She came crawling out of Glasgow like a storm in a shot glass—barefoot soul on fire, spit-shined in chaos, and too damned strange for the convent but too pure for the asylum. Nikki Cross, born Nicola Glencross, is the kind of wrestler who doesn’t just take bumps—she takes beatings from God, sanity, and gravity, and grins like she married all three in Vegas.
You don’t walk into the squared circle with a master’s in history from the University of Edinburgh and come out the same. No, this one’s a scholar of pain and persona, writing her thesis in suplexes and suicide dives. She’s the last 24/7 Champion, the first to howl at the moon while choking out reason in the corner of the ring. WWE calls her a former Raw Women’s Champion and three-time tag titleholder, but that’s just filing paperwork on a whirlwind. Nikki Cross didn’t win titles—she stole them from the jaws of structure and set the trophies on fire just to see what ashes felt like.
Before WWE scrubbed her down and made her Almost A Super Hero—a gimmick as clean as a soap commercial and about as believable as your ex’s apology—she was Nikki Storm on the indie circuit. Wrestling with Pro-Wrestling: EVE and Insane Championship Wrestling, she was one-part banshee, one-part chess player. She hit like heartbreak and moved like a drunken prayer.
Japan tried to civilize her. Shimmer tried to contain her. None succeeded. You can’t tame wind by renaming it. She toured JWP Joshi and Stardom, screaming through the East like a Scottish ghost who couldn’t sit still, hungry for both victory and vulnerability.
And then came WWE.
She debuted in NXT like a fever breaking. Cross didn’t walk in—she erupted. Part of the Sanity faction with Eric Young and crew, she was the punk-rock specter that made Charlotte Flair look like royalty from another planet. While the men punched and posed, Nikki Cross was the glue, the gasoline, and the match. You couldn’t take your eyes off her because you weren’t sure what she might do next—rip your face off or start laughing mid-headbutt.
Her feud with Asuka wasn’t a rivalry. It was art. It was Van Gogh painting in barbed wire, each woman scratching out masterpieces with blood and steel. Their Last Woman Standing match? That was less wrestling and more biblical warfare—Cross falling into tables and rising again like a damn resurrection in boots.
But WWE’s machine has a way of stuffing lightning into tiny lunchboxes. By 2019, Cross was tethered to Alexa Bliss. Beauty and the Bastard. The oddball couple made it work, snagging the Women’s Tag Team Titles and giggling in backstage promos like twisted sorority sisters. But something broke in the bottle.
Because no matter how much you try to costume her—cape, mask, glitter, the whole circus—Nikki Cross bleeds authenticity. The “Almost A Super Hero” gimmick wasn’t a career move; it was WWE’s attempt to bottle chaos and slap a smiley face on it. For a minute, it worked. She won Money in the Bank, cashed in the next night, and shocked the world by becoming Raw Women’s Champion. Nikki Cross—history nerd turned hurricane—was at the top.
But superheroes don’t last in WWE. Not unless they sell action figures. The cape frayed. The booking nosedived. Cross lost her title and tumbled down the card like a drunk trying to dance on gravel.
Then she snapped back. She peeled off the mask, spit out the corporate glitter, and reclaimed her birthright: madness.
When she returned in 2022, eyes wide and vacant, Cross wasn’t just unhinged—she was liberated. She wandered backstage like a haunted question, attacking at random, fighting without purpose. It wasn’t about wins anymore. It was about noise. Confusion. The poetry of the unwell. She even won the 24/7 Championship and then discarded the belt like a bad tattoo.
But wrestling fans didn’t forget. Beneath the booking traps and bad creative, the spark was always there—hellfire behind the eyes, the ticking time bomb in boots.
So when The Wyatt Sicks emerged in 2024—drenched in dread, a faction that felt summoned from Hell’s creative writing class—it made sense that Nikki Cross was right there with them. She didn’t join. She belonged. Portraying “Abby the Witch,” Cross stepped into the mythos like it was a pair of comfortable shoes: disturbing, unpredictable, and beautiful in the ugliest way.
Now she’s haunting SmackDown, the only woman who can make a backstage hallway feel like a cemetery. She’s a reminder that not all broken things need fixing. Some just need airtime.
Her journey isn’t marked by title runs or clean finishes. It’s etched in madness and moments. The dive from the top rope with no concern for gravity. The stare that tells you she doesn’t care about your rules or your rankings. The grin that says she hears a symphony no one else does.
And off-screen? She’s married to fellow wrestler Big Damo—a romance forged in steel chairs and sweat. And if you needed more contrast, Cross holds two university degrees in history. While other wrestlers binge on backstage politics, she’s dissecting the fall of empires for fun.
There’s a poetry to Nikki Cross, a gritty beauty that doesn’t beg for approval. She’s not your role model. She’s the cautionary tale you admire from a distance. The drunk in the alley who still quotes Shakespeare. The fistfight at midnight that turns into a dance.
She may never be the face of WWE. She doesn’t have the polish. But what she has is something more permanent—soul. And the people know. They always know.
When she walks into a ring, it’s not for victory. It’s for expression. Her matches aren’t contests. They’re therapy sessions with steel posts. She’s a scream in a company full of whispers. A cracked mirror reflecting the best and worst of us.
Nikki Cross doesn’t need a cape. She doesn’t need a faction. Hell, she doesn’t even need a feud.
She just needs a little room to go wild.
Because in a world obsessed with perfection, Nikki Cross remains beautifully, violently, unapologetically unwell.
And that’s what makes her unforgettable.
