Mack stared into the glare of the overhead lights from his prone position on the grubby, sweaty canvas, shame needling his guts, while his opponent towered over him, celebrating victory.

Tonight had been typical. Headlock. Suplex. Power bomb. Mack’s opponent went for the pinfall. The referee counted, hand slapping the mat, 1-2-3. Mack lost. For the thirty-fifth time in a row.

Mack had two roles. The first was to lose every match and the second was to ensure his opponent appeared like a winner, no, an alpha in the process. That the punches, kicks, bodyslams, clotheslines and other moves Mack was on the wrong end of looked as if they really had knocked him senseless. He was, in wrestling industry terminology, a jobber. No more than that. It would never be more than that. Not for him. Too skinny, the boss said. No abs, he said. Worse, no charisma. The other wrestlers got the wins. Mack didn’t.

Arm bar. Body drop. Stunner. Pinfall. 1-2-3. Thirty-six.

Super kick. Bear hug. Elbow drop. Pinfall. 1-2-3. Thirty-seven.

All Mack was to this company, to the boss, was a warm body to be thrown around the ring like a sock in a tumble drier.

Mack’s daughter Maddy was in the front row with her Mom. He’d tried to explain that, bruises and aching bones apart, none of this was real. That wins and losses didn’t really matter, that it was all about the show and only the show. She didn’t get it. She just saw her Dad lose, over and over again.

Hip toss. Drop kick. Frog splash. Pinfall. 1-2-3. Thirty-eight.

If it was just a show, then why did Mack feel so ashamed every single time?

Clothesline. Bulldog. Chokeslam. Pinfall. 1-2-3. Thirty-nine.

Maddy gazed into nowhere. She used to cry when Mack lost. Now she just looked resigned. Dad was a loser, after all. What more should she expect than for a loser to lose?

That’s why Mack was eaten up by shame. Because when you got right down to it, what was the difference between a jobber and a loser?

Now, tonight, Mack faced the Champ. It was a non-title match, because—as the boss explained—why would a jobber like Mack deserve a shot at the championship? The Champ would show how dominant he was. What a stud he was. What a loser Mack was. It sounded the same as any other night as far as Mack was concerned.

Leg drop. Frog splash. Piledriver.

But before going for the pinfall, the Champ stood over Mack, playing to the crowd, soaking up their adulation like a sponge in spandex. Maddy leaned on the barricade, chin in her hands, mind somewhere, anywhere but right here, where her Dad was embarrassing himself in front of hundreds of people. When Mack first started to bring her to the shows, her eyes would shine when he strolled down the aisle and climbed into the ring. She’d cheer for him. Now her eyes were always blank.

Enough. To hell with this. It won’t be forty. Show? Mack would give them a damn show.

Mack sprang up and grabbed the Champ around the waist. The Champ wasn’t expecting it—why would he?—and it was simple to roll him over until his shoulders were flat on the mat. The ref counted. They’re told to call what happens in the ring, no matter how unexpected. 1-2-3. Victory!

The crowd were, for a moment, stunned into silence, slack-jawed mouths filled with unchewed popcorn. Then they exploded, a thunderstorm of shouts and cheers echoing around the arena. The jobber had won. Mack just beat the Champ. Maddy exploded with them, squealing, clapping, jumping up and down with excitement, hugging her Mom, eyes now sparkling, unable to believe what they’d just seen

The Champ stormed from the ring, swearing creatively in Mack’s direction, as the referee raised Mack’s hand. Mack would have to follow him backstage soon enough. The boss would fire him. You can’t go into business for yourself in this industry. It’s the first thing they teach you. It’s practically a crime. Mack wouldn’t be a jobber any more, that was for sure. He’d be unemployed instead.

But Mack could worry about that later. Because he just beat the Champ and Maddy’s eyes were shining