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It’s been a while.
That is, AJ Styles last heard the high-energy roar of a sold-out arena four months ago, and during the subsequent winter he had quickly come to miss the absorptive adrenaline of an ecstatic audience. He's glad to be back.
It’s also been a staggeringly long time since AJ last had complete privacy at a live event: a backstage room all to himself. The last time this happened was just over nine years ago at the 2016 Royal Rumble in Orlando, Florida. The event had featured his momentous debut with the WWE, and so he had been welcomed with a private room backstage as a means of keeping his presence under wraps until the very last minute. It had been a hospitable surprise.
Now, nine years later, as AJ gears up for his return at the 2025 Royal Rumble in Indianapolis, he doesn't reminisce the years gone by. More than ever, he revels in the present, on the opportunities just an inch ahead: the hard-earned gift of returning to what he loves, fighting in one of the most anticipated matches of the year, and a chance at main-eventing WrestleMania. The fervent commotion of the crowd breaks through the walls and sings in his blood with every heartbeat.
AJ is ready—decked out, warmed up, and doing a little jog in his place—and yet the men’s Rumble hasn’t even begun. In fact, there is still a ladder match to be had before the magic begins, so there is no doubt he will end up stretching again before he makes his entrance. He simply can’t help himself; the excitement captures him with a wild ferocity, like there's a rabid animal inside him desperate to break free, eager to the point he can hardly think straight. Meanwhile, the leisurely passage of time is almost cruel. Shouldn't the Rumble be starting by now? When AJ finally makes his way down the ramp, he needs to be focused and energised, not dizzy and dumb with delirium. He’s not in a social mood, so a distraction is in order. Otherwise, he might faint from the anticipation.
On the road to Indianapolis one day prior, a hole-in-the-wall shop had lured him with the promise of retro video games, and so half an hour later he was a few bucks poorer and had a Tomytronic Pac-Man in his pocket. The purchase was equal parts impulsive and silly—Pac-Man was mostly adored for its simplicity and nostalgia, and the LCD display on this particular game was weirdly wide and low-contrast—but how could he say no to a well-priced collectible?
Handheld games for long flights and standstill moments are always… well, they’re handy. Nothing better distracts from reality like a little alternate world on a screen. Isn’t that why the fans watch WWE?
The game is ridiculous. The console is a bulky yellow puck with clunky controls and a screen that could afford to be a lot less narrow, especially since AJ’s eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be. The “on” button produces a funny, crescendoing ditty, and just like that, the Rumble is out of mind.
The goal of the game is simple but fun: eat all the dots in the maze (and some cherries, if possible), and avoid colliding with ghosts. Nevertheless, when push comes to shove, even level one is tricky because the calibration between the controls and Pac-Man is delayed and the gameplay doesn’t permit continuous motion. AJ loses a life on level one, and when level two begins, he wonders if this iteration has any fruit options beyond cherries. The question costs him a second life, and moments later, he is cornered by two ghosts and the game is over.
In his cussing fury, the quick jostle of the doorknob at the other end of the room goes unnoticed, but when the lock audibly clicks, AJ startles upright and drops the puck. By the time he turns to the entrance, the door is open, the busy hallway eclipsed by an enormous wall of a man. The name gets caught in AJ’s throat, but all at once, the clamorous crowd floods his ears again and drowns the silence.
Even in casual clothes, John Cena maintains the absurd silhouette of a giant child in oversized hand-me-downs, with his boxy t-shirt and cargo shorts. His misty blue eyes are wide, but his apology is calm.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t told anyone was in here.”
AJ blinks incredulously. “Me neither. I mean, I thought this was my private room.”
The door closes, but John doesn't leave. On the contrary, he casually shrugs the gym bag off his shoulder, and before he even opens his mouth, AJ knows his me-time is history. John invites himself near the couch where AJ sits, but he doesn't dare sit down just yet.
“Hey man,” he reasons, “I just used the key that Hunter gave me. I don’t know if there’s another room for me here.”
