Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The truck creaked lightly as Lux hopped into the driver’s seat, beaming over at Powder as she did up her seatbelt, adjusted her mirrors, and set her hands at ten and two, a gold ring glittering on her finger - a row of diamonds inset and sparkling. Powder had her boots on the dashboard as she was thumbing through footage on her big and bulky camera with a strip of blue duct tape across the side of it. She was slung low and shifty in her seat, the picture of impatience even as she waited. 

“Sorry,” Lux said, “I had to change my top.”

“We filmed these bozos for an entire year, just about,” Powder said to the camera in her lap, “why do you want to dress nice to them?”

“I dress the way I feel,” Lux said, grinning.

Powder glanced up to scoff, flipping the viewfinder door closed as her own ring - onyx black and gently textured to look dented in a pattern - caught the light, making Lux’s eyes travel with it as they often did. Powder had taken convincing to stand up in front of a small crowd and pledge her commitment - twitching in her suit, glaring at an enthusiastic Vi and a weepy Caitlyn as they’d held hands in the front row.

It always made Lux a little misty-eyed when she thought of that day - the day that had given her everything she’d ever wanted.

“You’re not the least bit emotional, huh?” Lux asked, as she started the truck and backed out of Powder’s childhood home - their home, now, for as little time they spent at it. After the Sumprats doc had aired, they had been in high demand for sports documentaries, and Powder and Lux had suddenly found that they could greenlight any project they wanted, or retire - the doc still did the rounds in the offseason or whenever the Sumprats were news relevant.

“Nope,” Powder said, but smiled through it - lacked heat with it.

“I’m super emotional,” Lux said, conversationally, “I haven’t seen Riven since we shot it.”

“You should look at tabloids more,” Powder replied, her cell phone replacing the camera in her lap as she scrolled through texts, started typing with both thumbs, “she’s dating some singer now according to them.”

“Our hockey rock star,” Lux mused, frowned, “hock and roll - no.”

“Hock, Stock, and Two Smokin’ Barrels,” Powder replied.

“Hockey Horror Picture Show,” Lux volleyed back.

“Hock, the Herald Angel Sings,” Powder cried out, leaning back in her seat, and the two laughed lightly.

“This is why you name the docs,” Lux said as the short drive to the Last Drop finished. She touched the ends of her chopped off hair, the blonde strands teased upwards into gentle spikes.

“It looks good,” Powder confirmed, touching her forearm, “stop worrying.”

“It’s just a big change,” Lux said, breezily, “I bet I’ll get at least twelve comments on it.”

“One per Sumprat at least,” Powder replied, as the truck rumbled to a stop in a reserved parking space - one of forty that were laid out for special occasions. They parked next to an ostentatious gold SUV and a simple black sedan with the seat pushed all the way towards the steering wheel, and clambered out with their gear.

As soon as they had stopped, a cat-hybrid and a tall blonde woman, both wearing The Last Drop uniforms, were dashing over to flag them down.

“Hey,” said the cat-hybrid, “we’re supposed to help you unload. Can we take anything?”

Lux immediately dumped the lighting and sound gear into the muscular blonde’s arms while Powder looked at her camera bags and handed the cat-hybrid the backpack she carried with extra cloths. The girl took the bundle and followed after the blonde.

“Follow us,” the cat-hybrid said, “the reunion’s in here.”

Lux looked at Powder with a bemused expression, stretching her ringed hand to take a camera bag as the two smiled.

“Ten years,” Lux said, shaking her head.

“Time flies,” Powder laughed, shook her head, and took her wife’s hand.

Together, they walked towards the Last Drop Arena, following after the cat-hybrid and the blonde, passing a sign that proudly boasted that tonight was the ten year reunion of the 2022-2023 Sumprats.

Better known, of course, as the original-

Epilogue: Champions

“It’s ride or die.” - Vi Wickett

Spaghetti Teddy’s Rambunctious RHL Column

Where were you when Zaun lifted the boot off of its neck?

I’ll tell you where I was - I was sitting in the dark in my basement in Zaun, gripping my seat cushions so tightly that I broke through them with my fingers. I had to pick fluff out of my fingernails, and they got so deep in there that they cut me.

My friend Janice was sitting on her floor because she was sitting on furniture for every one of the Lone Stars’ goals, and so thought sitting on the wood would reset our luck.

Taylor Swiffer tells me that she was in the recording studio with her podcast partner, watching on their flat screen while she had the radio broadcast in one ear - because it has better game noise.

My high school best friend Tony said he didn’t have enough space to pace around in his living room, so watched it through the windows of his sliding door, ranting to himself and looking every twenty seconds. He said he wasn’t the only one out there doing it.

I’ve gotten emails from readers  saying they were stuck in traffic listening to it on the radio, and the entire roadway was still and quiet as we all held our breath. Other readers were at the game and were singing as loud as they could, fighting as hard as they could, even though every temptation was there for us to turtle under the boot and give in.

Because before the boot was off of our neck, it squeezed us a little - it reminded us that it was still there, that the power it had was partly the power we let it have. It tried to let us know that it still had some weight behind it, tried to justify its existence. We all thought to ourselves in the darkest moments of last night’s game ‘oh no, it’s happening again’. That’s fine - that’s human, and that’s Zaun. You’re always checking the sidewalk for the shadow of pianos, scanning the corners for the next person who’s going to try and fuck you out of what’s rightfully yours.

Piltover tried to fuck us out of our livelihood, way back when. They introduced poison so vile and toxic into our waters that it hurt an entire generation of people. An entire generation, growing small, frailer than they would’ve, deaths and sickness. It took more than a decade for us to begin to see change, and the change was slow and rolling, so glacial that it appeared stagnant and dormant. But it did come - we were finally afforded the decency of reparations, we finally started to come around and build something for the better - through our own sweat and fighting and arguing, we were able to work with Piltover to create a new future.

Silco tried to fuck us out of our team - did you know that? Silco paid for the team, never wanted it, and tried to sell it - wanted to let any Joe with a billion bucks in their pocket move the team wherever the hell they wanted to. It was blocked by the RHL, and then, one of our own adopted - Mel Medarda - cooked up a way for Silco to sell and us to stay - giving ownership to the city. Now anyone who wants to be a part of the Sumprats culture can buy a slice of it, and the ticket sales go into improving our infrastructure, creating a better Zaun through hockey.

Landsman tried to fuck us out of our title. We all saw it, plain as day. You don’t hit someone knee on knee like that - not as long as Landsman has been playing - without some intent behind it. She hit Vi where it hurt, and we watched our champion buckle. Vi has been this city’s champion for a long time - she was ours when she was on the Ironfists, and would answer questions with Zaunite wit and clarity. She had a lot of expectations set on her shoulders, embodied us in all the ways it mattered - gritty, down and dirty, hard working, and, best of all, successful - and we happily claimed her as one of the good ones.

When she fell, I really felt like that was it - they had done it again. We’re going to have to sit here, and we’re going to have to watch it happen again.

Then, Mylo Sturn stepped up, and, God love him, he’d better not pay for another drink in this town as long as he lives. Mylo Sturn was our whole city reacting to it - Mylo Sturn was the axe felling the battering ram that was breaching our walls. He had to know the consequences of his action, and he did it anyway, and he did it while saying he doesn’t regret it. But even with this counter action, we still were down a champion.

There are a lot of names being suggested for what we saw last night - the fifth game and an important one, where our team was scrambling for purchase, falling under the pressure, and looking so unlike the Sumprats we knew that it was devastating to see. I’ve seen titles like “The Kiramman Game” “6-5” “The Sumpback” and all others, but in my head?

I’m calling it The Shift.

The Shift - a 20 minute shift - that elevated Caitlyn Kiramman to hockey superstar to christened champion of Zaun. We’ve all seen her and loved her, we’ve all known that she was our best player, but she looked at that third period, looked at that desperate crowd, and decided - then and there - that we weren’t going down like this.

And credit again, goes to everyone in those stands - who stayed through the third period because it ain’t over till it’s over. That was the loudest crowd I’ve ever heard, the loudest support we’ve ever given. That was decades of anger fueled through song and chants, that was stalwart belief - belief like I’ve never seen. That crowd didn’t just hope that the Sumprats were gonna claw back - they believed in that team, and the team delivered.

Remember where you were, Zaun, when the boot got lifted from our neck.

Because you’ll want to tell this story someday, and you don’t want to tell it wrong.

Graves

As soon as the ending buzzer sounded Graves was leaping over the boards, pads and all, and skating as fast as he could to Ekko as the younger kid ripped off his mask and threw it into the air, stick and blocker and trapper flinging to his sides as Graves met him at the blue line, wrapped his arms around Ekko, and squeezed.

“Our boy fucking savior,” Graves crooned, as Illaoi met the two of them. “You’re gonna go far, kid - you’re gonna go real far.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Ekko said, tears in his eyes.

“Yes, you could’ve,” Graves said, waving that off, “but I was here so I helped.”

“Both of you are the best fucking goalies I’ve ever had,” Illaoi said, squeezing both of them so hard that they could feel their chest protectors beginning to cave. Graves ran a hand through his hair, grinned, clapped Ekko and Illaoi on the shoulders.

“Try to remember as much of this as you can,” he advised, “but don’t spend too long sniffing the roses. I have a feeling you’ll both be back here before long.”

“You’re really hanging ‘em up?” Ekko asked.

“No finer way to go out than on a W,” Graves responded, pressing his forehead to Ekko’s, and then craning his neck to reach up to Illaoi. “But let’s worry about that later. I want to drink champagne out of the cup and I want to make that useless fuck of a commisioner give it to us, first.”

“Amen,” Illaoi said, and the three turned to face the pandemonium of their teammates celebrations.

Graves waited a small while before gliding effortlessly towards the Piltover bench, sidling up to Jax as the stoic man watched the proceedings, mask perched on his head, stick propping up his body.

“Well fought, young blood,” Graves said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Jax nodded in thanks. “What a season.”

“You’re telling me,” Graves replied, grinning, “looked like you were going to claw your way back into it.”

Jax shrugged, glanced around. “Not to me - it felt over as soon as Landsman took a run at your cap.”

Graves nodded, shrugged. “She’s lucky she got away without a bodybag.”

“True,” Jax said as the crowd continued to roar and pound the glass. He smiled a little, mirthless, the action looking as though it pained him. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get back here, Graves.”

“None of us do,” Graves replied, the two goalies leaning against the boards, eyes on the jumbotron as it zoomed into different pairs of players, the Sumprats now moving from celebrating together to congratulating their opponents, shaking hands, kissing cheeks. Lucian and Sevika were locked in a hard handshake, speaking terse words to each other - no real love lost between them.

If Graves had to guess, he’d say that Sevika still eyed Lucian with a layer of disapproval for coaching the player that took Vi out. Fair or not, Lucian would never be good by her book.

“Well,” Graves hedged, “except me. I’m out, young blood.”

“I figured you would be,” Jax replied, smiling as he turned towards Graves, “you going to become a podcaster?”

Graves made a face. “Not a bad idea - I’ve had a lot of fun doing that. But I think I’d start by writing a book.”

Jax laughed. “About what?”

Graves looked at the gathered crowd, at the tens of thousands of clamoring faces, at the arena that rocked and rolled with the excitement and celebration of their first ever win - their first major victory in sports, in their first year. It was the celebratory cry of disbelief mixed with relief, a group of dogs let off the leash unexpectedly to zip around the dog park and bark at squirrels.

“Zaun,” Graves said, “to start with.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Excerpt from ‘The Sumprats: The 22-23 Season In Game Notes’

By 3 time All-Star Goaltender Graves

Publication Date: 2025

There’s this predominant opinion that has emerged since we won that first title that the team didn’t know or care about the significance of the cup victory - that we were just hockey players. Winning titles was our job, after all - the goal of the entire career is to take home the boat and get the week with it, sitting around with the family and taking selfies and yes, breaking the trophy when the time called for it.

I can see how this would develop. I think a lot of players like to act unaffected by news cycles - they like to put up a front of gentle rebellion, like nothing anyone can say can affect them. It’s easier to say ‘I didn’t even read it’ than to say ‘I read it and it affected me’ or ‘I read it and my feelings were hurt’. Machismo and toughness are integral to hockey - to its core, it’s a tough person sport, a grinder sport, a sport where you bristle and flex and punch people in the face.

But we notice, and we care, and we knew.

We knew what it meant for Zaun to win something - we knew what it meant for a team that many questioned - you can still go back and read a lot of words printed when Zaun first got the expansion team, about ‘why Zaun’ and ‘what a disaster for the league’ and ‘here’s 5 cities that were more worthy of a team’. You can watch the documentary and see Mel Medarda say it in plain English - the Sumprats were built to be a team worthy of Zaun. We had Piltover on the ‘do not lose to’ list because they were Zaun’s rival, and that was important. Zaun’s opinion of us was important.

And we took it very, very seriously.

So we knew extremely well that that first one was important to the city - we wanted it as badly as the city did. Maybe for slightly different reasons - after all, not all of us grew up here - but the desire was the same. We were tossed aside like garbage by our old teams and we wanted to show up, show out, and prove them all wrong.

But the other titles? The next two titles in a row? I don’t think that had anything to do with Zaun, honestly.

I think that was just Caitlyn and Vi making a statement.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Welcome to the first episode of Diggin’ with Graves,” Graves boomed into the mic, grinning over at his producer - Alisha - who gave him a thumbs up.

