Author Note : Hi guys! Ok, so this is my first wrestling fic! So please be nice to me. Reviews are welcomed and very much encouraged. If you don't like something I write, please be constructive with your comments, and please don't throw anything...I own nothing and not a single person in this story (unless stated otherwise). If I did, I'd be as rich as Vinny Mac (who does own all this stuff) and wouldn't be doing this. Lyrics are from the song "Didn't Mean to Turn you On" by Mariah Carey. Which I don't own, and don't claim to. None of this is for profit, just me being creative. Please don't sue, all you'd get is a smile and a shrug. I hope you guys like what I write, and a big thank you to Vera Roberts and Queen of Kaos for inspiring me to try this for myself.

"Tell me why should I feel guilty cause I won't give, Guilty cause I won't give in, I didn't mean to turn you on"

"C'mon Trisha, give me another ten girl!"

The groan of frustration was a little louder than she had originally, intended but it was meant none the less. A two and a half hour cardio work-out at the gym later, and the petit blonde had had more than enough. Sheets of sweat glistened to the taut abdomen an the exposed lower back where her baby-t didn't quite reach. The material of the grey booty shorts she had been wearing now stubbornly clung to the curves of her hips and shapely rear as Trish Stratus dropped into another set of squats-to-high-kicks that her training partner had instructed. Her thigh muscles felt like unset jelly as she barely managed to fling her leg upwards before dropping it back down again awkwardly into something akin to a duck's stance. Realising that motivation was the key, Trish pictured the head of Mickie James before the extension of her leg. Suddenly, her kicks had become deadly accurate as a hiss of exhalation squeezed out from beneath her clenched teeth. Executing the final kick, the Canadian dropped to her knees dejectedly, resting both hands on her hips as her breath came in harsh, short gasps. Strong, muscular arms looped between the gap of her elbow and torso, pulling Trish to both feet and turning around into a warm bear hug.

"Great job Trisha. You worked your little butt off there." came the murmured validation as John Cena nestled his mouth into her damp hair as he held her close.

"Quite literally. If someone steps on my ass as they walk by, could they please hand it over?" was the dry retort spoken into Cena's massive chest.

"Go shower girl. You're soaked with sweat. Its really gross." Holding her at arms length, John surveyed the tiny form of the blonde bombshell. The long expanse of skin had a distinctive pink hue from the work out, as Trish's training gear has become a second, soaked skin. Shaking her head, Stratus playfully shoved her friend. They had become close since John had joined Raw, both finding the other hilarious. Naturally travelling together, the pair soon become training partners by circumstance, rather than choice. Trish found John pushed her to levels she had never reached before, finding his instruction equally challenging and infuriating.

Still, to have a body like his, he must know was he's talking about. In embarrassment, Trish realised that she had spent entirely too much time practically salivating over how good John's chest looked through the white t-shirt he was wearing. Friend Patricia. He's your friend. Stop perving on him! In truth, John and Trish had never taken their friendship past the platonic stage, even though most in the company assumed they had. Trish would never deny how attracted she was to the 'Doctor of Thuganomics', but he seemed to content to be just friends, so she had never pushed the issue, however jealous she felt whenever she saw him with another girl. Sighing, Trish tilted her head, watching John study himself in the mirror as he began lifting weights in bicep curls. Turning on her heel, Stratus headed to the changing women's changing rooms. Grabbing a few items from her locker, she trudged along the corridor to the showering area, both legs screaming at her with every step to stop the continued punishment. Turning the final corner, Trish narrowed her eyes, swearing in annoyance. Both eyes registered the 'Out of Order' sign with contempt.

"Typical!" she spat. Dropping back to rest against the wall, she drummed her foot impatiently as she considered all her options. It was either go back to the hotel damp with sweat and smelling ungodly, or…well, there was always the men's wasn't there? The gym had emptied considerably over the past hour, and Trish hadn't passed anyone on her way here. I could just sneak in couldn't I? Well, there is no way in hell I am going back to the hotel like this! Growling with frustration, Trish wandered further down the corridor, almost creeping her way towards the male's showers. Unlike the women's, there was no door at the entry. It was a large rectangle shaped room, with a large wall in the middle blocking the showers from view. Sliding out of her shoes, Trish ducked her head as if to avoid detection as she rounded the corner. Lifting her gaze upwards top select a shower, Trish shrieked in surprise, dropping the towel and bottles of shampoo and such that she had been holding. Clattering to the ground, the scattered in all directions, one stopping at the feet of the person currently already resident in the shower. Standing before the open mouthed Trish was the entirely naked, self proclaimed 'Legend Killer' Randy Orton. Trish clapped her hand over her mouth, both eyes practically bursting in a cocktail of surprise and humiliation. Randy, who had been leaning against the wall lazily opened oceanic blue eyes to see Trish looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Standing up straight, Orton turned to face his companion, a grin spreading across his lips. Frozen on the spot, Trish watched the water (which she couldn't believe she didn't notice on her way in!) cascade down his ripped muscles. Don't look down…don't look down…keep you eyes at face level…just don't look at…

"Shit!" came her high pitched voice, as Trish clamped her hand over eyes, which had just wandered down the expanse of Randy's abdomen to get a full on view of his nether regions. Gulping hard, Trish couldn't help herself but to hazard another glance, before squeaking again, raising both eyes to the ceiling. Randy, completely unfazed by her actions, rested either hand on his waist, ever so slightly jutting his hips forward to give Stratus a real eyeful. After what seemed like an eternity, Randy broke the silence.

"You want to give me a hand soaping it up?" Trish's cheeks flared an intense shade of, as she dropped her gaze to stare at Randy in blatant disbelief.

"Aw, c'mon Trish. If you enjoy looking, why turn away? Keep looking! Hey, we can make it a game. I've shown you mine, now you can show me yours." The young Legend Killer licked his lips in anticipation.

"Randy…I am so sorry. The women's showers were out of order, so I came in here to…and everything got hard…I mean bad…I…uh…well not bad, I - I didn't mean to…" Trish's eyes focused on Randy's, both chocolate brown orbs pleading with him to ease the humiliation. Randy, however, wasn't going to play along.

"It's no problem Trish," he purred, taking a step towards her, "you can shower right now. In fact, I'm happy to help you out. I'll lend a hand for those…hard to reach areas…". His gaze drifted lazily to Trish's short shorts. Squealing in shock, Trish clasped her hand to her mouth immediately. Get a grip woman! It's just that punk Orton playing with you! Mentally scolding herself, Trish realised too late that as Randy advanced on her, she had backed herself up, now resting up against a wall, with Randy getting even closer. Flashing her a heart-stopping smile, Randy closed the gap between their two bodies, gently reaching out an arm towards Trish. Shocked to some sort of sense, Trish ducked beneath his reached arm, before tearing towards the exit as fast as her legs would carry her, leaving Randy alone in the shower, a satisfied smile on his face.