“What? Hunter—where is he?” AJ blurts, but it’s already abundantly clear that the CEO doesn’t have time to play detective and find another room and key for John, especially when the Rumble is imminent and John might be an early entrant.
“I missed you too,” John suddenly teases. The dimples in his cheeks are deeper than ever, carved further with age, but the wry squint of his eyes is reminiscent of a younger iteration of himself: the swaggering, smart-mouthed “Doctor of Thuganomics” that used to diss the greats. Unless cable TV and old VHS tapes count, AJ never got to meet that plucky young star—it sounds ridiculous because he is talking to the man who played the part, but it's a surreal sort of recognition whenever that prehistoric spunk emerges through John's expressions or his vaguely Bostonian accent. The resemblance quickly wanes and John reverts to the vanilla superhero of the present.
AJ pinches the bridge of his nose out of something like frustration. The new, wrenching ache in his gut can't just be because his me-time is over. His private room isn't private anymore, which immediately strikes like an underhanded blow, but of all superstars, he is sharing space with John Cena, whose accrued tenure and respect is undeniable. Why two of WWE’s greatest are being sidelined to a single room is beyond reason. Frankly, AJ doesn’t know what to think: only that the backstage layout of this venue kind of sucks and that Hunter is kind of a scatter-brained asshole.
“I was sorry to hear about your injury, by the way. I'm glad you're back,” John says after a pause, his pale brow wrinkling slightly. “How've you been?”
The question bounces off AJ’s brain like a balloon. He hasn't yet reconciled how to talk about the injury with the guys backstage, especially with someone as attentive and emotionally mushy as John. When terms like “career-threatening” start getting thrown around, the feelings get jumbled up in his head and trapped in his mouth. It's almost funny—if anyone should be sweating about retirement, it’s John, the guy who has already announced his farewell tour and started the timer towards his last match, but no, he's more clean and collected than ever, like an action figure straight out of the box.
“How have I been?” AJ echoes, recognizing a little too late the accidental crudeness of his tone.
“Is there anyone else here that I should know about? I thought this room was private,” John quips. All the willpower in the world is barely enough to keep AJ from punching him, even if it's in good fun. Did no one ever teach this guy how to shut his big, smart mouth?
“You must really want me to beat you up right now. Can't even wait for the Rumble to start,” AJ snorts.
“Try me,” John taunts, and he turns his back to AJ as he begins rifling through his gym bag, producing a ridiculous blue t-shirt the size of a tablecloth. “I'll even let you strike first. But then, please, tell me how you've been.”
AJ caves. The conversation continues as John gets ready.
He gives an update on his family, explains the injury, and outlines his preparation for this highly anticipated return—it’s a sanitised retelling of the recent, brutal months, but the divulgence is still somewhat relieving. When the little monitor in the corner shows that the ladder match is over, he realizes that not only has the ache in his gut dissipated, but he has also been talking for quite a bit while hardly hearing a word from John. Glancing across the room, he finds his roommate stretching, his brand name athleisure swapped for that humongous blue shirt and jorts, though his silhouette remains unchanged. His lips are pressed into a tight line, suppressing a sappy smile, and he looks like an idiot.
Instead of asking John what’s gotten into him, AJ bites his tongue and returns the warm expression. He’s not incredibly sentimental, but he’s hyped, sympathetic, and he recognizes that John might have more to be emotional about right now than anyone else, even aging legends returning from a career-threatening injury. He’s probably still swallowing the reality pill that this is his last chance to participate in a Royal Rumble, a tradition he has partaken in for ages. While AJ is returning with a newfound fire and fresh momentum, willing to fight tooth and nail to not only win this Rumble but the next one too, this Rumble is all there is for John. The last time is now—the phrase is even written on his shirt, just in case anyone forgets that WWE’s favourite rapper-turned-golden boy is retiring from wrestling at the end of the calendar year.