“I looked around at the market of sports podcasts that were littered with ex athletes and thought: you know what we’re missing? Another male voice in the room. Just kidding, folks - here on Diggin’ I actually wanted to try something a little different than the other things you might be subscribed to. You see, there are hundreds of thousands of words spoken, printed, and animated about the RHL in what I like to call a ‘reactionary’ capacity - people reacting to games, trades, news. There isn’t a lot of ‘proactive’ content, prediction content or otherwise, because I think people are fundamentally afraid to be proven wrong.

“So here on Diggin’,” Graves continued, after taking a drink from a paper takeout cup, “I wanted to talk about specifics around the psychology of hockey players - I want to take you behind the scenes to the locker room culture, because in recent years, the one thing that has been made abundantly clear to me is that the sports media has no idea what happens behind closed doors. The Landsman scandal would never have happened if they did, and while Comissioner Skye has done an amazing job of taking steps to ensure a healthier and happier RHL, there’s still a little more that can be done.”

Graves took another sip, slid the cup to the right, and then tucked a little closer to the microphone. “So, what does this mean, what sort of shit are we talking about? Well, on this podcast you’ll see highly produced and specific pieces, aimed at dispelling the myth about locker rooms, people, situations. You’ll hear from familiar faces from around the RHL - from front offices to equipment managers. And yes, occasionally I’ll be on here to react to things - bringing on old Sumprats buddies to talk about the finals, big trades, and try to dissect on an insider level what exactly went on.

“Also, I’ll bitch about writing a book - that will probably be most of it. Because I’ve been writing this stupid book for a year now and my husband and daughter are incredibly tired of hearing about it from me, so I get to inflict it on you guys.”

“So welcome to Diggin’ with Graves, and the first episode should appear on this feed next Monday. Stay tuned!”

“How was that?” Graves said, pulling his headphones off.

“Terrible,” Alisha said, “for a podcast promo, it was too wordy, too long, and people probably skipped it at the first fifteen seconds.”

“So it was perfect?” Graves grinned. Beside him, in a big comfy looking chair, sat the purple cup - his to take for a week after winning it.

“Couldn’t have been better, Graves,” Alisha grinned back in the cup’s reflection.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“I’m trying not to take this personally,” Graves said to Vi, leaning back on her sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table.

Vi was mirroring his pose, a beer in his hand, wine in hers. Caitlyn and Tobias Felix (Vi always called him his first and last names, to differentiate from ‘CaitDad Tobias’) in the other room talking about recipes. The two could talk about recipes for hours, Vi and Graves had discovered.

“What,” Vi asked, sipping her water, “that we banged out three straight cups as soon as you stepped away?”

Graves shook his head. “Yes, that.”

Vi shrugged. “You can take it personally. No skin off my nose.”

Graves laughed, and turned his gaze back to the huge purple cup, gaze searching for his name amongst all the etchings. He found it - Graves Felix - scrawled into the metal permanently, reflecting the light.

“I like to think I was integral,” Graves said, looking at Vi.

“Oh, you were,” Vi replied, “Ekko has kind of become a mini you. It’s a little scary at some points - you taught the kid how to talk to himself.”

“That’s so vital,” Graves replied, nodding, “the only intelligent conversation the poor kid gets.”

Vi nudged his shoulder, glanced towards the other room where her girlfriend and Graves’ husband were discussing broilers by the sound of it, and lowered her voice. “I read your book, finally.”

Graves set his beer down. “What’d you think?”

Vi hesitated, turned to face him fully. “You really didn’t hold back.”

“No,” Graves said.

“You kind of put a target on your back with it - there are a lot of people in the media that’ll want you on a pike.”

“Yes,” Graves said.

Vi watched him, cracked a smile. “You really don’t give a shit, huh?”

“What are they gonna do,” Graves said breezily, waving a hand, “eat me? I said what’s true - I’m not a cog in the machine anymore. The way I see it, you guys are still in here battling and you’ll always be my team - any heat I can take off of the Sumprats and aim in my direction is just being a team player.”

Vi shook her head, amused. “Only you would take ‘hot take’ culture and apply it to what media members you think are full of shit.”

“Taste of their own medicine,” Graves replied, “they got to print articles about who the worst players in the league are for years. If they don’t like the smell of shit, they should brush their teeth.”

Vi snorted into her water.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Excerpt from ‘The Sumprats: The 22-23 Season In Game Notes’

By 3 time All-Star Goaltender Graves

Publication Date: 2025

How To Be Shit At Your Job: Sports Commentary Version

Let’s play a game - a game about how to be terrible at your job and still get the bare minimum of content across to keep it. It’s all about arbitrary metrics.

See, in the Sports Pundit world, you don’t need to be correct - in fact, it’s better if you aren’t correct. It’s way, WAY better to be wrong and strong. It’s also better if you take an arbitrary stance in regards to some player that is massively popular - say, for instance, totally at random, Caitlyn Kiramman.

Now, Caitlyn Kiramman at this point in her career is a bona fide superstar - her and Vi Wickett are household names. You ask anyone on any street corner who either of those two are, they’ll recognize them - either as the lesbian hockey couple, or on their own merits. But they know them. They’re perfect for this experiment.

Lastly, we also need to include numbers - people LOVE lists, and rankings, and put an inflated importance on people’s opinion if they can assign random numbers to values and make them look and feel smart. People love lists because they get to disagree with them, and it makes the writer look as though they did the requisite research in order to be fully informed enough to create the list in the first place.

Since we just need to be wrong and strong, here, and we need to bring in casual fans, we can create a title like this:

Caitlyn Kiramman is the Third Best Player On Her Team

This implies, of course, that I’ve made a list of at least 3 players on the Sumprats, and I deduced that Caitlyn is third! Absurd, of course, but it doesn’t matter - there’s nothing to hold me to any sort of journalistic integrity. The list doesn’t need to be correct - the list doesn’t even need to be defensible. It just needs to be on the website by most people’s lunch break on the east coast in order to get the maximum amount of clicks possible. Damage to a player’s psyche doesn’t matter to me - if any player comes at me for being ridiculous, I can just call them ‘soft millionaires’ and the fanbase will see wisdom in my words, despite the fact that I am a baby’s ass soft millionaire myself and go on the attack any time I sense a threat.

By the way, dear reader - that headline ran. Gerry Gertrude went with that headline in the 23-24 season - after Kiramman skated the 20 minute shift in the finals.

You’d think, after being so fucking wrong on Landsman - after being so fucking wrong that you had to issue a public apology - that he’d change the way he did business, but here he still is, writing bullshit like that and prancing away from criticism. He’s a coward and he’s inherently dishonest - how he has kept a national audience is from sheer attrition and hate-readers.

By the way, to be clear - I don’t actually think having an opinion about who’s the best on any given team is inherently a bad thing. Personally I think Vi Wickett and Caitlyn Kiramman are the most important duo in RHL history, and their impact on the team is impossible to measure without each other. But what I do think is a bad thing is this derivative, unhelpful bullshit about assigning arbitrary numbers to support a claim that only you have decided is true.

The too long, didn’t read version: just fucking be better, sports media. It’s tired, it’s old, and it’s not improving.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Hey, how are my favourite documentarians?” Graves said with a smile, as Lux accepted his hug and Powder settled for a finger-wiggling wave, snagging a petit four off of a passing plate. The party was in full swing - familiar faces and plus ones dotting the presentation area, draped in Sumprats red and black.

“Hi, Graves,” Lux said, smiling, “congratulations on all of the success.”

Graves waved it off, stepping back to sweep a hand out to his husband, Tobias, and his eleven year old daughter. The two were wrapped in conversation with Riven, who had a stunning redhead on her arm - the flavour of the week, according to the text messages Powder and Vi had been firing back and forth about who would be there, who would be involved.

“That’s my real success,” Graves said, love in his eyes and voice, “but you two are smashing records, last I heard.”

“We’re the best to do it,” Powder replied, “how are you taking to becoming the enemy?”

Graves laughed. “I prefer to think of it as behind enemy lines, but so far it’s been good. I get to talk about psychology and the book writing process - I’ve got another one coming out next year about sports media. It’s been interesting - less rewarding than blocking shots with my face, but easier on my knees.”

“I’ll just bet,” Powder agreed, and then let a tiny smile sneak out of her lips. “I hear the team got immediate success as soon as they let you get back to your coffin.”

“As soon as my fuckin’ back was turned,” Graves grouched, good naturedly. “But they deserve to be the best.”

The three turned to observe the 22-23 Sumprats, all older, thicker, with more deep-set grooves in their faces. For the most part, they’d aged like only athletes could, in that timeless way that spoke of distinguished existences in their forties after a lifetime of being among the most active people on the planet.

Assembled here was the start of the most successful team in RHL history, an organization that would go on to dominate the next ten years - a constantly looming presence.

“Did you know,” Graves wondered, watching his old teammates, “did you have any idea that when you started the doc, you were capturing the beginning of one of the best teams in history?”

“No, none,” said Lux.

“I didn’t even like hockey,” Powder said.

“Well,” Graves said, with pride, “you did.”

Graves went on to publish five books about life inside and outside the RHL.

He lives with his husband, Tobias, and has three adopted daughters.

He was recognized by the RHL for his services to mental health with an honorary induction into the Hockey Hall of Fame.

A press-conference following the 2023 final:

“Good evening,” Commissioner Skye says into the gathered microphones, all adorned and plastered with different outlets and bloggers. She presses a clipboard to the podium that’s plastered with the RHL logo, looks out with a severe expression on her face, and grips the podium tightly.

“I don’t have much time today, as we’re dealing with the arduous and important process of transferring duties from one commissioner to the other, but I thought I’d shed some light on the three immediate actions the RHL is taking this offseason in the wake of the 2023 campaign. Please hold your questions until Thursday afternoon, where we’ll have more of a discussion around these decisions as we gear up for the offseason.

“First, and most importantly - it is the RHL’s opinion that due to a lack of demonstrative changes to their behaviour regarding the abuse suffered in their building, each of the three Piltover Lone Stars owners - Gregory Stivoli, Marc-Andre Roberts, and Peter Jamison - are being fined five million dollars each. The cause of these fines is the failure to remove a confirmed abuser from the RHL’s roster. These five million dollar fines will be distributed to abuse shelters and programs across Runeterra, in each of our thirty-one major cities. This decision was handed out yesterday afternoon, and failure to comply will result in further, harsher punishments.

“We do not take the accusations of abuse - and the credible evidence provided - lightly. The RHL is, and will always be in the future, committed to securing and guaranteeing the safety of our players. Which brings me to our second decision.”

Skye turns a page. “I am instituting and funding a commission of third party investigators - with the RHL’s protection and full transparency - whose sole purpose will be the investigation and confirmation of accusations of abuse, bullying, or harm within the RHL. This past year has illuminated how woefully inadequate our systems of protection are, and this is the first step - not a solution - to addressing the problem. I have been in conversations with over a hundred  players - and I expect to be involved with hundreds more - regarding the best and safest program for defence against the type of abuse we saw come to light in this past year.”

Skye taps her clipboard on the podium, and doesn’t read off of it for the next item.

“Thirdly,” she says, “we are stripping Terri Landsman and Douglas Danforth of all their awards, records, and accolades. They will not be eligible to be elected to the hockey hall of fame, they will not show up in our record sheets, they will not be permitted to attend award shows, games in the major or minor league, or RHL functions of any type. Quite frankly, this should have been done in March of this past year, but we are making up for lost time.”

She clears her throat, picks up her clipboard, and lets it dangle at her fingertips.

“Okay, that’s all from me. I’ll see you back here on Thursday - come with questions and I’ll have answers.”

She steps away from the podium, ignores the rise of voices behind her as she exits through a curtain and immediately begins talking with an aide, her cell phone in her hand.

Ekko

The arena never stopped booing for the commissioner, the Zaun crowd still tasting blood for their team’s mistreatment, and Ekko couldn’t have been more proud. He stood with his teammates gathered behind Heimerdinger, arms draped around Illaoi’s waist and Riven’s shoulders as he looked up at the lights, let the words the commissioner wash over him like a stone, disappear into the river behind it.

The little dipshit could say whatever he wanted - all he’d do was cheapen the moment. There never would be any love lost - not after Mylo, the refereeing scandal, the inaction that led to Vi’s injury. Among the Sumprats, Heimerdinger was persona non grata, and Ekko liked to imagine that the little guy could feel it coming off of his teammates in waves - the anger, the derision.

Ekko glanced at Illaoi, glanced at Riven, and slowly pulled his arms away from their waists to free them up, wormed them a little closer to the small commissioner’s body.

“The Finals are a time honored tradition,” Heimerdinger was saying as Ekko’s fingers creeped up behind his head in the camera, making an unmistakable set of bunny ears. Illaoi immediately turned her head to the side to avoid laughter - Riven didn’t bother to hide the guffaw that shot out of her. The footage would later show Poppy seeing Ekko start to make the gesture, opening her mouth, and then closing it with a small shake of her head.

It also would show Caitlyn and Vi watching Ekko’s fingers and grinning - so wide that it split their faces.

Ekko left the bunny ears behind the idiot’s head until the speech was over, until the cup was presented. He left it there until his captains were hoisting the cup over their heads, only because he needed it to cup his mouth and cheer as loud as he could.

He cheered even louder when Heimerdinger was forced to hand Vi the Playoff MVP trophy, almost burst a blood vessel in his face when she threw the commissioner a satisfied smirk as she took the trophy and turned away before he could shake her hand.

That was his captain, Ekko thought, smugly.

That was one of his captains.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Four years?” Ekko asked, dumbfounded.

“Plus a player option,” Mel added, “in case you hit the end of your term and want to opt out of playing for us - for more money, a different team - whatever.”

