ear."
Vince tapped the clipboard, given to him by Gus Bradley, the head trainer. "These are our wrestlers. Let's see what we've got."
He looked down the list and began to circle names. "Here - this guy, Ricky Kincaid. He looks good, is charismatic, and is babyface material. The crowd will eat him up. Then there is Victor Cross. He has the mean look; he's heel material."
Mark nodded slowly. "Victor can really annoy people," he said.
"Just what we need," Vince said with a smile. "And this group. Diego Cortez and Darren Cole - both showmen in the ring. They can fly. They are wasted in random filler matches. Lets put them in the spotlight."
As they continued down the line, Vince circled others - submission wrestlers, brawlers, and technical workers that could help create some variety in the in-ring style. So far, all of the matches at IRW had looked the same - slow, steady grappling matches that didn't pop any excitement. Vince had great ideas and could picture a full roster with some variety that could hook different fan bases.
But the biggest issue? It was just one men's championship, which made everything else feel irrelevant to the audience.
"This is where I change that," Vince said, leaning slightly forward. "We need something to stake in the game. What if we create a secondary championship? Something for the midcard. A title that gives those guys some direction."
Mark cocked an eyebrow. "Another title? Isn't that going to dilute the main one?"
"No," Vince said. "It's basically going to offer guys at the bottom of the card, something to fight for now. It increases prestige for everyone. The more feuds, the better. The more stakes we introduce, the better. Fans do not want to watch pointless matches - they want rivalries, and they want purpose."
Mark stared at him for a long moment, and then for the first time, his eyes brightened. "You know... that could actually work. We could have tournaments for it. We could just crown a new champion on TV."
"Exactly," Vince said. "And that's just the starting point."
Mark curled a faint smirk. "Alright, Vince. You have my interest."
______
Later that day, Vince went to the women's locker room with a separate page of notes. The women's division was small with only eight wrestlers, and was often overlooked and shoved into a single short match every week. But Vince recognized potential here. If he could make his heel versus babyface idea work anywhere, it was here.
Upon walking into the women's locker room, all the women turned to look at him, and there was a palpable tension in the room. He could see fear in their eyes. They thought he was here to fire them.
"Relax," Vince said with a calm smile, raising his hands. "I'm not here to cut anyone. In fact, just the opposite—I want to make this division matter."
Vince recognized relief on their faces, even though they still seemed suspicious. He opened up his notes and looked at the mini-roster: Tracey Prince, the reigning women's champion, was a solid worker, but had the personality of a dried-up dish sponge. Evelyn Sharma, a new a little green rookie, a fiery underdog that could be cultivated into something special. And then there was Maya Hart, sharp-tongued, aggressive, and practically a heel by birth.
He laid out his plan. "Tracey, tomorrow night you're going to step out there and throw down an open challenge. Evelyn, you'll accept it. You two will have a little back-and-forth, the referee will call for the bell, and we'll kick off the match. Tracey, you'll take charge for most of it. Evelyn, you'll stage a big comeback towards the end, almost pinning her—but then Tracey will turn the tables and snag the win. It'll be clean, but still competitive."
Tracey nodded slowly. "So, just a typical title defense?"
"Not quite," Vince replied with a mischievous grin. "That's when Maya makes her entrance."
Maya smirked. "Oh, I'm intrigued."
"You'll grab a mic," Vince went on. "You'll go after Tracey—call her a weak champion who boosts her ego by taking down underdogs like Evelyn instead of facing real competition. Get the crowd riled up against you."
Maya leaned back, grinning wider. "Sounds fun."
"And then," Vince finished, "you two brawl. Officials rush out, separate you, crowd's going nuts. Boom—segment ends. Next week, we tease a match between you two. Simple, but it creates tension, a story people want to follow."
There was a beat of silence before Evelyn spoke. "So… you want us to argue? Like acting?"
"Exactly," Vince said. "Not much, just enough to sell the story. The match stays legit, but the drama hooks the audience. Trust me, this will work."
The women exchanged glances, unsure but intrigued. Tracey finally spoke. "Alright. Let's give it a shot."
Maya leaned back, her grin growing wider. "This is going to be a blast."