Rising from his leathery seat, AJ suddenly remembers the Pac-Man game beside him, blinking a lousy high score of 2525. A hot, urgent compulsion to smash the thing to bits rises up his chest, but the desire dissolves as quickly as it forms. He swallows any residual aggression for later, leaving the console by his gym bag before joining John—who didn't seem to notice anything—to stretch.
“So, this is your last Royal Rumble,” he asks, though the sentence lands like a statement.
“Yup,” John nods, his voice controlled as he stretches. “I’ve always loved the Rumble. I mean, who doesn't? It’s so… electric. The collective excitement from the superstars and fans alike—I feel it with every heartbeat. The energy in the air is palpable.”
AJ stifles a chuckle. John Cena waxing poetic was not on his Royal Rumble bingo card, but then again, he isn't surprised.
Just like that, the music for the Rumble’s first entrant begins—Rey Mysterio. The first two entrants are generally warned of their number before the event begins, but anything beyond that remains a mystery. AJ’s blood is starting to sing again. John is right: the Rumble is electric.
“I remember your WWE debut. 2016 Royal Rumble in Florida,” John says over the music, which meshes with the audience's roar and permeates through the walls. If he were to press a hand against the concrete, it would probably be shaking.
“That’s right. Amway Center, Orlando.” AJ grins. Just thinking of the audience's pop during his debut entrance sends a rush through his spine.
John smiles serenely. “Yeah, I remember it well. You’ve gotten bigger since then. Since we last wrestled, even.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” AJ quickly grunts, but then he can’t help but snort and laugh. John is earnestly speaking like a father to a man that is literally a month younger than him, but he’s also quite right: AJ had bulked up a bit since their last match together, which has to have been about seven years ago by now. He's also grown up emotionally, mentally, which feels ridiculous to admit as a middle-aged man, even to himself, but it's true.
It’s hard to forget that John had been one of the first guys AJ ever collided with on Smackdown. Emerging from a legendary career in the indies, AJ had entered WWE with a dangerous mix of arrogance and ambition. John had been eager to step in his way, but AJ held his ground, a feat which he remains proud of, even if he had needed to cheat a little early on. He isn’t proud of that part. Nevertheless, he has since carved out a legacy for himself in WWE, but one item that remains on his checklist is a Royal Rumble victory. This is something he's wanted for ages.
The entrance music ends and the crowd settles slightly, the noise flattening to a loud silence.
AJ clears his throat. “By the way, John, if it ever happens that it’s just you and me in the ring tonight, try not to take it personally when I throw you over the ropes.”
John stiffens mid-stretch, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow creased like the warning he just received is earth-shattering. Devastating. One would imagine it's impossible to forget the rules of the Rumble after competing in it a dozen times, but John's wrinkled brow tells another story. In his tableau of a stretch, he eyes AJ, his misty, marbley stare sinking into his soul just like it did during their very first arguments all those years ago, but then he drops his shoulders and extends a meaty hand.
“You know what? Likewise.”
It's the only rational response. They shake on it.
Not much later, John decides to take a walk backstage and see what the other guys are doing. AJ hangs back, but once the door clicks shut, he grows antsier by the minute. The voltage of that mythical electricity John raved about ramps up with every shocking entrance, and though he briefly glances at the dumb little Pac-Man game on the table, he knows it's far too late for such asinine distractions. When his music finally hits, the crowd pops with the raw enthusiasm of a debut, but nothing really compares to the faded memory of something that once was new.
Upon returning to his not-private room, the electricity fizzles, and AJ isn't sure if that clunky Tomytronic console is in a different spot than where he left it or if he is misremembering things. Of course, it doesn't matter if someone touched his bargain shop nostalgia, but seeing as John's belongings have magically vanished, AJ can't help but wonder if someone found it, if it's even possible that someone tried playing it and considered it even half as fascinating as he does. A broad, unnameable regret simmers in his blood, and he feels utterly ridiculous when he can't conceive of anything to do on the next day's flight but to play Pac-Man.