Ekko stared at them, stared at his agent - Bob Drusack was a quiet, studious man who always read the contracts first before presenting them to Ekko, but did his best to break it into little chunks and explain the terminology. Bob wanted Ekko to look at him like a translator as opposed to an agent, wanted to stay out of Ekko’s way.

Bob was used to handling smaller clients, and the number in front of Ekko now meant that Ekko would be one of the highest paid goaltenders in the league.

“This is,” Ekko said, swallowing, “a lot of money.”

“Your save percentage was top three,” Mel reminded, “you had multiple shutouts in the playoffs, didn’t lose any of your first eight games in the postseason. You were our rock, Ekko - we want to make sure we keep you as long as you want to stay.”

“I fucked up in game 5,” Ekko replied, “I let in five.”

“But when they tried to get the sixth, when we needed you to keep the lid on tight, you did,” Mel reminded. “I don’t care about the five goals when the sixth will win it.”

“You’re also an RHL Cup champion,” Bob reminded Ekko, gently, “this is absolutely an RHL Champion salary.”

Ekko took the paper, quietly signed it, handed it to Bob to add his signature. “I guess I’m a Sumprat for the next few years.”

Mel rose, shook his hand. “You are. We’re going to be very successful.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

The second time Ekko lifted the cup was exactly a year after the first. 

The Targon Wild Cats coughed it up after four games, and it was an absolute shelling - a healthy Vi and a healthy Caitlyn, both eager to prove that the Sumprats weren’t a fluke, bombarded them with the best hockey they’d played in years. The Sumprats’ core players were a year more developed, taking the playoff experience they’d earned in the 22-23 season and applying it to their game.

Ekko talked to himself a lot, pictured Graves hovering above him, giving him advice. Graves answered the phone to give advice whenever Ekko called, gave the younger tendie all the love and support he needed to sharpen his toolset.

The Sumprats’ second cup was presented to them by Skye, and Ekko had no cause to repeat the bunny ears joke - though she did glance behind her quickly to see if he would. It made him chuckle, covered in sweat, his winning squad around him.

He was the starting goaltender for a back-to-back champion.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Ahri’s opting out,” Illaoi said over beers in the '24 offseason. There was a small defensive get together at Leona and Diana’s house - just the defenders and Ekko, having a few beers and shooting the shit. Team-building. Caitlyn and Leona were shooting pool in the basement as Ekko and Illaoi hung out near Leona’s custom bartop, eating beer nuts and, until Illaoi’s sudden topic shift, talking about birdwatching.

Ekko frowned, following the conversation switch. “Oh yeah?”

Illaoi nodded as the bottle was tipped back. “Told me last weekend.”

“Huh. Well, I guess it was a matter of time.”

“She’s good enough for her own team,” Caitlyn called from the pool table, lining up a corner pocket shot and sinking it with a sharp snap of balls and cue. Leona let out a quiet fuck as Caitlyn circled the table like a shark. “She was always going to be a rental - a good rental.”

Ekko nodded. “I guess that makes sense. It’d be crazy to leave when we’re red hot, though.”

“That’s what she wants,” Leona said, winking. “She always loved a challenge.”

“As evidence by how often she goes up against the captain in Tekken,” Illaoi put in.

Caitlyn smiled. “I respect it. She’s won with us, healed with us, and I think she feels like she wants a new challenge. She told Vi and I that this was going to happen when we went out to lunch together, the day she first came back.”

Ekko watched his captain line up another shot. He wasn’t sure if she knew how much he worshipped her - how he and an entire generation of skaters knew her as the player to follow. Vi was his hero because of where she’d come from - the Zaun background, the tough as nails persona with being eloquent and politically active. But Caitlyn didn’t just skate - she glided . Before Ekko had found his niche in goaltending, he’d always tried to copy her effortless grace on skates and her intelligence with the puck.

But now, amazingly, Caitlyn was just a person to him - a teammate. Someone he could reach out to for any reason - advice about baking, help with moving, talking about random television shows. She’d answer - Vi and her would always answer, always give them the truth despite everything.

It was only this past season that Ekko had finally learned to leave the hero worship at the door - become comfortable talking to her without feeling like he was outside of his own body.

“So,” Illaoi said, “We’ll be playing against Ahri now. That should be fun.”

Caitlyn’s shot sunk the last few balls, ending her undefeated streak as Leona rolled her eyes, set her cue down, and started to fish balls out of the pockets.

“It’ll be a lot of fun,” Caitlyn confirmed, “but it’s more Ekko’s problem than any of ours.”

Leona and Illaoi laughed, and Ekko raised his beer in acknowledgment.

“Finally,” Ekko said, “some real competition.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

The third time Ekko hoisted the cup was the same season Ahri left with tearful hugs and careful squeezes. She’d warned Ekko that she was going to gun for him, and Ekko had told her to bring it on.

Ahri hadn’t made the finals with the No-Names that year - instead it was the Sumprats winning in five games over the Axoltls, winning for the third year in the row. Ekko shut out three of the five games, stood on his head multiple times, and played as hard as he ever had. For the first time he felt like a real goaltender, like he could take on any challenger, like he could carry the world on his shoulders.

When Skye handed him the Playoffs MVP trophy, he took it with some amount of surprise, but with an eagerness that saw him snatching it from her hands, almost forgetting to shake her hand in acceptance. He let out a whoop as he raised it over his head, his teammates mobbing around him to ruffle his hair, clap his shoulderpads.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re the best goaltender in the RHL right now,” Graves said, “widely considered anyways - what do you think about that?”

“It’s humbling,” Ekko said, headphones on his ears as he sat across from Graves in the little pool house. Graves had pictures of the Sumprats all over his space, the office where he conducted the podcast. His producer sat in the corner, listening with rapt attention.

“I remember when you first came aboard,” Graves mused, “scared kid who couldn’t stop staring at Caitlyn Kiramman.”

“Yeah, my hero. Well, you were too.”

“Nah,” Graves replied, “you looked at me like I was crazy.”

“Well, you were. You are - Alisha, is he not crazy?”

Alisha laughed as Graves fake-spluttered.

“But seriously - you’re a shoe in for the goalie of the year award, you’re coming off of an iconic three-peat of cup winning seasons with a Sumprats team that might be a historically great roster - how are you feeling?”

“Well,” Ekko said, frowning, “it’s a lot like any sustained success - the pressure kind of mounts, you know? It’s hard to win consistently in our league.”

“Right,” Graves nodded.

“And we’re losing skaters now - people retire or decide to move on. We lost Ahri last season, Leona retired this season - as people move on and keep building their own stories, you know, it gets harder to maintain a level of excellence that you really need to win multiple years.”

“New threats come in?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah. Especially as other really good skaters become available - in the offseason it was Akali. We were all convinced that she’d team up with Ahri on the No-Names and there’d be another star-studded team out there.”

“That’s the thing that I’ve noticed, being on the sidelines. It’s sort of like an arms race - everyone is looking for their Caitlyn and Vi to pair together to try and outgun you guys.”

“You can say ‘us’, Graves,” Ekko said, reaching over to pat Graves’ wrist, “we all know you’re still part of the team.”

Graves laughed. “Media thing. I have to pretend to be neutral.”

“No you don’t,” Ekko teased.

“No I don’t,” Graves confirmed.

“But you’re right - it feels like the top teams are trying to get their hands on any star they can grab to try and replicate our success, when really - it’s so hard to replicate it because it came together out of pure luck and some GM magic.”

“Also, there’s no ‘other’ Caitlyn and Vi - like, that’s not happening. Sorry other GMs.”

“Yup,” Ekko replied. “But it doesn’t stop anyone from trying.”

“How are you feeling about your chances? Nobody has won three in a row - you guys did it. Is four on the table?”

Ekko paused to consider it. “It’s… I think it is. I think we’re going to give it our best shot, we’re going to go out there and be the Sumprats, and see if anyone can beat us. I think the road to the cup still goes through Zaun, no matter which way you slice it.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

The fourth time Ekko Sumpsnipe lifted the cup was that same season. The Placeholder No-Names fought the Sumprats in six games, finally falling to a beautiful Ashe one-timer that sent the No-Names home. Ahri stood in a No-Names journey, squeezing Ekko’s hand and whispering congratulations into his ear as he clapped her shoulder and hugged her tight. It was the fourth cup in a row for the Sumprats, yet another record blown out of the water.

He wiped sweat out of his eyes as he skated towards Illaoi and Caitlyn - both standing with 2026 Champions ballcaps on their heads - and leaned up to kiss both on the cheek.

“You’re the best,” he said, voice hoarse with emotion and strained from talking to himself.

“Nowhere near as good as you, boy savior,” Illaoi said, thumping his chest.

Ekko smiled at her, smiled past her at the flashing eyes of Rell - through her mask she looked furious, standing straight and tall in the No-Names jersey, shaking Vi’s hand woodenly. She was listening to what Vi was saying, but staring at Ekko, watching him closely.

Later, he caught up with her, bumped her shoulder as she started to skate into her tunnel.

“You got an issue?” Ekko asked, raising his brows.

Rell glared, lifted her helmet, lips twisting in frustration.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Rell said, nodding her chin towards his team, “you have the better team.”

Ekko chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

Rell bared her teeth at him, shouldered by him to stomp down the tunnel, leaving Ekko to smirk at her back.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“What’s it like,” Lux wondered as Ekko joined Powder, Graves and her in a goofy triangle just to the right of the entrance, “being the best goaltender in the league?”

Ekko snorted, took a flute of champagne, drank from it carefully. “Feels good, honestly,” he mused, “doing it in the best city I can be. Rell and I keep trading awards.”

“I hear that that’s not all you’ve been trading, big shot,” Powder said, nudging him.

Ekko shrugged. “She’s nice. You’d like her, I think - she had a thing today.”

“Probably just didn’t want to hang out with a bunch of stinkin’ Sumprats,” Lux teased.

“She loves Caitlyn and Vi,” Ekko said, amused, “she wanted to come just to say hi to them, but - yeah, she had a thing.”

“What is it with hockey players,” Powder wondered, “and trying to get all up on their rival players?”

“It’s the exercise,” Graves offered, “all that blood pumping, the emotions run high - you really want to kiss something.”

Ekko barked a laugh, rubbed the back of his neck, smiled at Powder.

“If I’m a stereotype,” Ekko said, kindly, “I’m happy to be one. I’m happy to - I’m happy.”

Lux gave him an assuring smile, and Ekko beamed back - at her, at Graves, and at the champagne he tossed back.

Ekko Sumpsnipe is still currently the starting goaltender of the Zaun Sumprats.

So far, he has won seven RHL cups with the Sumprats throughout his career - five of them with Caitlyn and Vi.

After Ekko retires, the number 19 will be retired from Sumprats use alongside him.
He married Rell in 2036. They have two children.

An article from variety sports news site The Pinger:

In the wake of the eventful and iconic 22-23 season, the RHL is experiencing many shakeups, from earth shaking to mundane.

The most obviously controversial is the actions of the Piltover Lone Stars and their owners, who have parted ways not only with their GM Matthew Hill, whom they hired in December of this past season, but they’ve also decided not to pick up the contract of Lucian Sentinel, their interim head coach who was on a one year assistant coaching deal as a trial period.

Coach Sentinel’s dismissal is based upon performance reviews conducted in early January, where the then-assistant was described as ‘lacking vision and drive’ by then-Head Coach Douglas Danforth. The lack of pickup is considered around the league as especially puzzling, since Coach Sentinel’s gameplanning and schemes are widely considered to be a major factor of the Lone Stars’ unlikely finals run in the playoffs.

Matthew Hill has been incredibly vocal in his criticism of the Lone Stars’ ownership, and in the past has pointed the finger for why toxic presence Terri Landsman was not cut from the roster upon the Landsman Scandal coming to light. His firing comes as an unusual but not unexpected move from an ownership group that has, in the past, been very sensitive to criticism from within the organization.

There is a lot of anticipation for these two men to land on a new team - many fans from around the league would be thrilled to have either Coach Sentinel on their bench or Matthew Hill in their front offices, given how the two men performed with limited resources, time, and job security in this playoff run.

Meanwhile, the Lone Stars’ future appears to be quite grim. They have no draft picks in the next two years, all traded away or forfeited due to the commissioner’s sanction that came down earlier in the week. The next draft pick they have - in 2024 - is actually the Placeholder No-Names’ pick, which is going to be basically worthless due to the No-Names’ competitive roster and trending upwards play of late.

All told, the once-great Lone Stars have had a rocky start in any non-Grayson led roster - after Grayson retired, the Lone Stars had a playoff drought throughout the Singed and Zac years up until the arrival of Caitlyn Kiramman in the 08-09 season. The Kiramman era ended when the Lone Stars famously left her unprotected in the Sumprats Expansion draft.

The 22-23 season will be remembered as a series of escalating mistakes, most likely - from the way the Scandal was handled, to Coach Sentinel and Matthew Hill’s dismissals, to Akali refusing to re-sign with the organization and heading to The Void for a four year deal. 

Grayson herself, has spoken many times before on how she feels the Lone Stars have been run, the owners themselves, and the direction of the franchise. She called the Lone Stars “a shameful disappointment” in 2022 after The Donnybrook, said the owners were “pinching pennies instead of doing the right thing” in March of 2023 when the Scandal broke, and called the franchise “as good as dead” after the slew of firings, releasings, and lack of resigning throughout the Lone Stars roster.

As of now, the roster features Shani Adler on the last of her two year rookie contract, and many players on short term deals, rapidly picked up when the franchise was gutted of any Landsman influence in March. There are no established stars on the team, a lot of dead cap weight, and no room to bring any new fresh blood into the roster due to the heavy sanctions on Lone Stars trading. Due to Adler and Akali’s relationship being “significant”, according to a source, there are rumblings that Adler will be Void bound next offseason, as soon there’s a window of opportunity to leave.

