This was how every single one of his Monday nights ended.

As soon as RAW was over, all of the Superstars and Divas would head back to their locker rooms, change into their street clothes, and catch their carpools to the local hotel that they had blocked out for their stay in town.

Everyone would hit the showers and make plans to meet at a local bar or club, usually the same ones they hit every time the WWE rolled into the area, whether it was either brand.

The guys would be done within the half hour, taking little time to get dressed and changed. The one that probably took the longest happened to be Paul, with his uncanny ability to need exactly five tries to get his hair to behave properly.

The girls would need at least two hours a piece. Between their showers, hair, makeup, and clothing selections, they were always the ones holding up the group.

They'd hit the club around two 'o clock and the first drink would drop the moment they passed through the front door.

Speakers blaring, bass pumping, lights flashing…

Glasses clanking, beer flowing, shots flying…

A sea of bodies on the floor…

It was just the way they liked it.

Well, the way most of them liked it, anyway.

I remember the first time I saw her.

I had only been up on the main roster with a legitimate push for a few weeks, I don't think it was even a month's time, when I hurt my shoulder. Those damn things had been giving me problems for years.

The moment the match ended, I knew something was wrong, so I headed to the house doctor's setup in one of the rooms backstage.

I knocked on the door once and walked right into the room. I mean… was there really going to be anything on the other side that I hadn't seen before?

Turned out, I was incredibly wrong.

From experience, I knew the house doctor was one of the assistants to a doctor during my dad's time in the WWE. I knew exactly what he looked like.

He didn't have dark blonde hair and a body like a battleaxe.

But she did. The girl on the other side of the door, with her hands firmly planted on her hips, looked as though she was about to scold me for taking a cookie from the jar before dinner.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

After a brief moment of staring, I put up my normally-cocky front, "I think the better question is… what is a pretty thing like you doing in the office of a wrinkly old guy like the doc?"

Her retort was fast, "I have an even better question… why the hell is it your business?"

"Just wondering," I shrugged, bailing out on my attempt at a pickup line.

It was incredibly clear to me at that moment that this girl was not one who could be picked up.

Allow me to explain, for those of you who don't understand this line of logic.

There are two types of women in this world. The hard-to-get women and the feet-sweepers.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Aren't most women hard-to-get and feet-sweepers?

That's your first mistake. Not listening to The Legend Killer, I mean. Randal Keith Orton knows all about the opposite sex that there is to know. Take it to the bank.

You'd happen to be wrong, by the way.

A feet-sweeper is that woman who dreams of her entire future by the time she's turned ten years old, the kind that knows every detail of her wedding down to the last flower in her bouquet, the one that dreams of her Prince Charming pulling up on his white horse to rescue her from a world of slime balls, creeps, cocky bastards who want nothing more than to get in a girl's pants…

Well, guys like me.

And 99.9 percent of the time, that's the girl you get: a feet-sweeper.

Then there's the hard-to-get woman… and she's not the woman you think she is.

She's not the woman who refuses to call a guy first, who has snappy retorts and uses sarcasm in all of her responses, and tries to play it off like she's not into a guy, when she really is.

No, those are the women who wish that they were hard-to-get. They're poseurs.

I mean a real hard-to-get woman… a woman who looks past the blue/green/grey/brown/hazel eyes and the knee-weakening smile when you approach her and studies your soul as you're busy sizing her up like a piece of meat.

She's the kind you'd never be able to land with a pickup line, no matter how creative and new it is…

And the woman who'll lead you around until you've got no choice but to give in because your body will literally shut down unless you do.

Yeah, that was her. Although, at the time, I didn't know her name.

"I'm Randy Orton, I just got here a few weeks ago," I introduced myself to her, hoping that a little courtesy might go a long way.

She arched an eyebrow over a bright blue eye, "My, my, Mr. Orton. For a man who just got here a few weeks ago, you certainly seem to think rather highly of yourself."

"Yeah, well…" I fumbled for words.

You have to understand, it had been a very, VERY long time since I'd dealt with a woman like this. Normally, women were a dime a dozen.

Clearly, she was not.

"Not so quick when you don't get the treatment you're used to, are you?" she replied almost smugly, with a smirk that almost rivaled mine.


I tried to laugh it off, "With all of the abuse I'm taking, I think I deserve to know your name."

She let out a heavy sigh, "It's Julia."

