Chapter One

Cristina

Cristina Lucia sighed in frustration as she tucked a strand of her coffee brown hair behind her ears. From the moment she got out of bed that morning in her small Hollywood apartment, she knew it was going to be a long day. The clock hadn't yet struck eleven, and she had already spilled coffee all over her favorite white blouse, forcing her to run back home to change before starting her journey all over. Now, she was standing in the middle of a busy Los Angeles sidewalk with a broken high heel, thanks to an LA grate.

"Ugh...questo e ridicolo," she murmured furiously, holding the broken heel in her hand.

Six months prior, Cristina had arrived to the United States from Milan, Italy, the fashion capitol of the world. It was a huge risk for her, leaving behind her previous life and starting a new one in a new country, but she was up to the challenge. Since arriving, she learned very quickly that the language barrier was going to be a big hurdle to get across. People always looked at her strangely as she tried to say the things she needed to, some telling her outright that they were having difficulty understanding her accent. A few times she had been told to go back where she had come from, leaving her heartbroken and embarrassed.

It wasn't long after she arrived that she landed as a rock music journalist for a little underground publication. She was happy to have the job, and even happier that the people in charge were willing to overlook her steadily improving English. She was doing what she loved, and she got to hear a lot of great music as a result. That morning she was on her way to interview an up-and-coming band when she had broken her heel. She was already late for the interview, lost, and now her shoe was broken. Part of her wanted to turn back, to go back to her apartment and get under the blankets and never emerge. She was already looking forward to getting home, back to her music and her bathtub and the bottle of pinot noir in the fridge. After the morning she was having, she felt like she had already earned two glasses.

Limping into the closest shoe store she could find, Cristina found herself a cheap pair of ballet flats. It wasn't really in her budget, but she had to get going and there was no possible way she could run home. She was supposed to meet with a new band called Pacifier Puritans. The name of the band made no sense to her, but she took the assignment without question. They were supposed to be a Gothic rock band with an industrial sound, kind of teetering on the edge of progressive metal. Her editor had given her a few band names to compare them to, but Cristina had half-heard the names, already resigned to butchering the names when she had to repeat them.

She left the shoe store, throwing her high heels into the nearest trash can. She began to make her way down the streets again, stopping every few minutes when she felt discomfort on her ankles from the new shoes. She ran a hand through her hair and fought the urge to burst into tears. She felt useless, like she wasn't going to ever get the hang of being in America, of finding her way around.

"Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you, but you look lost. Do you need a hand?"

Turning, blinking back frustrated tears, Cristina looked into the face of the stranger behind her. He was dressed in dark blue jeans and a Misfits band T-shirt underneath a brown leather jacket. A dark red and navy plaid scarf finished the look, tucked underneath the collar of the jacket. Giant, expensive sunglasses covered a good portion of his face. His sandy blond hair was in a small Mohawk. She nodded quickly, grateful that someone was paying attention to her and was willing to help her.

"Yes. I am lost..." she mustered, reaching into her handbag for the address her editor gave her. He took it from her, looking over the address. "My editor...he gave this...I am late. I am new to America..."

"I can tell by the accent. Italian?" he asked. She nodded, impressed.

"Si."

"I swear, Italy produces some of the most beautiful women on the planet," he said with a wink and a grin. Cristina couldn't help herself; a small giggle escape and a soft pink blush warmed her cheeks. As quickly as she giggled, Cristina began to mentally berate herself for acting like a giggling teenager. "The good news is you aren't far from where you need to be..."

"Cristina."

"Cristina." He held out his hand. "I'm Mike. Everyone calls me Miz." She shook his hand, and he was impressed by how firm her grip was. She was a petite woman, with dark, beautiful eyes. "I know where this is. Come on – I'll take you. It's a little out of my way, but I don't mind." She nodded, and they fell into step together. "May I ask why you're going over there? It's a total dive."

"Dive?" she asked.

"It's a dirty and dingy place," he explained. She nodded.

"I have an interview...with a band."

"You're interviewing...oh, are you a music critic?"

"No. Just interviewing." He nodded.

"You have a pretty good grip on English," he blurted. She looked at him, and he immediately became sheepish. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it the way it sounded." She dismissed his statement with a wave.

"It is fine. I take it as great compliment. I have been studying for over a year."

"Self-taught?" he asked. She nodded. "That's dedication. When did you come to the States?"

"Six months." The two of them stopped in front of a dilapidated bar with a marquee that announced a few bands playing later that night. Nobody big, but Pacifier Puritans were the headlining act. Mike smiled at her, taking off his sunglasses and hanging them in the neckline of his shirt. He couldn't stop staring at her eyes; there was so much within them. She was surprised to find his eyes were blue, a beautiful shade that stood out with his tanned skin.

"I travel a lot for work, so I'm not really around a whole lot, but since you're new in town, why don't we exchange numbers?" Cristina stared at him, her face apprehensive. Her mother warned her to be wary of American boys, that they behaved like dogs at the best of times. She spoke from experience; her grandmother had been abandoned by an American soldier in the forties, after World War II. Mike sensed her reluctance and raised his hands in mock surrender. "I promise you I'm on the up and up. I'm good," he clarified. She laughed.