Thresh

Some things didn’t need to be said in the moment - words cheapened things for all involved when there were too many of them. Noise wasn’t always a positive - after a lifetime of fighting to be heard over crowds, fighting to vocalize to his teammates things that he needed to say, Thresh had learned the value of nonverbal queues, quiet gestures.

So when the Sumprats building exploded in cheers after Vi won her Finals MVP trophy, Thresh didn’t add his voice to the mix. He stood there, scarred and burned face stretched in a smile as he tugged the Champions cap tighter over his head, watching with glimmering eyes as his captain posed next to the trophy for a flashing, blinding picture. He watched in the reflection of the glass as she turned immediately towards Caitlyn and the two chuckled, clapped each others shoulders as the Cup was wheeled out to lift, the team’s reflections caught in it - warped and widened and stretched.

Thresh didn’t say a word as the two of them lifted the cup together, the stadium growing impossibly louder as the boards seemed to thrum and vibrate under the impossible thunder of a stadium that let its pride be heard.

Instead, he smiled - proud. He tugged his hat further back on his head to display his scars, let everyone see the smile like a skull that warped his face.

He didn’t care about judgment here - he was home.

He’d never felt more home.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Silence was always his preferred volume level - his throat was too destroyed to speak at anything louder than a sensible mumble. It was why the Void was always his preference - the silence of the arena meant he didn’t need to strain to be heard. The loudness of Zaun always intimidated him specifically because of that - on defense, nobody could hear his callouts, so he was stuck following rather than leading.

Poppy led for him, when she could - he swore that most of her body was made up of gigantic lungs that could be heard clear as a bell in a stadium fifty thousand strong. She was used to cycling and barking orders and jostling her team into position, so she split her focus between what was in front of Thresh, and what was in front of herself.

Thresh loved her more than any other friend he’d ever had, but he still sought growth - that was the thing about the Sumprats. You won with them, and continued to win with them so long as you came back every year a little bit better, a little stronger. His game wanted to develop - he wanted to be more than just a center that ate up other centers and was a stout defensive presence. He wanted to be a leader.

He wanted to be reliable.

Viktor had suggested it first - hand signals and body language. Little changes in demeanor so he could quarterback the defense without it being obvious what he saw, what he was reacting to. Viktor told Vi, and she would watch him in practice, talk it over with him, and gradually the team were brought into the fold.

“Thresh is going to lead us on defense,” Viktor said, “when Poppy and Vi are out. We’re moving to a subtler approach to defensive callouts - here’s the chart that we’re working on this year.”

Year three was when they faced real resistance, when teams geared up to go after them and keep them from returning for their crown. Year one, the league could write off as a fluke - year two was chalked up to them having two of the greatest. You could build a team to take out two great players, because a hockey team was the sum of its parts - eventually, the two great players wouldn’t be out there, no matter how many crazy twenty minute shifts they tried to play.

But year three was also the year that the Sumprats fully embraced nonverbal communication - the chemistry so apparent through two years of successful seasons that it didn’t take long at all for them to adapt Thresh’s way of communication - tapping a cheek subtly to show that you were going to press the puck handler, a flash of a stick to one side and then the other to show you were reading a pass. Tiny adjustments, little fixes, and suddenly it wasn’t just Poppy or Vi that were able to put up a bastion of defence.

Suddenly it was every Sumprat, speaking Thresh’s language. Diana tapping a cheek to Leona, Ashe flipping her stick around quickly, Riven tugging on an ear and nodding behind her.

The crowd kept being wild, kept exploding and filling the stands, but it wasn’t hell on Thresh’s throat - because now, he never had to say a word.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Five time RHL cup winner, two time Defensive Player of the Year finalist, and three time All-Star Thresh Warden is here joining us - thank you for coming, Thresh.”

“Happy to be here,” Thresh whispered into the mic.

“I see you’re dressed to represent.”

Thresh glanced down at his Burn Victims United t-shirt, laughed a little, struggled to swallow and smiled. “That’s right, yeah.”

“Tell us about your initiative.”

“Well,” Thresh said, “you know, when you first sign with a team in the RHL, you’re asked to either start or be the face of a charity - you can either pick one of the sanctioned ones or start your own. Before I joined the Sumprats I just picked the Red Cross, used portions of my paychecks to donate to them.”

“You’re referring to an initiative - this may not be well known,” Taylor Swiffer says, “but this initiative has been in place since the late eighties.”

“’86,” Thresh confirmed, “but yeah, since I got my extension and the pay bump, I thought it was about time to make something my own.”

“And you started Burn Victims United.”

“Yeah,” Thresh nodded, “we reach out to families of burn wound victims, help with costs of medical procedures - a lot of people don’t realize how long burn victims suffer for their injuries, and we wanted to be the type of organization that reaches out and takes some of the stress of organizing all of that away. Our theory is that you shouldn’t have to be on the hook for setting up meetings with doctors and hearing about different kinds of skin grafts from medical specialists - we can help with that.”

“A great cause,” Taylor said, “now, obviously, your passion for this comes from the fact that you yourself was in an accident.”

“Yep. Changed my career,” Thresh said, softly, “and it’s hard to feel bad for how it went - I won five cups doing what I do and doing it well, but if I had these resources at the time, I might have been in a better space early on.”

“Undoubtedly,” Taylor says, “we here are big fans of yours and what you’re doing - your style is so physical and unorthodox.”

“Thanks,” Thresh said.

“And I know a lot of players who start these initiatives, they’re the face of it - they’re basically money and exposure, but beyond that they don’t have too great of a presence. But you, you’re all over it.”

“It’s important to me,” Thresh said, “I learned that from Caitlyn, actually - with the hockey centre she set up in Zaun, her and Vi. I learned that there’s room to be both a good business person, a good community person, and a good hockey player. And if Caitlyn Kiramman can do both, if Vi Wickett can do both, then who the fuck am I to not try?”

“Caitlyn Kiramman and Vi Wickett - they set up that centre - at least in part, the rumour goes - to have a solid back up plan when they retire. Is BVU this for you, you think?”

“Oh I’m a ways off from retiring,” Thresh said, grinning, “too many asses left to kick.”

Taylor laughed.

“But, yes - in a way. It’d be nice to give back. You’re given so much - your community gives so much to you when you grow up, and the support I was shown in Zaun, the love I get from other people who have had a similar injury - it humbles you. If I can spend the rest of my life taking care of people the way I was taken care of, I’ll have considered that a good life.”

“That’s really good,” Taylor said, shuffling some papers, “that’s really good stuff. BVU sells merchandise on their website and all of the proceeds go towards actionable causes that directly aid victims of burn-related trauma. Now, Thresh, let’s talk some hockey.”

“Sure,” Thresh said, leaning back in his chair.

“How are you all taking Vi Wickett’s retirement?”

“Hard,” Thresh replied, shrugging, “but we had six years with her - six really great years. I forget who said it on the documentary on that first season - it might have been Ashe.”

“Ashe or Poppy, I think,” Taylor said.

“Yeah, one of those. But it’s rare that you can sit beside the best in the world at something for so long and learn from them directly, you know? I got to ask her questions and really let her talk about the game - she’s got such a great mind for hockey, she’s a true legend.”

“She might be the best defensive forward of all time,” Taylor said.

“I’d say she’s the best defender, period,” Thresh replied, swallowing, “but either way - she’s phenomenal. But we all knew it was coming - since last year, when we lost to Ahri and the No-Names, we knew it was our last ride together. That’s what made us want to send her out with a win.”

“Did she give you a reason as to why?” Taylor asked.

“Body,” Thresh replied, “a woman like Vi - a player like Vi - won’t quit if her body can take it. Caitlyn’s the same way - I bet she plays until her body screams for her to stop. But there comes a point, I think, where you need to decide whether to suffer through another long season or to put them away.”

“She said in her press conference that a big reason she was able to make the decision was you and Poppy - how far you’ve come with the rest of the Sumprats.”

“She’s sweet,” Thresh replied, smiling. “She’ll have big shoes to fill - Poppy’s got huge feet, though. We’ll manage.”

Taylor laughed, and Thresh took a long drink of water to soothe his raw throat.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“We’ve helped our one thousandth family,” Thresh said at a corporate retreat, “and I just want to make sure you all know how much I appreciate your contributions to BVU. We started as a niche charity that was considered too small scale for big change, and so our mission changed from making big change to making small changes with impact.”

The room clapped as he nodded to the room full of contributors, all who were watching him speak with sparkling eyes. In the middle of the room there was Poppy, Caitlyn and Illaoi - all watching him with mirth in their eyes. Focusing on them helped the room to stop spinning.

“I’m pleased to say that because of BVU, we have one thousand families who didn’t receive proper medical care or support due to burn trauma who are enrolled in the programs they need, and are receiving the assistance required in order to get them onto the road of recovery, functionality, and stability. That’s because of every single one of you in this room.”

The applause was more intense as he smiled, and Caitlyn gave him a discreet thumbs up even as Poppy stuck her tongue out at him and Illaoi tossed a crab cake into her mouth.

“Thank you all. Enjoy the food and the slopes.”

He stepped down from the stage, crossed to his teammates and friends. Caitlyn was getting gray hairs at her temple - little wisps that he hadn’t noticed before. It gave her a severe look, more and more like Cassandra by the day - a gentle reminder that she wasn’t going to be their captain forever, that she had a life waiting for her at the end of all of this - the constant games.

“How was it?” he whispered as Illaoi handed him a bottle of water and honey, and he drank greedily.

Poppy pressed her fist to her chest, pushed him lightly.

“Fuckin’ perfect, Thresh,” she said.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“And here’s the chairman of BVU now,” Powder said, smiling like she was announcing him at a ball. Lux waved across the room at Thresh, who was having a whispered conversation with Claggor. He smiled across at them both, whispered another word to his ex-enforcer as he crossed the room to shake both Powder and Lux’s hands.

“Lovely to see you both,” he whispered.

“Oh,” Lux said, pointing to her own throat, “are you going to be okay to talk later?”

“Saving it,” Thresh responded, “I’ll be good to go.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Powder said, “but you were my favourite Sumprat because you knew how to shut the fuck up.”

“That’s all I know,” Thresh whispered, and his scarred lips curved into a smile. “Looking for Mylo?”

“Yeah - you seen him?”

Thresh pointed to a closed door. “He’s talking to Ashe in there.”

“Thanks,” Lux said, “how are you?”

Thresh grinned. “Never better,” he replied. He looked like he meant it.

Thresh Warden worked his way up to become the assistant captain of the Zaun Sumprats, where he kept his position as second line center and defensive specialist throughout the rest of his career. With Poppy Tieth, Thresh won two Defensive Player of the Year awards, and was widely considered to be one of the greatest individual defenders of his decade of hockey.

Thresh retired in 2046, alongside his best friend, Poppy, and currently remains chairman of the BVU charity.

From Wikipedia:

Terri Larkeeny Landsman (born August 19th, 1982) was a Demacian professional ice hockey centre of the Placeholder No Names and the Piltover Lone Stars of the Runeterra Hockey League ( RHL ). She is most known for being the central figure of the Landsman Scandal , a series of several abuse allegations that date back to 2006 that accused her, former head coach Doug Danforth , and former General Managers Shannon Willis and Bradly Quincy of being in a conspiracy to perform verbally and physically humiliating acts to team members of the Lone Stars.

In 2023, Landsman was found guilty of numerous physically abusive charges, most notably twenty three counts of Assault in the Second Degree . She is currently incarcerated. 

Ashe

It was a moment of clarity when Ashe realized that they were doing this for the first time.

Hoisting the trophy, seeing the crowd go ballistic, watching the Lone Stars limp away and lick their wounds and shake their heads in frustration. Watching the way her name - deep set and purple, on a list of her favourite people in the world - sparkled and glimmered when it was pressed into the cup. Feeling the glorious 55 pound weight of the trophy in both of her quaking arms, her hip pain vanishing into the wind as she slowly took a lap, brought the trophy to her lips, kissed it lightly before lifting it again.

She was the second scorer on a cup winning team.

A year ago, she’d been considered a drama queen, a holier-than thou figure that was being sent up river for scraps, and now she was holding this trophy in her hands.

She began to skate with it, lifting it high - having been handed it by Poppy, who had her turn just in front of her - and watched the blurred faces of fans who were shouting, thumping their seats, their faces twisted in a mask of joy that one could’ve mistaken for anger. Her smile hurt worse than all the bruises and bumps she’d gotten over the four grueling rounds of hockey, working so hard that it almost split her lips with how stretched it was.

As she felt the weight of the trophy leave her hands after her victory lap, as she passed it to Riven for her turn around the arena, she let her arms fall to her sides, looking up at the flashing lights and busy Jumbotron, zooming in on her face - she looked flushed, excited, bright eyed and emotional. Her hand reached up to wipe an errant tear away, adjusting her ball cap on her head so that the 2023 Champions was more properly visible to herself and the crowd.

She looked down at Mel and Sevika - standing off to the side, clapping as they watched the rink, pride and delight on their faces as she slowly pushed off to visit them.

“Whatever we got to do,” Ashe said to them as she pressed a hand to each of their shoulder, “we’ve gotta get back here.”

“We will,” Sevika promised, clapping her shoulder pad. “You did good, Arrow.”

“We did good,” Ashe confirmed, corrected, “but it’s just the start, right Mel?”

Mel grinned.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’ll never be more than second best, anyways,” growled Sanderson as Ashe skated by him, the goal light bright and red over his goalie as Ashe netted her second of the game.