"Do I at least get a last name?"

"No," Julia shook her head at me. "Maybe, once you learn to behave yourself."

At least I had some sort of a name. It was enough… for then, anyway.

"Ouch," I smirked back at her.

"Speaking of which, let's take a look at that shoulder, shall we?" she decided, gesturing to the exam table a few backpedals behind her.

"How'd you…?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I may be blonde…" Julia trailed off, walking closer towards his towering frame, a full foot above her own, "But I'm not stupid. The way your shoulder is slightly hunched and you're standing on an angle, it's clearly your shoulder. Now… take a seat."

It's funny… I had been alive for twenty-two years, active in pee-wee football since I was old enough to write my own name, a Missouri-state ranked amateur wrestler in high school, and a Marine for a year, yet Julia was the first one to tell me I had hypermobile shoulders.

I knew I hated the USMC for a reason… those "trained" doctors over at Camp Pendleton couldn't even perform a proper physical.

After Dr. Andrew performed the surgery, I was out of action for six months or so and returned in February 2003 with Evolution.

With Paul, Ric, and Dave by my side at almost all times, I definitely got my first taste of the high life and man, was it awesome.

The girls, the parties, the booze… it was the life.

Well, for a while, at least.

Then I got the Intercontinental Championship and just when I thought things couldn't get any better, they did.

I swear on everything that is holy to a man, which would include alcohol, sports, and sex, but most likely not in that order, I had a woman in my bed every single night.

And you know what? I loved every second of it.

You know what? I've got one better for you.

Every milli-second.

Heading into 2004, the more legends that Vince and Stephanie let me "kill," the cockier I became and the larger my ego grew… but was I complaining? HELL NO.

After about an hour of getting loaded, most of the men made their way to the dance floor and joined the Divas, almost immediately drawing a crowd of women towards them.

But there was one girl that was dancing in the center of it all, living it up as though tomorrow was never going to come and attracting the eye of every single ounce of testosterone in the room, even the married ounces.

The auburn-haired bombshell was laughing over something with Maria and Mickie, but no one really knew what it was about, nor did they care.

Every guy only cared about one thing… getting to dance with the girl, even if it meant having to go through the entire crowd to get to her.

Yet, there was one guy in the entire the bunch, one who could get her to dance at the drop of a hat, but he'd have to do one thing first… and he wasn't so sure that he was ready for that.

August 15, 2004.

It was probably one of the best days of my entire life.

It was the first time that I'd ever gotten the taste of gold… the real gold… the World Heavyweight Championship and man, it felt good. REAL good.

The next day, I officially turned face and Evolution came to an end, as did the parties.

Dave, Ric, Paul, and I weren't allowed to travel together. They said something about life needing to imitate art. I knew that was total bullshit. They were just tired of cleaning up our messes.

It was around that time that it was "recommended" that I take a hard look at my career and future and maybe start seeing someone regularly.

I didn't take them seriously... and they took my title away. Seriously.

So I took their advice about a serious relationship the night they took my title away. I figured that it might get me back my title, so I figured what the hell, right? As long as it gets me back to where I want to go.

That night, when a bunch of us went out to a bar for dinner and drinks, I tagged along, of course.

Miraculously, one of the Divas, most likely Trish or Amy, had convinced Julia to join us. After about an hour of practically ignoring her, I decided to ask her if she wanted to dance, figuring that she might be the one to start a relationship with. I was almost positive that she was a wildcat in the sack… so she had to be worth the time.

"Care to dance?" I asked, flashing her one of my trademark grins.

She stirred her drink smoothly, "Not with you."

"Oh," I clutched my hand to my chest. "That hurts me, baby. Why not?"

"Let me ask you something, Randy," Julia looked up at me on her left, "You don't even so much as say hello to me when we're sitting five feet away from each other… and now you want me to dance with you? Doesn't that sound a bit strange to you?"

I paused to think about it, even though I clearly knew what I was going to say, "No. Not really."

She shook her head at me, "It figures."

"Come on, Dottrina," Dave nudged her in the side. "Give the man a dance… he just lost his title."

Immediately, she winced.

"Never…" Julia shook her head at my good friend, continuing to talk as though I weren't even there. "Let him find some bar-rat to hook up with tonight because it's not going to be me."

And that's how I found out her last name.

