Peyton Royce and Billie Kay are two phenomenal workers; I would

Host: The arena was empty now — the roar had faded, the lights dimmed to a soft electric afterglow that shimmered faintly across the ring. The air still carried the ghosts of sound — the echo of crowd chants, the thud of boots against canvas, the metallic clang of the bell. It smelled of sweat, adrenaline, and glory.

Jack leaned against the ropes, his hands wrapped in tape, half-unwound, his grey eyes staring up at the ceiling lights. Jeeny sat cross-legged in the center of the ring, her palms flat on the mat, feeling the energy still pulsing through it — like a heart that refused to stop beating.

Jeeny: “Becky Lynch once said, ‘Peyton Royce and Billie Kay are two phenomenal workers; I would love to see them up here on SmackDown. They're great girls with great talent. A bit of momentum, and we're going to see amazing things from them.’”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — the kind of smile worn by someone who knew exactly what the grind behind “phenomenal” looked like.
Jack: “You can always tell when a fighter talks about other fighters — there’s a respect that doesn’t need polish. She’s not hyping; she’s recognizing.”

Jeeny: “Recognition is sacred in this world. It’s not easy to get. It’s earned — not through talent alone, but through surviving the hours that break most people.”

Jack: “Yeah. The long drives. The bruises that bloom purple then fade to yellow. The noise, the pressure, the loneliness. People see the fireworks — they never see the road behind the spark.”

Host: A faint hum filled the arena as the crew began tearing down the lights in the rafters. The ring looked smaller now, stripped of spectacle, left naked under quiet.

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about what she said — ‘a bit of momentum, and we’ll see amazing things.’ She understands momentum like no one else. It’s not luck. It’s gravity. Once you find your rhythm, the world can’t help but notice.”

Jack: “Yeah. And Lynch — she’s lived it. From barely booked to headlining. From overlooked to unstoppable. When she calls someone phenomenal, it’s not flattery. It’s prophecy.”

Jeeny: “You think she saw herself in them?”

Jack: “Probably. Same hunger. Same fire. Same defiance of every stereotype that said women couldn’t sell out an arena.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it powerful — women recognizing other women, not as competition, but as evolution.”

Host: The ring lights flickered once more, then dimmed completely, leaving only the emergency glow from the corridors. Jack jumped down from the apron, his boots hitting the concrete with a dull thud.

Jack: “It’s funny — the ring looks different when it’s empty. Less like a stage, more like an altar.”

Jeeny: “That’s what it is. Every match is a ritual — pain turned into poetry.”

Jack: “And the crowd? The congregation.”

Jeeny: “Cheering for resilience.”

Jack: “Crying for connection.”

Host: Jeeny smiled softly, her voice low, filled with warmth.
Jeeny: “You know, that’s what Becky’s really saying — that greatness doesn’t exist in isolation. It’s contagious. One person’s rise pulls others upward.”

Jack: “Like a chain reaction of belief.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the difference between ego and leadership — celebrating someone else’s momentum because you remember how hard it was to start yours.”

Jack: “That’s the heart of wrestling, isn’t it? The storytelling. Every rivalry, every alliance — it’s just people trying to be seen.”

Jeeny: “And to be believed.”

Host: A maintenance worker passed by, sweeping confetti off the floor, the sound soft and steady. The two sat quietly for a moment, the silence heavy with the beauty of aftermath.

Jeeny: “You think people realize how much performance like this costs? Not in fame, but in self?”

Jack: “No. They don’t see the toll — the emotional bruises, the exhaustion behind the smile. But that’s what makes it art. It’s lived pain made visible, choreographed into catharsis.”

Jeeny: “And when someone like Becky Lynch lifts others up, it’s her way of giving the next generation permission to fight louder.”

Jack: “To make their own noise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The faint buzz of an amplifier filled the silence, the ghost of an entrance theme playing somewhere in the dark.

Jack: “You know, people call wrestling fake — but I think it’s the most honest illusion there is. You can’t fake exhaustion. You can’t fake fear. You can’t fake that crowd roar when someone rises after being knocked down.”

Jeeny: “It’s theatre of resilience.”

Jack: “And those women — Peyton, Billie, Becky — they’re rewriting the script of what that resilience looks like.”

Jeeny: “No damsels. No sidelines. Just gladiators in glitter.”

Jack: grinning “And that’s a revolution in sequins.”

Jeeny: “A revolution that bleeds, sweats, and still smiles.”

Host: The arena lights flickered back to life briefly, reflecting off the empty seats like a memory of applause. Jeeny looked out across the rows, her eyes distant but alive.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something beautiful about it — the idea that strength isn’t solitary. That one person’s success creates space for another’s.”

Jack: “And that’s what Becky meant by ‘momentum.’ It’s not about climbing alone — it’s about pushing the wheel together.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Momentum is communal. It’s energy shared.”

Host: Jack leaned on the ring apron again, his voice thoughtful.
Jack: “And maybe that’s why she loves them. Because they remind her of the moment when she wasn’t The Man yet — just another dreamer waiting for the crowd to see what she saw in herself.”

Jeeny: “That recognition — that’s the currency of this world. And she spends it wisely.”

Jack: “So in a way, this quote isn’t about them. It’s about what happens when greatness acknowledges potential.”

Jeeny: “It’s mentorship disguised as admiration.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The sound of the broom stopped. The lights flickered off again. Only the soft, ambient hum of the city outside remained.

Jeeny: “You know, in the end, that’s what makes wrestling beautiful — it’s bigger than the ring. It’s legacy.”

Jack: “And loyalty.”

Jeeny: “And belief — that the next match, the next face, the next story will be just as electric.”

Jack: “That momentum never really dies. It just passes hands.”

Host: They stood in the center of the empty ring, looking up at the rafters where banners hung — names, faces, triumphs. The air was still, reverent.

Jeeny whispered,
Jeeny: “Phenomenal workers, great talent… she saw the future. And she celebrated it before it arrived.”

Jack: “That’s what champions do.”

Jeeny: “Not just win — but recognize what’s coming next.”

Host: They walked toward the exit, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly through the hollowed space. Behind them, the ring sat waiting — patient, timeless, ready for the next story to unfold.

And as they stepped into the night air — cool, sharp, alive with neon and distant echoes — the truth of Becky Lynch’s words lingered in the silence:

that greatness isn’t a throne,
but a torch.

That the most amazing thing a champion can do
is not to stay at the top —
but to look back, see the next ones rising,
and whisper —

“Keep going. Your time is coming.”