Ashe raised her eyebrows, glanced up at the scoreboard, squinting at it as if in deep concentration.

“I said,” Sanderson said a little louder, “you’ll-“

Ashe pointed to the score. “Are any of these goals yours?”

Sanderson looked up at where she was pointing.

“Then don’t talk to me,” Ashe replied to the telling silence, and wrapped her arms around her teammates for the celebration as Vi shot the hapless skater a bemused look.

“Ice queen cometh,” Vi whispered, in a mockingly spooked tone.

“He just called me second best to Caitlyn Kiramman,” Ashe said, amused, “I don’t think that’s the insult he feels like it is.”

“Second best to the best in the world,” Illaoi laughed, “what a chirp.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Ashe Arrow will not be leaving this organization,” Mel Medarda said flatly at the podium, as another trade deadline came upon the Sumprats, “not so long as she wants to remain here. We consider her an invaluable member of our organization, and we would be devastated to see her go. We’re committed to Ashe.”

“Ashe’s contract isn’t a maximum paid deal - are the rumours true that Ashe has been measured by other teams for potential trades?”

“It’s a non starter,” Mel said, simply. “We see Ashe as the future of the franchise - part of a core group of talented players that will see the Sumprats succeed for a long time to come - so we are not entertaining trades at this time.”

Ashe turned off the television, smiling to herself as she tugged her sweat-wicking leggings up her legs, unrolling the waistband so it didn’t cut into her hips. Her house was small and cute - walking distance to the rink, a lot of yard space for her to work on her game in the middle of her fenced-in area, enough room for Stringer and Avon - her two huskies - to run around in the yard and frolic. She started stretching out her arms and legs, making sure her phone was secure in her armband before she went out for her run.

It was a beautiful day in Zaun - the air had a snap to it, a chilly accent to the air that meant that it felt refreshing when it filled your lungs. Ashe was never one for missing Frejlord - for her, the winters were too isolating for her to truly enjoy them - but she’d always been partial to cold weather. In Zaun, winters were full of people bustling from warm spot to warm spot, and she rarely felt alone - if anything, they all commiserated together, gave them a point of discussion for easy conversation.

A knock at her door had her pausing in mid-stretch, a frown on her face. Nobody in the Sumprats would be bugging her at home around this time - they’d gotten good at knowing her schedule in the four years she’d played here. Four years, four cups - still a crazy thing for her to reckon with.

When she swung the door open, she came face to face with Sejuani.

Her old coach was dressed to impress - a button down shirt, nice looking jeans, shined shoes. It made Ashe in her running gear feel a little grungy as she stared up at Sejuani, a frown gracing her delicate features - rapidly turning to alarm when Avon and Stringer came bounding down the stairs, barking madly as they raced for the coach.

Ashe whirled to grab them by a collar each and haul them backwards, muttering commands as Sejuani’s neutral expression carved its way into a smirk.

“Bad time?” Sejuani asked.

“Yes, actually,” Ashe replied, pulling the dogs back and directing their attention further into the house. They went reluctantly, turning around to sit a few yards away, tails still and ears perked. The energy in the room was something they were picking up on - Ashe’s hesitation, Sejuani’s rigid posture.

“This is a surprise,” Ashe hedged.

“I can come back later,” Sejuani said.

“Come back to do what?” Ashe asked.

Sejuani watched her. Ashe watched back. 

“We have an offer,” Sejuani said, “for the offseason. We know that you’re not being financially compensated as a Sumprat, and we wanted to see if you’d be open to having that rectified.”

Ashe raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Max deal,” Sejuani said, lifting an envelope. “Four years. You come back to the Wanderers, the return of the queen, and we make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Generous offer,” Ashe said.

“You’re worth more than the Sumprats are paying you,” Sejuani said, looking around Ashe’s house. “It’s insulting that they haven’t maxed you - especially when they have some cap room. You’re the second scorer on the team. We can make you the best scorer we have, the uncontested star of your own squad - and isn’t that what anyone wants in this league?”

Ashe nodded, reaching a hand out to the envelope, waiting expectantly. When Sejuani placed it into her hand, Ashe felt the weight of it, lifted her arm and lowered it experimentally.

“You know,” Ashe said, conversationally, “there are rules about this - tampering.”

“We’re hoping you’ll keep this between us until the offseason,” Sejuani said, “and I think it means something that I’m here and talking to you. It means something, I think, that I took the time.”

Ashe nodded, met Sejuani’s eyes. She lifted the envelope again, placed her second hand on it so that she was holding it dangling between her fingers, and slowly, carefully, ripped it in half without opening it. She let the two halves fall to the ground in lazy spirals, watched Sejuani’s stricken eyes follow the pieces as they hit her hallway floor.

“Too little,” Ashe said, “too late. Thanks for stopping by, but I hope your flight’s delayed.”

“You little shit,” Sejuani snarled, “I’m trying to meet you halfway, here.”

“It’ll take a lot more than a max contract in Frejlord to get me to consider leaving family,” Ashe snapped back, stepping forwards to grip the door. “I’ll tell you the same thing that Mel probably did when you asked for me in a trade - I’m not leaving Zaun.”

The door slammed like a gunshot on Sejuani’s rapidly purpling face, and Ashe methodically cleaned up the torn up envelope, tossed it into the recycling bin, and continued preparing for her run.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“I need advice,” Ahri said, slowly rotating her wine glass.

Ashe frowned over at her, the beer in her hand halfway to her lips. She slowly lowered the icy bottle, shifting on the couch so she was a little more comfortable - the tone of Ahri’s voice telling her that she needed to pay attention.

“Okay,” Ashe replied, waving with the bottle.

“You- seem like you’ve found someone,” Ahri hedged, glancing towards Ashe’s boyfriend. Tryndamere was currently trying to goad Riven into a weightlifting competition - a taunt that was going to work, and work well. They all were hanging out at Ashe’s house in the offseason, a little get together of people who were in town and available.

Ahri usually said no to their invites, too busy trying to whip the No-Names into shape. But this time, she’d said yes.

“Seems like,” Ashe replied after a short delay, drinking from her bottle. “Is that all?”

“I’m just - how did you know he was the guy?”

Ashe looked at Trynd again. He had found some paint cans in the garage, was using some duct tape to tape them to a crowbar for a makeshift weight while Riven laughed at him.

“I guess I didn’t,” Ashe said, “we’ve known each other for a while - our parents actually wanted us to get together when we were kids. We rebelled against the idea, not because we hated each other - just because parents, you know?”

Ahri nodded as Ashe frowned in the retelling.

“But when I had some free time in Frejlord, in an away game - he got in touch again. We were friends for a while, mostly just messaging a lot and seeing what each other were up to. That slowly moved to us hanging out together more when he moved to Zaun, then he kissed me at a New Years party, and, well. He’s a good kisser.”

Tryndamere was now lifting the crowbar as Riven kept count - loudly. The rest of the partygoers seemed very invested in the little competition, milling about and watching as they made idle conversation. Ashe looked at Ahri to find the other woman staring at her phone, rotating it slowly, back and forth, lost in thought.

“Why do you ask?” Ashe prompted, forcing Ahri to blink out of her thoughts.

“Oh. No reason, I guess. Nothing. I just - I’ve been thinking about dating again,” she said, with a glance at Riven. Ashe frowned, followed her gaze.

“If you want to start dating ,” Ashe stressed, “I’d start in a place where you can take it slow - see if you can develop a relationship first, before jumping into more.”

Ahri blinked, looked at Ashe with a narrowed gaze. “What?”

“Dating,” Ashe said, “developing a relationship. Maybe don’t just dive in for sex first.”

Ahri cocked her head. “Why would-?”

Ashe pointed casually at Riven, who was whooping as Tryndamere put the makeshift barbell down, rubbed her hands together as they switched positions.

“Oh, no ,” Ahri said, laughing, “no, not for me. Not for me and her, I mean.”

“Oh,” Ashe said, somewhat relieved.

“No, I just - I guess I’ve been thinking. There’s someone who I’m interested in - or, really, might be interested in me. But we might become coworkers, and I’m not sure if - I don’t know how to manage that.”

“Ah,” Ashe nodded, comprehending, “so you’re worried about the potential fallout of a work relationship?”

“Yeah,” Ahri said, “or, like, how to keep it professional I guess. When there’s mutual interest.”

Ashe nodded again. “Right.”

“I don’t know if they’re interested,” Ahri hedged, “but I think they are. Who wouldn’t be? But-“

“Professional boundaries?” Ashe supplied when Ahri cut off.

Ahri nodded. “Exactly. Professional boundaries.”

“You know who you should ask?” Ashe asked, and Ahri groaned.

“I know what they’ll say,” Ahri whined, “I know what both couples will say if I ask them. It’s biased, because they wound up together and in love - what if my situation is different?”

“What if it’s not?” Ashe challenged.

Ahri glared, slumping against the couch pillows.

“What if it’s not,” Ahri repeated to herself, and slugged her wine.

~*~*~*~*~ 

When the door to Mylo’s office opened, Powder and Lux leapt in surprise as Ashe - equally surprised - started to see them.

“Jesus. Hello!” Ashe said, laughing, “you guys scared the shit out of me.”

“Hi! Us too. How are you?” Lux asked.

“Amazing today. You guys skulking around?”

“Hm? No- we heard Mylo was in here.”

“He is,” Ashe said, gesturing with a thumb over her shoulder, “he’ll be along any minute. It’s all business with that guy, so good luck with whatever you need from him.”

“Contract negotiations?” Powder asked.

“Yeah,” Ashe laughed, “they never end. We’re drama free around here for the most part - when we win him cups he’s eager to keep us around.”

“I imagine he’d want to keep you locked up tight.”

“Well, my husband and kids are here,” Ashe said, running a hand through her short silvery hair, “so it’s not like I’d uproot them now. But yeah, we want to keep things fairly consistent. Mostly I hate moving.”

“You were brilliant this year,” Lux said, excitedly, “congratulations on the second scoring title. It must be amazing to be so successful.”

“We’ve got a lot to be grateful for,” Ashe demurred, and then laughed, “Poppy would beat me up for saying that. The truth is that we kick ass, and it looks like we’ll continue to kick ass if Poppy and Illaoi have similar conversations with Mylo to me.”

“You’re staying?” Powder inferred.

“Oh yeah,” Ashe said, “they probably are too. You can’t break up the Sumprats core - we’re ride or die.”

Following Caitlyn Kiramman’s retirement in 2030, Ashe Arrow became the number one option on the Zaun Sumprats. Along with Poppy, Illaoi, Thresh, and Ekko, they formed an effective core group of players that saw Zaun have repeated success.

Ashe lives in Zaun with her husband, Tryndamere, and their two children.

A conversation overheard in the offices of Beck and Shackleton Realty:

“Did you close it?”

“Shh, not so loud.”

“Oh, what - we can’t talk about it?”

“The clients wanted privacy.”

“The clients - okay, Shan. You’re not pretending like you didn’t spend the week with Caitlyn Kiramman and Vi Wickett, are you?”

“They wanted privacy!”

“I don’t think that extends to partners.”

“I - yeah, you’re right. So I’m smug. Let me be smug.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

“Truly.”

“How did it go?”

“ Really well. They’re honestly really cute together. Ms. Wickett had a lot more structural questions than I was expecting - she seems to know her way around a home.”

“It’s so exciting that they’ll be local for a while.”

“More than a while - they closed.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah - they were making plans for five years, ten years down the line. It didn’t feel like they were going anywhere.”

“Wait - doesn’t that mean that they’re staying on the team?”

“I don’t know - they could commute. But most of the hockey player deals that my friends in Demascia close, the players don’t really ask questions about long term value - not like these clients did.”

“I’ve gotta call my nephew - he’s going to flip out about the fact that they may be staying.”

“Bess, they asked for privacy.”

“I’ll give them privacy! Who’s my Nephew going to tell - the national media?”

Viktor

Viktor remembered limping a lot, on a cane, on braces, on a crutch - he remembered dragging his leg through the moist and slushy winter streets of Zaun, trying to keep up with the other kids. He remembered watching through his window as snowball fights were had, toboggans tugged, the magic of snow bringing with it new opportunities - wonderful opportunities to use it to their advantage.

His backyard backed onto a marshy land in Zaun, a half-sunken area more than a lake - reeds would dot the treeline, the vegetation that grew there sick and twisted with the pollution. In snow, it transformed into purple and green ice, frosted over with reeds that would poke through the stained glass, little obstacles that would remain there through the hard, strong freeze. The ice was powerful, would stay for months, providing a place for more winter events to unfold.

Every winter, his father would go down to the ice once it was frozen enough, check it all the way through for sturdiness, and then take shears and snip every reed down to the ice line, fill the holes with water to freeze overnight. He’d clear off the water until it was fully visible where the hard spots were, drag two old, beat up iron nets out to the ice to set up at a regulation distance apart from one another, and toss a bunch of sticks onto the ice - mostly found via garbage sifting, finding old and discarded ones outside of houses and fixing them up.

Every winter, the kids would come - lace up their skates, and skate onto the pond to play hockey.

His father did it one year for charity’s sake, and kept doing it because Viktor was mesmerized - he’d never be able to skate, not properly, but he could watch this fascinating game, this game that the neighbouring kids would play 6 on 6, sometimes 8 on 8 when there were too many bodies. He would sit at the shore and watch and cheer and look with admiration as the kids honed their skills out there on the purple and green, until late at night when they had to play via floodlights that would be powered by stolen energy from neighbour’s houses.