"You really should dance with her, Randy," a deep voice beside the twenty-seven year old urged him.

Randy shook his head, "I can't… I'm married, remember?"

"Come on, Orton. You and I both know…"

"Shhh," the younger man halted him. "We're the only ones who do know and I'd prefer to keep it that way. Until the baby's born, at the least."

Dave nodded, staring out into the writhing sea of bodies.

For a moment, the older man caught her eye and she waved at him, eliciting a wave in response before she turned back to her dancing.

Dave let out a deep sigh and gripped his hands tightly on the railing, continuing to stare outward, "Any idea how you're going to tell her?"

"None whatsoever."

I should have known better. I mean, who picks out a future wife in a bar at two 'o clock in the morning?

Randy Orton, that's who.

And that's not something I'm proud of.

Well, then again, it's not like when I asked her to dance that night I expected to marry Samantha, but I didn't exactly have anything else going on at the moment.

After I asked her for her number, and she told me to memorize it, I'll admit I kind of cheated. I mean really, how hard is it for me to type numbers in my cell phone behind my back? Obviously, not hard at all.

Thinking it over now, I guess it should have really been a sign of things to come in life.

Every time I was in St. Louis, I dropped by, and considering that my career was on the downward spiral in 2005, those visits weren't exactly few and far between.

To be honest, it was quite fun to play house with Sam for a while. Then again, to me, a game of house was breakfast, lunch, dinner, sex, and then sleep. Just don't tell your five year old cousin that, please. I get in enough trouble with management as it is.

Let's backtrack though for a moment... to mid-2005.

After the third genuine shoulder injury of my career, I made my way towards my favorite assistant backstage. Between you and me, I went to her at least twice a month just to see her face and get a rise out of her and wasn't sure if she'd think my injury was legitimate this time.

But when I opened the door and found her sitting her swivel chair by the exam table, I instantly knew she'd seen my match.

She folded her arms over her chest, "What took you so damn long?"

I shrugged, "I was hungry."

Needless to say, she didn't buy my attempt to assure her that I felt well enough to go through my regular routine… and two days later, I was in surgery.

But I wasn't angry. How could I be? She was the only girl I had any true interest in.

"Orton's been eying you for hours, girl," Maria informed the auburn-haired Diva as they continued to party.

Her eyes rolled, "He's been eying me for six years."

"Maybe he's changed," she shrugged.

"Probably not."

"Why don't you just give him a chance, J?" the doe-eyed Diva asked with a sigh.

"I've given Randy enough chances to last a lifetime."

Before I got hurt, I was planning on breaking things off with Samantha, but by that point, I was damaged goods.

I was still the Randy Orton, but I was the injured Randy Orton, as well.

Staying with Sam meant that I got all the sex I wanted and didn't have to work around the house at all. Staying with Sam, meant that Sam stayed with me, in my house, and as long as I got what I wanted, I didn't care.

To ensure that management would continue to think that I had changed, I proposed to Samantha… for all the wrong reasons. She was an incredibly kind woman who cared about me enough to put up with my shit and I committed to her because I was committed to my career.

Was I a dick for that? Yes.

Do I regret it now? One hundred percent.

About three months into my recovery, I got a call from Dave.

Apparently, Julia had gotten into a fight with that old woman who looks like a man. You know… Kristal, I think. Something about being able to get better care from a Planned-Parenthood clinic.

I knew that wasn't going to go over well with Julia. Actually, it'd take any idiot with half of a brain to know that it wasn't going to go over well with Julia, meaning Kristal had less than that.

Turns out, Julia absolutely wrecked her.

And five days later, wound up in Ohio Valley Wrestling.

That meant that when I returned to the WWE, she wouldn't be around anymore and I was genuinely saddened by the thought.

Then for the first time, it dawned on me… I had these weird feelings for Julia and didn't know what to do with them, but was newly-engaged.

And I stayed that way because I was too chicken shit to do something about it.

So I'll ask myself the question one more time… do I regret it now? Absolutely.


Because I realize that I was in love with someone else.

"I'm going to get some water and take a breather," Mickie decided. "Want to come?"

"Sure," her Diva counterpart shrugged and looked back at Maria, who was dancing with some random guy. "Why not?"

They made their way back to the table and took a seat, resting their feet on the chairs to give them a break.

"I know you like him, J," the brunette sighed as she looked at her friend. "You've liked him for a while."

