Backstage Temptation: The Rise of Ember Vyx

 

The hum of fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Ember Vyx stepped into the SlamHouse Wrestling canteen for the first time. The scent of old coffee, grease, and half-finished protein shakes clung to the air. The canteen wasn’t glamorous—just a breakroom nestled between the locker rooms and the training ring—but to Ember, it felt like the heartbeat of the place.

She wasn’t just the new girl. She was the new girl.

Tall, flame-haired, and trained in underground circuits across Mexico and Japan, Ember had just signed her contract with SlamHouse Wrestling—a promotion known for its unfiltered energy, steamy backstage drama, and blood-soaked rivalries. Her ring name burned across her promo posters like fire: Ember Vyx.

She wore her persona like her gear—tight, daring, unapologetic. But here, off-stage, in the buzz of microwaves and vending machines, everything felt different. Intimate. Quiet. Dangerous in a different way.

“Didn’t think the new girl actually existed,” a voice said.

Ember turned. A man leaned against the vending machine, arms crossed. Ripped hoodie. Sleeves pushed up to reveal veins and calluses. He looked like someone who’d bled on more mats than he'd walked on carpet. Jax Ryder—one of SlamHouse’s roughest brawlers.

“Rumors said they signed a firestarter,” he added. “Didn’t expect you to look like that.”

Ember smirked. “Didn’t expect you to talk like that.”

Jax chuckled. “Fair.”

She brushed past him, hips swaying deliberately as she opened the fridge for a cold bottle of water. His eyes followed. She noticed.

“You always stare at the rookies like that?” she asked, twisting the cap open.

“Only the ones who look like they bite.”

She took a sip, then turned to face him. “Only if they bite first.”

Jax stepped closer, the air between them thickening like the tension before a promo faceoff. But before either could speak again, the loudspeaker crackled to life.

“Main ring’s booked. Ten minutes. Ember Vyx vs. Jasmine Wilde. Debut dark match.”

Ember’s heart didn’t skip. It roared.

She brushed past Jax again, this time slower. “Guess I’ll see you ringside.”

“Front row,” he said, voice gravelly.

---

The match was brutal—just the way SlamHouse liked it. Jasmine Wilde was no pushover. But Ember moved like wildfire. She dodged, ducked, flared. And when she hit her finisher—“The Flameout”—a split-legged somersault DDT, the crowd in the small dark match area lost it.

After the three-count, Ember didn’t wait to celebrate. She headed back to the canteen, heart pounding, sweat dripping down her spine.

It was empty.

She grabbed her towel from the bench and wiped down.

Then she heard it.

The clunk of the vending machine.

Jax stood there again, this time holding a soda can like a peace offering. “You killed it out there.”

Ember took the drink, leaned back on the bench, and kicked her feet up.

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll let you be my tag partner someday.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they call it now?”

She smirked, tilting her head. “Only in the canteen.”

There was heat, unspoken but thick like the sweat on her neck.

But this wasn’t a romance story. This was wrestling.

And Ember Vyx didn’t come to SlamHouse to fall in love.

She came to own it.

Still, she didn’t stop him when he sat beside her.

Didn’t stop him when his fingers brushed her wrist.

Didn’t stop herself from whispering, “Maybe I bite even when they don’t.”

And the hum of the vending machine kept purring, like it knew all the secrets exchanged between matches and cold drinks.

---

By morning, the canteen was empty again. But stuck on the vending machine was a single sticky note:

“Tag team tryouts—after hours.”

Signed,

Vyx