It was one of the only times Viktor was able to keep up with the other kids - when he could analyze their strengths and weaknesses. He made little rookie cards every year, handed them out with little mock drawings of the players, to the delight of the neighbourhood kids. They weren’t leaving him behind - they were coming to him, asking his opinion on how they’d improved, asking him how he was doing.

Hockey to Viktor was always about belonging. It was always about family, about a sense of being that he couldn’t get anywhere else - not in the other 8 months of the year when the lake was sick and dying and the reeds curled in despair and the trees crusted over with pus.

For the rest of the 8 months of the year, Viktor limped - was used to limping.

But here, under the flashing lights, with red and black confetti raining around him, with his arm around Darius as the big forward skated carefully onto the ice, making sure that Viktor was lock step with him - here, with the crowd screaming and chanting their team name, over and over again - here, with the Cup being wheeled out on a cart.

Here, Viktor felt like he was flying.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“I’m not sure if I’m a good fit,” said Viktor.

Jayce frowned. “A good fit?”

The two were at a fancy restaurant - in Piltover. Viktor had gotten on a plane for this man, who he’d called as soon as he’d landed for an interview with the Lone Stars for a head coaching position. They were over two months out from winning the cup, and the Lone Stars were already trying to poach assistants from other teams to start their organization after canning Lucian and Matt.

Jayce had been delighted that Viktor was in town, had promised to show him a good time, and they had been at a restaurant an hour later. Jayce had clearly just come from the council, still dressed in an immaculate suit and tie, every inch the politician, the man of the city.

Viktor had put on a wrinkled suit, ill-fitting - his first one, the one he’d been wearing when Sevika had hired him off the street, the one he’d been wearing when the Sumprats had lifted the cup. He packed a much nicer one for the interview tomorrow, a black and white one that looked more like he was going to a funeral.

It meant less, too - Jayce deserved his lucky suit.

“Yeah,” Viktor forged ahead, “I’m addicted to my work. I’m taking interviews for head coaching jobs, which means I’ll be traveling all the time. I’m a pretty awkward person at the best of times - I wouldn’t be much fun at a party.”

Jayce spooned some soup into his mouth, nodding. “How’s your bread?”

Viktor frowned. “I feel like you’re not listening.”

“I’m listening fine,” Jayce said, “but I’m worried that you’re talking too much to enjoy the bread rolls. They bake them fresh.”

Viktor tore a chunk out of his roll - frowned at how it melted, buttery and beautiful, in his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments before setting the roll down.

“I’m pot-committed, too,” Viktor said, “I’ve always had that trait. I don’t give up on something that I want, so I can kind of block the world out - including relationships. I really want to be successful at my job, so I’m probably a bad fit to get attached to right now.”

Jayce was nodding, drinking some more soup from his spoon in measured, calm bites. Even eating soup, Jayce was perfection - the little nicks and cuts on his face only adding to his mystique. His face was classically handsome - sculpted jaw, dark eyebrows, serious expression.

He ate his fucking soup, and all Viktor could think was how could I not fuck him?

“I’m a mess,” Viktor said, softly, “I’m just getting some confidence in my work - meeting me later in life probably would be better.”

Jayce nodded, finishing his soup, wiping full lips with a napkin, wiping his hands, and setting the napkin down. “Is that it?”

Viktor frowned at his list of reasons of why Jayce couldn’t want him being dismissed so casually. “I guess so.”

“Okay, great,” Jayce said, “can I tell you what I see when I look at you?”

Viktor leaned back, waved the go-ahead.

“Will you eat as I talk?” Jayce asked, smiling a little.

Viktor hesitated, picked the roll back up as Jayce leaned his elbows on the table, leaning forwards conspiratorially.

“You’re an incredibly attractive person, Viktor,” Jayce said, “you’re driven, smart, caring - I haven’t been so enamored with a man in a long, long time. When you’re at work - when you’re on television and doing your thing, I can’t take my eyes away. You’re not a pushover, you stand up for what you believe in, and I think you’re going to be very, very successful - no matter what you try in life.”

Viktor continued to eat as Jayce lifted his palms.

“So you’re driven, focused on your career, pot committed as you call it. I am too - I’m all of those things. I can’t put something down when I start it until it’s done, I work the problem until it’s solved, or resolved, or in a good enough shape to move to the next level. So what I see when I look at you is an attractive, caring, compassionate man who I have a lot in common with, who I can see beside me - if you’re interested.”

Jayce shrugged. “I’m not asking you for forever, or to make any promises - what I’m asking for is seeing you once in a while, when our schedules align. Maybe dinner, maybe drinks. I’m asking for some of your time, because I’ve enjoyed spending mine with you - whenever you’ll have me.”

Viktor stared, swallowed the rest of his bread, and flushed. Yeah, he thought, he couldn’t not fuck this man.

“I think that’s doable,” Viktor said, glancing down at his steak. He began to carve it, well aware of Jayce’s eyes on him, his hands, his face as he worked.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“It’s great to meet you,” Gregory Stivoli, one-third owner of the Piltover Lone Stars said, shaking Viktor’s hand. Stivoli was a stodgy, elderly man, with crinkles around his eyes from smiling - almost making you forget that this man was one third of the people who allowed Caitlyn Kiramman to be abused for years.

Viktor, in his black suit, released Gregory’s hand to be seated - didn’t ask if he could, first. His little act of rebellion. When you had a cane, you could get away with little pieces of impoliteness, tiny stabs.

“I was surprised when I got the call,” Viktor intoned, pressing his cane on the floor in between his knees, “I assumed that you’d be looking at other candidates before turning to assistants.”

“Yes, well,” Stivoli said, “we’ve had a spot of trouble, there - lots of jobs open in the RHL at the moment, lots of competition. But I assure you, we asked you because we believe you’re the best.”

Viktor’s lips remained in a thin, tight line as he regarded the owner of the Lone Stars. “I see,” was his reply.

“Now, to business - can I call you Vik?”

“No.”

“Very well. Viktor,” Stivoli continued, “there’s an opportunity for regrowth here in Piltover - an opportunity to forge your legacy the way you want it, far away from restrictions. No limits, or rules, no red tape - you can shape the team however you want it. We’re just looking for the right people for the job - the right people to lead us back to the Lone Stars’ glory days, the top of the mountain.”

Stivoli wrote a number on a piece of paper, slid it to Viktor. “Here’s my offer - our offer. Let us know if-“

“Why did you fire Lucian Sentinel then?” Viktor asked, leaving the piece of paper untouched on the desk.

Stivoli straightened his tie. “Well,” he said, “I can’t disclose why we let personnel go outside of the organization.”

“He seemed to do a great job with the roster he had,” Viktor said, “I’m worried about my job security if you can fire a coach that managed to get the team to the finals for the first time in twenty years, and not even blink.”

“Lucian and us had some differences,” Stivoli said, “with regard to hiring decisions. They were irreconcilable.”

“You also let Matt go this summer.”

“We did,” Stivoli said, “and I will not be discussing that. The offer’s on the table - literally. Pick it up, let’s talk turkey.”

Viktor thumped his cane, slowly rose. “Thank you for the interest,” he said, checking his watch, “but I’m going to refuse at this time.”

Stivoli frowned. “You haven’t even seen the offer.”

“I’ll be blunt, Mr. Stivoli,” Viktor said, “I want no part of this organization. I want no part of any of it so long as the three of you are in charge. What you let continue in this building was an abomination of human rights and civil rights, and even if I didn’t have a job I loved, I wouldn’t work for you if that paper had all the zeroes in the world attached to it.”

Viktor cocked his head at the paper. “It looks a little small for all the zeroes in the world.”

“You’re making a mistake, son,” Stivoli intoned, “the Piltover Lone Stars’ brand is far superior to any other organization in the league.”

“Thirteen years ago, sure,” Viktor replied, turning to leave, “but you all did your best to destroy it. Now you know how thoroughly you succeeded. I’ll see myself out.”

“If you were going to say no,” Stivoli called after Viktor as the assistant coach opened the door, “why’d you take the damn meeting.”

“You flew me to Piltover,” Viktor said, shrugging, “I like it here.”

He closed the door with a quiet click, nodded at the receptionist as he limped from the office. His cell phone was in his hand as soon as he cleared the threshold, Sevika’s number already punched in.

“Did you do it?” she asked, excited.

“You should’ve been here,” Viktor laughed.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Sure, I can extricate him for you,” Viktor said to Powder and Lux, as Mylo continued talking to a man in a suit neither of them knew, “that’s Bob Anders - he’s a marketing executive. I can sidle in there.”

“Thanks - you don’t need to go now,” Lux said, pointing to Viktor’s golf shirt, “what are you wearing?”

“Oh,” Viktor said, smiling as he looked down at his golf shirt - the Ironfists logo on the breast pocket, his name across it. “Part of the deal is to do media with the Ironfist’s logo on. I wanted to wear the Sumprats so I’m not sticking out, but a contract is a contract.”

“How’s Jayce?” Lux asked.

“Great,” Viktor smiled. “We just bought a house in Piltover - the prices are insane. Leo loves it, though - he keeps making dog related noises.”

Powder’s gaze sharpened. “You cannot let Jayce get a dog .”

“I know,” Viktor said, mock-seriously.

“The sweaters that that man would knit for it.”

“It’d suffocate under crochet.”

“He’d make it little hats.”

“An instagram account would be created immediately.”

Powder and Viktor nodded, seriously.

“So you must get one immediately.”

“We’re just quibbling over breeds,” Viktor admitted, “Leo wants a big dog.”

“Kids always want big dogs, don’t they?” Lux asked.

“Yeah. Especially the one I married,” Viktor said, love filling his voice, “especially him. Let me grab Mylo for you - it won’t take two seconds.”

Viktor has won Coach of the Year three times in Ionia, where he’s won two cups with the Ironfists in his six year coaching career. He has remained the head coach of the Ironfists, and holds the longest coaching contract of all time - through 2045.

He lives in Piltover with his husband, Councilman Jayce Talis, their son, Leo, and their dog, Rufus.

A restaurant in Demascia City:

“You look good,” Garen said, smiling kindly as Lux handed her menu to their waiter.

“I feel good,” Lux admitted, smiling. “Retirement agrees with you, clearly.”

Garen laughed, scrubbing the back of his head. “It’s mostly boring,” he admitted, “lots of pencil pushing, investing, making sure everything’s shipshape.”

“Demascia still paying your contract?” Lux asked.

Garen rolled a shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, after a short pause, “yeah, well, there’s a dispute there. I’m solving it.”

Lux narrowed her eyes. “Dispute?”

“It’s a small thing,” Garen says, waving it away, “the Knights think they shouldn’t be on the hook for the entirety of the contract, want to argue it down to 10% of what it is. We’re working on it.”

Lux’s nostrils narrowed and Garen rolled his eyes.

“Okay, look,” he said, laughing, “don’t go all mama bear on me, okay? They’re a corporation - they want to get paid as much as possible and pay out as little as possible.”

“You carried that team for years,” Lux pointed out, “you delayed your retirement to keep trying to carry them.”

“Well, I delayed my retirement for the big paycheck,” Garen reminded gently, “let’s not pretend I was altruistic about it. And technically, I did retire with two years left on my deal.”

Lux stared at him, and Garen couldn’t help but feel fond. His sister had always felt a little out of line, a little other , when they’d grown up - she’d expressed as much when they were adults. He wasn’t always as aware of that as he could’ve been as a kid, but now that they were both adults they found each other amazing company - especially when she was off being a world famous documentarian and he was a successful hockey player.

They were both competitive, driven people - and he loved it, secretly, when there was a fire in her eyes.

“I’m very good at handling things with corporations,” Lux reminded him, “I’ve made my living at it.”

“You’ve made a great living at it,” he replied, warmly, “but let me duke it out with them first.”

“If the fans hear that they’re dicking you around, there would be hell to pay. If I announced it to this restaurant there would already be small fires in the kitchen.”

Garen barked a laugh. “Powder’s rubbing off on you.”

“Maybe I rubbed off on her,” Lux said, baring her teeth, “she was totally calm, really corporate, before we started dating.”

The two chuckled, and Lux blushed as the drinks came, fidgeted, and drummed her nails on the table - one of them was painted a bright blue, the rest done with pale pink polish. A little reminder, Garen mused, of Powder that she took with her.

“Um,” Lux said, “I actually - wanted to talk to you, speaking of Powder.”

Garen’s brow furrowed. Lux was fidgety, gaze askance - a weird energy permeated the room, made his back straighten.

“Did something happen?” he asked, voice low, concerned.

Lux started. “What? No! Gods, no. No we’re fine. Better than fine, actually. I, um - I wanted to ask you if you’d…”

Lux shifted slightly. “If you’d be my best man.”

Garen watched her for a few moments, breaking into a soft, slow smile.

“Are you getting married?”

Lux nodded.

“Sis,” Garen said softly, voice filling with emotion, “oh, I’d be so honored.”

“It’s going to be work,” Lux warned, even as Garen rose from his chair, stepped around the table, “what are you-“

Garen yanked his little sister out of her seat and crushed her to him in a big hug, squeezing her tightly and spinning her left and right.

“Are you going to be Lux Lanes?” he asked mid hug, “Because that sounds like a super hero.”

An indignant squawk was all that answered him.

Mylo

“YES!” Mylo screamed, leaping from his chair in his father’s sitting room, fists in the air. His dad, not a hugger or a tactile person by any means, grinned and spread his thin arms out for Mylo to step forwards and squeeze him - gentler than he would’ve in the past, his hands spreading out against his father’s pronounced shoulder blades.

“We did it!” Dawson Sturn croaked, eyes shiny with tears, “holy shit, we did it, we got to see it.”