"I am so desperate for friend, I do not care," she confessed, prompting the two of them to laugh. They exchanged phone numbers. She offered him a sheepish and awkward token of gratitude, thankful that he had helped her find her way. Mike stood at the edge of the parking lot, watching Cristina until she disappeared into the bar. He shook his head, amused, before turning away to go and make his scheduled radio appearance.

Hours later, Mike was still thinking about his run-in with her.

He hadn't stopped thinking about her since they had parted. She was easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life. She was a dark beauty, but there was a warm and comforting aura that resonated from her. Her smile had caught him completely off-guard. He had taken in every detail of her as they walked to the bar, her black pants and her black button-down shirt. Several necklaces, beautiful ornate pieces of jewelry, hung off her swan-like neck. She was a little guarded, and he wondered if it had to do with anything she had experienced since coming to America. He knew first-hand how ugly some people could be.

Mike had a girlfriend, so he knew exchanging numbers with another woman and thinking about said woman was probably going to get him into some trouble. Maryse wasn't the understanding type, the definition of the word "possessive." She hated sharing his attention with anyone, friend or otherwise. But something told him he couldn't ignore Cristina, alone on the crowded sidewalk, looking lost and needing a friend. Despite his on-screen persona as a brash and arrogant jerk, Mike Mizanin the man was the opposite. Cristina had stirred feelings inside him, reminding him of his days when he was an Ohio transplant in California, lost and alone and needing someone to guide him. He saw his efforts to make a new friend as paying it forward.

It was a beautiful day in LA. WrestleMania loomed in the horizon. For the first time in his wrestling career, he was headlining the biggest event in the company, an exciting and overwhelming feeling. Movie star and former WWE Superstar Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson was going to be hosting the event, which had put a lot of mainstream eyes on them, along with the announcement that reality starlet Nicole "Snooki" Pollizzi was going to be wrestling a match at the show. The press that the two were bringing to the event was going to ensure a big audience and a big payday for everyone involved.

Not that Mike didn't have a bit of celebrity in his own right; he was a former MTV star. Winning the WWE Championship had brought a lot of mainstream attention on himself and WWE for his days as a Real World contestant. The night he won the championship had been the best night of his life; from placing second in Tough Enough to flubbing lines and getting hazed by veterans, the road had been rocky, but the destination had been sweet.

Now that he was on top, life was sweet. He had a nice house, a beautiful girlfriend and the top honors at his job. There was an extra bounce in his step, a little bit of swagger in his movements. But he wasn't stupid; he knew the bubble could burst at any time. Despite that knowledge looming over him, Mike was determined to enjoy every second of the ride while it lasted.

Sitting in his favorite armchair, Mike picked up his phone off the side table and messaged his friend and NXT rookie, Alex Riley. Man, I just met the hottest chick. Like, wow. Immediately after hitting the send button, he felt a pang of guilt. His girlfriend was easily one of the most beautiful women on the planet, a platinum blonde Playboy model. But meeting Cristina was too good to not share with one of his best friends.

He wasn't at all surprised when Alex messaged back right away, asking for all the details and a full description. Mike described as well as he could. It wasn't long before their conversation turned to WrestleMania, where he was going to be defending his title against John Cena, the biggest star of the new era. It was the marquee match, something that Mike still couldn't believe.

Like Cristina, Mike had been forced to rely on the kindness of strangers to find places when he first arrived, and, like Cristina, some of the strangers hadn't been so kind. In his first week, he had been mugged. Mike was so broke at the time that the guy didn't get away with very much. That had been years ago, before he had put on all kinds of muscles and put on a pair of wrestling boots. Those days felt like another lifetime now.

While he was out guiding Cristina through LA, Maryse had been off doing an interview and a photo shoot. Mike wasn't sure who she was working with. She had been angry with him when she left, taking his BMW and murmuring under her breath in French. He had made out "jackass". Being with Maryse had given him a crash course in French. He loved her, but their relationship was tumultuous, with her vanity, jealousy and insecurity throwing constant monkey wrenches into their relationship.

Mike didn't want to admit that they were coming to a crossroads in their relationship. He loved her, but he wasn't sure how the future was going to look with the way she behaved. She was too in love with herself to love anyone else. Often she compared Mike to other men she had dated in her life. Sometimes, she made it seem like Mike couldn't stack up to them; other times, she acted like he was the best thing to ever happen to her. His friends wondered why he stayed, and sometimes he wondered, too. He loved her, though, and he cared about her. But she was beginning to drop hints about getting a ring, and Mike wasn't sure he was ready for that.

He shrugged the dark thoughts out of his head and smiled. Today, life was good, whether or not she was mad at him. His day had been light on work, and he had time to himself. He made a beautiful new friend and he managed to make it a few blocks without being recognized by fans, thanks to the bulky clothing, the sunglasses and the lack of championship. After the radio interview ended, he walked home and watched a few of the older WrestleMania shows. He wanted to find something, anything, that would put an idea in his head to make the match with John stand out. It was going to be difficult, compared to some of the other main events in the show's history, but Mike was always up for a challenge.