"And I gave him every opportunity when I came back," she explained with a sigh of her own and took a sip of water. "I told him the one thing he'd have to do to be with me… and he blew it. I'm not going to wait around forever Mickie. I just won't… not anymore, anyway."

Very few people know what goes on behind closed doors in the WWE, despite what those dirt sheet websites tell you. I figured that if I had something going on with Julia behind Sam's back, no one would really ever know.

I have to admit, that was a pretty stupid assumption on my part.

I approached the auburn-haired rookie slowly, "What do you say tonight, you and me go out for coffee, pretty lady?"

"Good God, you never stop do you, Orton?" the girl retorted, not even looking at me.

I froze. I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"I thought I'd never see you again," I told her honestly, her back still facing me.

At that comment, she whipped around and searched my eyes, "You mean that, don't you?"

I nodded, "I do."

She sighed and ran a hand through her dark hair, "Does that offer still stand?"

I did a double take, "What?"

"If the offer for coffee still stands, I'd love to go."

Believe me, I was equally as shocked as you probably are now, but you have to understand, I had changed. In a twisted way, I'd matured emotionally.

Samantha and I were kind of happy in our own jaded way.

She was marrying the man of her dreams and I was climbing my way back to the top of the totem poll.

But I wasn't entirely happy. I didn't love Samantha. I liked her a lot, she was a cool girl once I got to know her, but I wasn't in love with her.

"So I hear you're engaged," the Diva smiled at me and took a swig of coffee from her mug.

"Yeah," I rubbed the back of my neck. "September, actually."

She placed the mug back down on the table and studied me once more, leaning forward in her chair, "You don't look happy."

I shrugged, "I don't know… I guess I am."

"You either are or you aren't, there is no guessing."

"Then I'm not…" I decided and took a shaky drink from my navy blue mug. "If I leave her, I look like a bigger ass then ever, but if I stay, I'm stuck in a loveless marriage for the rest of my life."

"Well, is there someone else?"

I nodded and looked down into the mug, "You."

For once she was nearly speechless, "You know, I never thought you actually liked me."

"I did… I do," I sighed and looked back up at her. "But I shouldn't."

"Yeah," Julia seemed to agree with me for once and slowly stood up. "And neither should I…"

As I watched her leave the café that night, I swear, I'd never found another woman sexier in my entire life. She was the first girl who had really turned me down.

The next week, I tried again to make a move on her. Well, without acting like a total sleeze anyway.

Do you have any idea how hard that is for me?

"Hey, Jules… think you can fix something for me? I'm in a lot of pain."

"Randy, what did you do to yourself now?" she asked me, slightly nervous and placed a hand on my bare shoulder. "Is it your shoulder?"

"It's what you did…" I trailed off and broke into a cocky smirk, "You're breaking my heart."

Her hand dropped as though I was burning coal, "At least I'm not breaking two."

I knew she'd be angry, but at this point… I just didn't care anymore.

"I know that you're angry, Julia, but… I don't love Sam. I… I love you," I admitted, swallowing my own pride for once.

"Then leave her," Julia told me simply.

I swear to you, for a short amount of time, I really considered it. I tried to plan exactly how I'd break it to her in my head.

I mean, she was engaged to the biggest playboy in the WWE, what did she expect?

And just when I was about to surprise myself… I didn't.

"It'll just be this way for a little while…" I tried to explain to her, but she was already shaking her head at me. "And then I'll tell her."

"No, Randy. You'll never tell her."

And she was right.

For a while, at least.

"When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"On my honeymoon," he sighed, watching her move across the floor with Mickie.

"Wow, you're a regular Prince Charles," Dave snorted.

"Nah," Randy shook his head in response. "Just a royal ass."

"Well, if I can do anything for you, Randy…" Dave spoke lowly to his friend, so that no one would hear. "Let me know."

"Thanks, man," he nodded, trying not to glance over at the table she was now resting at. "But I think I've done enough already."

Yeah, I'd done plenty.

I slept around behind Samantha's back while we were engaged and I was on the road. What's worse was that I didn't even care, not one bit. If I couldn't bring myself to leave her for Julia, I'd make her leave me. For some strange reason, I thought it'd save my reputation and just be chalked up to lonely nights on the road, maybe make me look sympathetic.

One hundred percent bullshit.