“I told you,” Mylo said smugly, “you crusty old fuck, I told you we’d do it.”

Dawson Stoic was pushing eighty, had birthed four kids - all jetsetters and go-getters, a doctor and a lawyer and a real estate agent that lived in Ionia and the Void and the Summer Isles, leaving Dawson alone most days with a bad knee and neighbours who checked in on him. The Stoic kids had rotated back home as often as they could - but with demanding jobs and demanding lives, it often fell to Mylo, who had summers off, to hang with his old man.

Mylo loved to make a big show of publicly being annoyed by this, a habit that he’d gotten in high school when everyone was supposed to hate their parents. He was trying to stop, because he loved his old man - loved him more than anything.

Dawson Sturn had raised four kids alone, had never re-married after becoming a widow, and now had seen his son play in a home stadium - a moment that the two of them would always treasure.

Mylo had played a great game, too - that was important. It had been the best thing about being a Sumprat - his dad was right around the corner.

“It ain’t fair,” Dawson said, tears in his eyes, “you should be there.” 

“It’s fair, pops,” Mylo said, “I took out another skater.”

“Hit her right where it hurt, too,” Dawson said with pride, and made Mylo smile.

Mylo knew that his old man loved to tell that story - loved to tell that story at every bar, grocery store, bus stop he visited. It had happened only two days ago and Dawson had perfected the telling, ripe with dramatic flair and Mylo hissing and spitting blood and standing dramatically overtop the evil and vile Landsman.

Since Mylo had ended Landsman’s career, the landscapers and gardeners that came to deal with the yard had told Dawson enthusiastically that it was on the house. Dawson drank for free, got to cut in line, and enjoyed the King’s treatment - the man who birthed the man who took out a bully.

Mylo hadn’t gone outside much since the whack, since the death of his own career. He wasn’t a GM, but he’d consider himself the winner of the trade - Mylo for Landsman, straight up.

“Oh leave it, My,” Dawson murmured with excitement, as the landline rang. Mylo answered it even as Dawson waved it off impatiently.

“Could be Derek,” Mylo hollered back, before saying, “Sturn residence - this is Mylo.”

“Get the fuck over here,” Sevika bit out.

Mylo froze for a moment. “I’m banned for the season.”

“Season just ended, kid - get the fuck over here.”

“Who is it, My?” Dawson called.

“It’s coach,” Mylo said, “wants me to go.”

“So go,” Dawson said, waving at him.

Mylo looked at his father, looked at the phone. “I’ll be there in ten,” Mylo said, hitting the talk button again and bringing the cordless to Dawson as it rang again.

“Now it’s probably Derek,” Mylo said, kissing his old man’s cheek, “I’ll be back.”

“No you won’t,” Dawson retorted, “go have fun. I better read about your antics in the paper, Mylo.”

Mylo grinned, headed for the front door as Dawson answered the ringing phone. “Hello? Derek! We did it!”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Mylo sat in Mel’s office, the updated disciplinary contract in his hands as Skye - commissioner Skye - sat on his right. Mel sat in her desk, Sevika sat on her shelf, perched on one buttcheek as she scratched idly at her neck. Skye had her leg crossed, her chair turned to face Mylo as she watched his reaction.

“Two seasons?” Mylo read, looking up.

“We’re reviewing a lot of old disciplinary decisions,” Skye said, “since we’ve updated, replaced, or re-written a lot of our old guidelines to be more in line with modern times.”

Mylo nodded. “Heimerdinger really fucked things up for you, huh?”

Skye smiled quickly, schooled her features. “I have no official stance on that.”

“I bet,” Mylo muttered, reading the contract again.

“I asked for this meeting to take place here,” Skye continued, “because technically, you’re a free agent for the next two years - the Sumprats wanted to extend your contract, which isn’t allowed under the current service contract.”

“Can’t re-sign someone while they’re serving a suspension,” Mylo nodded, “I looked into that myself.”

“But,” Skye said, “I’m willing to make a few compromises. The RHL is of the belief that you acted in an extreme situation - caused by outside forces. You have a lot of character witnesses stating that you are… a pest, but not a violent one.”

“I’m a dick,” Mylo acknowledged.

“You’re our dick,” Mel insisted, and he shot her a grateful smile.

“The point is,” Skye said, “Mel has requested that you be hired in a front office position in the organisation in the interim, which the new disciplinary sanction will allow. You ended a career, Mylo - that’s the fact, and I can’t do any less than two years no matter how extenuating your circumstance.”

“Two years was less than I was expecting,” Mylo admitted, and then, pausing, raised his eyebrows. “So I can play hockey again?”

“In two years,” Skye said, “you go on the Free Agent market.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Excellent,” Skye said, and rose, reaching out to shake Mylo’s hand. Mylo rose too, clasped it, pumped it once. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

“Wasn’t like I was doing anything else,” Mylo said, lips quirking.

When Skye left, Mylo sat back down, turning back towards Mel and Sevika, eyebrows raised.

“So what’s the job?”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Rob,” Mylo said into the phone, “if you’re going to try to fuck me like this then at least buy me dinner. You can’t come sniffing around a player like Ashe Arrow and give me peanuts in return. The woman’s a sixty goal scorer, instantly becomes the backbone of your team - this offer is so insulting that I’m not even mentioning it to Mel.”

“Rumour has it that she’s unhappy,” Rob’s voice snapped out, “you don’t need the headache.”

“The headache that has won us three cups, and counting, Rob,” Mylo fired back, “I got so many banners hanging from my rafters that I can make a parachute to land on the ice. Tell your rumour mill to do a better job sniffing next time - Ashe Arrow is happier than a pig in shit.”

“Pigs are pretty clean animals,” Claggor said, sitting across from Mylo in Mylo’s cramped office. Mel had wanted to upgrade him after the back-to-back season, but Mylo liked the small space - it reminded him of his childhood bedroom, made him feel like all of this - the assistant GM stuff - was just homework.

“Sorry,” Mylo said into the phone, “happier than a pig in compost.”

He put the phone down near his chin, shot Claggor a glare. “Thanks for making sure my chirp is accurate, now it’s hilarious.”

Claggor gave him a shit-eating grin and a thumbs up as Rob growled into the phone. “This ain’t the way to do GMing, Mylo. Make me an offer.”

“Okay,” Mylo said, “here’s my offer - zero. Zilch. Nada. If I have something I want from the Mountaineers I’ll call you, but I’d be waiting a long fucking time.”

“This ain’t the way to run a front office.”

“Last I checked,” Mylo said, “we were going for our fourth cup in a row. Seems to be working the fuck out for us. Call me back if you have something real.”

Mylo hung up the phone, rose from his seat, and came around the desk to wrap Claggor in a hug - the big man lifting Mylo up slightly, the two of them letting out contented noises.

“It’s so great to see you, big man - you let yourself go a bit.”

Claggor looked as bulky as ever, and responded to the chirp in the usual way - by rolling his eyes and clapping Mylo on the back. “Got another list of prospects for Mel - she wasn’t in her office.”

“She’s indisposed,” Mylo said, navigating to his e-mail to open the sent attachment. He made a pleased noise as he went through Claggor’s scouting report, highlighting different cells in the spreadsheet so he could start making notes.

“Oh,” Claggor said, with forced casualness in his tone, “huh. I went to Sevika next since she doesn’t check her email unless prompted - figured she may want to talk about them - but she’s indisposed, too.”

Mylo paused in his manic clicking, turning in his chair to eye Claggor. Claggor eyed him back.

“What do you know?” Mylo asked, suspicious.

“What do you know.”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“I outrank you,” Mylo lied.

“I’m a scout, you’re assistant GM. I think we’re in different arms of the office.”

“Hm,” Mylo said, and resumed his clicking.

Claggor waited a few moments before shaking his head. “Who is this man and what did you do with impatient, fidgety Mylo?”

“Impatient, fidgety Mylo,” Mylo said, “was beaten out of me by the considerate hands of the best GM in the league. This is patient, negotiation tactic Mylo - you’ll never beat him.”

Claggor laughed. “It’s just - whenever Sevika is indisposed, it seems that Mel is also similarly indisposed.”

“They work closely together,” Mylo replied, “it’s part of our chemical makeup - part of why we’re such a success here at the Zaun Sumprats.”

“Stop it,” Claggor said laughing.

“It’s part,” Mylo continued, in his commercial voice, “of the Sumprats culture of winning.”

“You’re such a dick.”

Mylo grinned. “The GMs love it.”

“I hear horror stories about you - about how Mel will transfer annoying GMs to you. Seems like you’re doing well.”

“Honestly?” Mylo began, “I fucking love it. It’s all constant improvement and negotiation - I feel really well suited to it.”

“You look happy,” Claggor said, warmly.

“I get to keep helping in hockey - I get to keep us competitive. I’m way better for the team here than I was on skates.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Claggor sniffed, “you were the spark plug.”

“I still am,” Mylo said, shrugging, “but I think I finally found my calling. And me being here allows my GM to keep being indisposed.”

“At the same time as the coach.”

“Apparently.”

“Apparently.” Claggor said, amused.

Mylo waited a few beats, and then grinned.

“I’m happy for them.”

“Me too,” Claggor laughed, “me too.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“They wanted what?” Viktor asked, shocked, as he waved Lux and Powder over. Mylo laughed, wearing his trademark since becoming the official GM of the Sumprats - a black suit, red tie, white shirt.

“You can bet where I told them to stick it,” Mylo answered as Powder and Lux approached, smiles on their faces as the camera dangled. Mylo turned to the two of them and spread his arms wide.

“Lux, Powder - thanks for coming.”

“We were surprised when you invited us,” Powder responded, “considering our differences.”

“Oh, you’re a huge pain in the ass,” Mylo said, waving over some employees that were working the room, “but you’re the absolute best and we owe a lot of our popularity to you. Shina, this is Powder and Lux - Shina does all of our in-house photography.”

“I’m a huge fan,” the yordle said, excitedly.

“Nice to meet you,” Lux said, shaking her hand while Powder sized Mylo up.

“So, GM, huh?”

“As of Mel’s retirement,” Mylo replied.

“You must be awesome at it,” she said.

Mylo shrugged. “Eh. We’ll find out when this offseason is over. But I have high hopes.”

“Big shoes to fill,” Powder said conversationally.

“I’ve got big feet,” Mylo replied, and then gestured to Shina. “Shina’s got the room all ready for the shoot - wired for sound, some tape down. She can help you get set up in time to mingle before we get started.”

Powder scowled at the thought; Lux beamed brightly. The two followed after the yordle as Mylo moved through the room, clasping hands with his old teammates and the select media members that got an invite to the occasion.

“He seems so different,” Lux whispered.

Powder nodded, hesitated. “I heard once that the best coaches and GMs aren’t the star players, usually - they’re the bit players who saw more of the bench, had to learn how to accept their role.”

“There’s some logic there,” Lux whispered back.

Powder nodded, smiled a little. “He’s grown up a lot.”

“They all have,” Lux replied, squeezing at Powder’s arm, “we have too.”

They followed Shina’s plucky bob into a side room to begin their setup.

Mylo is still currently the GM of the Zaun Sumprats.

Over the course of his front office career, his organization has won seven RHL cups.

Under Mel Medarda’s tutelage, Mylo is widely regarded as one of the best executives in the game.

He lives in Zaun with his family.

Darius

Darius wasn’t sure he believed in heaven - he considered himself a worldly man, a grounded man, a man who took what was in front of him. It was his worldly and friendly nature that won him places where others were too combative, the way he decided to specialize instead of generalize. His father told him early that people hired the best plumbers in the world, but rarely did they hire jack of all trades, and Darius thrived for competition so the faceoff circle was where he focused.

Hockey was through and through a team sport, but faceoffs were just you and the other center and your reflexes - who could beat who out when the puck touched ice. Darius determined that it was going to be him - maybe not every time, maybe not even most of the time, but if the faceoff you were doing was the faceoff you needed to win, Darius would make sure he took it from you.

The specialization had him paid handsomely, even as teams didn’t really know what to do with the rest of his skillset. He was an amateur boxer, but never really cared to learn the ins and outs of being a true enforcer. He was a good skater, not the best skater, and he was a good hitter, not the best hitter. He filled his stat sheets with B- and C+ scores, but in the faceoff - in the faceoff he was king of the castle, the undisputed master.

Heaven, to him, was that brief instant when the other center realized you had him - that brief moment of eyes widening and nostrils flaring when he got his stick on the puck and worked it behind him, the little shit eating grin he’d shoot the other forward when they realized that they’d been duped - that whatever trick or technique or just plain speed Darius deployed had worked. Heaven was watching them get frustrated, lash out at his stick, snarl chirps under his breath as he stood there calmly with his stick hovering above the ice, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

That was heaven to Darius - winning.

Until he skated around the rink, Champions hat on his head, holding his youngest son - Kyle - in his arms. Until he had to pick confetti out of his boy’s hair, placing a tender kiss on his temple, as Kyle reached his hands skywards and celebrated with his dad.

Then Heaven was replaced, reinvented. Heaven was attainable - and he’d been there.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Once he won the cup, things crystalized - his dreams, his visions for the future. He started to reckon with the fact that he had hard miles on his body - a conversation every athlete had internally. He’d lifted the cup and held both of his kids’ hands while he celebrated, he took the cup home when it was his turn and all of his family came over to see it, see his name on it, drink from it - whatever. LeBlanc looked on the entire time, a soft smile on her severe features, watching him and smiling at him.