Instead of manning up to my faults and admitting that I'd never be able to commit to her, I did the only thing I could think of: I married her.

I told you I was a royal ass.

About two months later, right before Christmas, she told me that she was pregnant.

Imagine me, the playboy… a father? Kind of hard to do, isn't it?

Yeah, it was hard for me too.

So hard… that I snapped and finally told Samantha. An hour later, she was out of the house and living at her parents' place and I was officially separated from my wife.

Out of respect for my career, she agreed not to process any divorce paperwork until after the baby was born. Why she gave me that courtesy, I'll never know. It wasn't like I deserved it after everything I'd done to her.

I guess it was that last, tiny part of her that still loved me and didn't want to let go… that little piece of her that wanted to be Mrs. Samantha Orton for just a little while longer.

After a brief moment of silence, Mickie looked up from her glass and stared right behind Julia.

The auburn-haired beauty shut her eyes and bit on her lip, "He's behind me, isn't he?"

"Hey, pretty lady," a gravelly voice addressed her.

"I'm going to get back on that floor and burn some calories," the brunette across the table announced and stood up. "I'll catch you later."

"Bye, Mick," she sighed as she was replaced in her seat by a six foot, four inches tall hunk of muscle. "Hey, Orton."

"Hey," he smiled at her and she noticed that it wasn't his normal cocky smirk. "We need to talk."

She shook her head, "All we do is talk… and then never get anywhere."

"I swear we will this time. Please, just listen to me. All I need is five minutes of your time, just walk with me for five minutes and after that, you never have to speak to me again."

A slender, perfectly manicured finger swirled along the rim of her glass and she exhaled deeply, "Alright. Five minutes."

Once exiting the club, they walked about a block away to a fountain in the middle of a small plaza located in the heart of downtown Lafayette and sat down on a relatively secluded branch.

Julia checked her cell phone that was resting in her hands, "You've got exactly five minutes starting… now. Go."

His deep sapphire eyes locked on her own, "It's over."

"That's total bullshit, Orton," she rolled her eyes. "It's never over with you and her. It'll never be over. You've got a kid now."

"You know, Dottrina," he rose to his feet, towering above her seated form. "There's a lot of shit you've been right about these past six years. You've called me on my bullshit and seen through my false words, but I want you to look me in the eye right now and tell me that I'm lying this time. Go ahead, tell me."

The Diva set her jaw and rose to her feet, now a full foot below him, and fixated her blue orbs on his, searching for any clue to tip her off.

And then, she found one.

"You're not lying…" her face softened completely. "Are you?"

His bulky shoulders shrugged under his cobalt blue tee-shirt, "You always said you'd be the one to keep me honest."

"But what about…"

"The baby?" the third-generation superstar finished for her. "We've decided not to push forward with the divorce until after he or she is born, but Sam's going to stay in St. Louis so that we can raise the baby with two parents. It wouldn't be fair to the kid and I know that."

Julia tucked a strand of reddish-brown hair behind her ear, "I don't know what to say."

Randy slid his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans, "Just tell me that you'll wait for me. I know that you've been playing the waiting game for a long time now, but I swear, it'll be worth it this time. I've done everything you've asked me for."

After a deep breath, she nodded, "Okay. I'll wait… but just this once."

"Thank you…" a slow grin spread across his face and he lowered his head slightly, pressing his lips to hers for a brief moment before breaking away. "Stepmom."

So here I am, slowly closing in on twenty-eight years old, with no idea where the hell my life is going to go.

In a few months, I'll be a divorced father, with a baby mama, a girlfriend, and a career that keeps me on the road over three hundred days of the year. God, help me.

Maybe a few years from now, after my next shoulder injury, which I know I'm long overdue for at any moment, I'll sit down and write my autobiography.

I think that people will want to hear my stories. I must admit, how I met and married my first wife, not to mention had my first child, while in love with the woman who'd eventually become my second wife would probably spark some people's interest.

Who the hell am I kidding? My autobiography is going to put Batista's to shame.

My fucked up life has to be good for something, right?

A/N: There you go, Julia. Your very own one-shot.

Dom, yours is coming. I swear. Today is a very rainy Florida day.

This is the first time I've ever done a story that's entirely dedicated to Randy and the first time I'd ever done anything from a character's point of view.

I'd really appreciate the reviews on this one to let me know how I did.