That summer, he spent a lot more time with the kids and the dog - a lot more time seeing them, hearing them. It was always hard when he had to start the season, the demands of a punishing practice schedule combined with travel that took him all over the place meaning he didn’t have a lot of time for his family unit - not nearly as much time as he’d have liked. His family time was condensed to summers off and rare weekend breaks where he didn’t have practice, where he could be a part of their lives daily and get to know the little people that his kids were growing into.

LeBlanc noted that, too - noted it with a tender look, with a hand on his shoulder as he put them to bed, turned off the light. Noted it when she held him and kissed away the worry lines on his forehead, the deep crinkles of worry in his eyes.

“They’d be so excited,” LeBlanc said, quietly, “they wouldn’t be disappointed if you hung them up.”

“I feel like I’m giving up,” Darius admitted, “is that crazy? I won everything I’ve ever wanted and still feel like it’s quitting.”

“It’s not quitting,” LeBlanc confirmed, “it’s cliche, but it’s starting anew, Dare. You’d be closing a book and opening another.”

Darius was quiet for a second. “You just want me to pull my weight.”

“Yes,” LeBlanc said immediately, “that is my goal. You found out my master plan.”

Darius laughed.

“I want whatever you want, babe,” LeBlanc said quietly, “follow your dream. If you want to win another five cups with the Sumprats, that’s what you need to do. But if you’re thinking about retirement - well, you never have before.”

Darius chewed on that for a long, long time.

~*~*~*~*~ 

On the opening night of the 2023-2024 season, with the Sumprats as the defending champions of the league, Darius won his first draw of the season, and didn’t find joy. He found it robotic, quiet and understated, muted. He kept seeing his son’s faces in the reflections, kept thinking back to a blissful summer of them and the dog, him and his slowly healing body, his wife working in her home office.

He made his decision the first time he hurt his elbow, the first time he had to sit for three games in his entire career, and spent the whole time with his kids, his wife - the whole time sitting back and being a father first, a hockey player second. Beforehand, they had been a balanced life - each with equal importance.

But being a hockey player had a goal - a definite end. There was a time when you hung your stick up on your mantel and called it a career.

Being a father was a constant, a thing you needed to build on, constantly work around. Being a parent was something you aspired to, and never stopped working towards - giving the best life to your kids, your family.

So one year later, after the Sumprats had won back to back cups, Darius called it a career, his sons behind him when he made the announcement to a room full of reporters. He trended for twenty four hours as Zaunites poured out their support, thanking him for his role in two RHL cups, as features ran on sports media all day celebrating his career and all of his achievements.

A week later, it was no longer news, and he was driving his kids to school, content, happy, and loved.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Shut the fuck up,” Powder gaped.

“Yeah, he’s in college,” Darius laughed, the image of his eldest - Max - on his phone. “He’s a ladykiller, too.”

“How’s Kyle?” Lux asked, “I have so much good footage of him when you guys won in ‘23.”

“He’s great - he’s in AAA hockey right now,” Darius said, proudly. The years had been kind to him - his hair unchanged beyond going slightly more silver, looking like a proud dad in his late forties. He’d been a full time dad since retiring, LeBlanc’s career as an author and Darius’ hockey money more than enough to provide for their boys.

“There are some interested scouts,” Darius continued, “say that he can probably go to the show if he works at it. He’s trying to decide if he likes that better than rockets.”

“Rockets?” Powder asked, interested.

“Yep. Max is studying genetics. They both got a lot more brains than I did.”

“Sounds like a great dinner conversation at your house,” Lux mused.

“From what I can understand,” Darius said, and grinned wide.

Darius retired as the number one faceoff win percentage player of all time - a rate of 56.3%. Darius works part time during the year at the WickMan Institute, while LeBlanc publishes young adult novels about werewolves and magic.

Darius and his wife live in Ixtal with their sons Max and Kyle.

A tumblr post from a blog that centers around Ahri and Akali

After the confirmation from a confidential source surrounding the rumours about Caitlyn Kiramman and Vi Wickett’s house purchase in Zaun, we’ve been scouring every RHL city that we can think of, trying to find realtors that can confirm or deny where Akali is going to go this next season.

The blueprint for RHL romance is clear - first, we have Diana and Leona, who found love on the same team for an extended stretch of time. Next, we had Vi and Caitlyn, who’s whirlwind romance was the source of so much public scrutiny over the 22-23 season and who had a single season together before falling desperately in love.

Now, I know that you all know that I am an Ahri/Akali bitch. I think they’re cute together, I think that something happened when they were both running around on the War Horses, and I think that - secretly - they’re trying to be on the same team so that love can follow them, too.

My evidence begins with Ahri being left off the protected list, and Akali immediately asking for a trade out of Noxus. While initial reports stated that Akali asked out in december, an anonymous report by ESPN in June of 2023 said that Akali’s demand for a trade occurred as early as november, meaning that Akali demanded out as soon as she found out. That’s romantic to me - that’s gotta mean something.

Also, watch this moment again from the Sumprats’ first cup win in ‘23. See the way they’re talking to each other? The way that Ahri looks at Akali’s back? These girls are gone for each other.

But okay. So Akali’s history as a skater is somewhat checkered but I’ve been paying close attention to her team choices - after getting away from the Lone Stars she signs a 2 year contract with the Void Stars. That ended this year in time for the 2025 offseason. So this results in a thing I like to call:

Akali Watch 2025

According to ESPN reports there are three teams in contention:

- the Wild Cats, because Targon has the cap room to give her a big bag of money

- the Ironfists, who have a very good skater in Sett for Akali to work with, and she hasn’t had a true number 2 since Ahri was on her team

- the No-Names, where Ahri has recently signed a long term contract with the confirmation that she wants to win another cup there

You know who else is on the No Names, besties? Lucian Sentinel, who Akali has a lot of respect for for taking the Lone Stars to the cup finals in that awful year w/ the Landsman scandal and all that.

So the No-Names don’t have the cap space this year unfortunately to sign Akali unless she takes a steep discount, and tbh I don’t see Akali taking a discount at all. But it is interesting that Akali would even put them on her list - maybe as a message to a certain foxkin forward who looked at her longingly after the RHL cup finals?

My prediction is that she’ll sign for three years, because - check this out. The No-Names have some space to sign her in 2030 - if she plays that long. That way her contract will end just as the No-Names have some room to bring her in, and we can all have more hockey lesbians in our lives.

I genuinely think it’s the best hockey fit, too, but Lucian Sentinel and Ahri on the same team is incredibly tempting for any skater, let alone one with a history w/Ahri and Coach Sentinel and on a team who is gonna probably compete with the Sumprats for the next few seasons for the cup.

Time will tell but I hope it tells us ‘lesbian romance’.

Riven

“I’m retiring,” Darius said, rocking the porch swing they were both sitting on back and forth, listening to the creaking chains and wood. Darius had tried to build it himself three summers ago, and had invited Riven to watch him and mock him. Riven’s parents were both contractors, her sister was an engineer, and building things was in her blood.

After the third time Darius had shorted the chain, Riven had pushed him aside and built it herself. It was comfortable, and they’d burned many hours of the evening sitting here, watching Darius’ kids and dogs play with his wife.

Darius had been her first friend in the big leagues, and had been her strongest bond. She loved him with the fierceness of family, considered him one of the most truly honest people she’d ever met. He wasn’t necessarily always good, he didn’t necessarily always make the right decisions, but he talked about his successes and failures with honesty,  and shared so many parts of himself with her that she couldn’t help but love him regardless.

Riven had tried to feel other kinds of love, but it had never escalated beyond vague ‘like’ status for her. She’d grown up reading about the blooming softness of the chest, or the aching need in the stomach, or the attachment that came with sharing your life with someone.

Riven didn’t need any of that. Riven didn’t feel any of it - had tried, had failed.

Her parents and her sister made comments every now and again - little catty things about when she was going to settle down. When she told Darius how frustrated she’d been by them, Darius had nodded, agreed with her, and - apparently - had done research.

“They’re called aromantics,” Darius had said over cheap cups of coffee, watching his second son wobble on skates, “people who don’t form romantic attachments to folks.”

“Huh,” Riven had said, intensely relieved, curious, and grateful - all three feelings eating her up inside.

“Yeah - there’s a whole bunch of ‘em. Communities that talk about the sorts of things that you mentioned - the friendly bonds without the romantic attachments. I found a subreddit for it if you want.”

“Sure,” Riven had said, scratching at her neck. “Aromantic, huh?”

Darius had shrugged, drank his coffee, and eyed her.

“You ain’t special, kid,” Darius had intoned, and Riven pushed him off of the bench.

Now, on his porch swing, Riven swallowed. “You are?”

“It’s my time,” Darius said, watching his boys in the yard wrestle with the seven year old labrador he’d adopted at a Sumprats sponsored dog drive. “I’m no spring chicken - when I came onto the Sumprats I had already put in my years.”

“It’s gonna suck without you,” Riven muttered, “I’ll have to make new friends and shit.”

“You’ve got plenty of friends,” Darius said, nudging her, “you’re in good hands. I’ve seen you the last few years.”

Riven had come out of her shell in leaps and bounds, it was true - helped tremendously by the fact that her teammates weren’t giving her lifestyle the side eye anymore. Her old teammates would emphasise what time events were at and stress how there were no guests allowed, like she was going to show up late and hungover to practices, like she didn’t take this shit seriously.

The Sumprats ribbed her, egged her on, made funny little remarks every now and again - but they never judged. If anything, they encouraged her exploits - she’d lost count of how many times Illaoi or Ahri or even Caitlyn wingwoman’d her when she could convince any of them to come out.

Oddly enough, Caitlyn was the best at it.

“Domesticity, huh?” Riven said, smiling.

“We all gotta hang em up sometime,” Darius replied, wistful, “and I’m going out as part of a team that did it twice in a row.”

“You might be getting out too early,” Riven warned, “we’re still primed to make a run at it.”

“My elbow can’t take another season,” Darius admitted, flexing it. He’d spent most of the season in and out of the injured reserve list, a career of taking the important faceoffs finally catching up with his arms. “I’d rather retire with minimal structural damage.”

Riven nodded.

“You should think about it,” Darius advised, “the after. You’ve got a good voice, a good face. You’ve lived a good life - I bet everyone who’s anyone would want to hear what you have to say.”

Riven shrugged. “I’ll keep playing hockey until nobody wants me, then I’ll go overseas and play there.”

Darius smirked. “Oh, I can see that - I hear that the puck bunnies are killer in the other leagues.”

“Unreal,” Riven grinned, “but no - I just love the game, my body’s held up. I want to keep playing until they put me in the ground. When the wheels come off, I’ll stop - but only when I see them rolling.”

Darius smiled, lifting a whiskey to his lips to take a contemplative sip, watched his oldest son wrestle the dog to the ground, the lab letting out happy barks and wiggles as it licked every inch of his son’s face.

“You’re my best friend, kid,” Darius said, looking at her, “thank you for making my career so fun.”

“You’re my best friend, you old sap,” Riven said, slinging an arm around Darius’ shoulders, “thank you for making me look even faster beside you.”

Darius barked out a laugh, and the two of them sat on that porch swing and watched the labrador squirm free and begin to sprint around the yard, looking over her shoulder to make sure the kids were chasing her.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Akali’s black hair looked so pretty on Riven’s fist as she held it in an iron grip, tilting her neck to the side to rain little kisses down the column of the other woman’s throat, rough and hard and heavy. She held her still with that solid iron anchor as her hips snapped forwards, plunging into Akali over and over as the other woman groaned, raked her claws down Riven’s chest, danced over her nipples and made her twitch as she fucked into her harder and harder and harder.

When Akali came, it was with a shuddering gasp and a half-formed “Ah-” that made Riven cock her head, smile a little, squeeze Akali’s hair a little tighter to make her back arch. Riven didn’t finish - didn’t find it necessary. Instead she thrust shallowly, slowly, let Akali break around her until Akali’s keening whine slowed to a few scattered pants and gasps, little sounds of satisfaction that told Riven of a job well done.

She pulled out easily, watched for Akali’s gaze. When Akali refused to meet her eyes, Riven shrugged, slid to the side of the bed, and grabbed a pre-rolled joint from her bedside table - Tobias Kiramman’s Finest - and slipped it between her teeth to light.

Akali slipped off of the bed, landed on silent feet, and was tugging her underwear up her hips as Riven laid back against the cushions, bright pink cock - given to her as a gag gift - bobbling still as she lit her joint, inhaled.

“Want a smoke?” Riven asked.

Akali was tugging her bra over her shoulders, flexing her arms behind her back to clasp it. It made her clavicle look pronounced, all tough muscle and hard body. Riven could appreciate a good body.

“Come on,” Riven said, patting the bed beside her.

“I ought to-” Akali began.

“I know this wasn’t about me,” Riven said easily, “and I’m flattered you thought of me, but I’m not a big fan of someone running off in shame after we’ve fucked. Sit down for a bit. We’ll chill.”

Akali hesitated, frowned. “Of course it was about you.”

Riven smirked. “My name starts with R, sweetheart.”

Akali scowled.

“Look,” Riven said, “I don’t mind you working this off with me, but - it seems to me like you owe someone some talk.”

“Riven the philosopher,” Akali said, sardonically.

Riven laughed. “Sure, if you like.” She paused. “I don’t kiss and tell. You want to tell me why you booty called me on a road game?”

Akali sat carefully on the bed. “Maybe I thought you were hot.”

“Firstly, duh, and secondly, that’s not the whole reason.”

“So I was a little pent up,” Akali said, “I wanted to see if you were as good as everyone said.”

Riven raised a brow. “I am,” 

Akali lifted her shoulders. “I also knew you could keep it a secret, I guess.”

“Sure can.”

Akali nodded, then rose to put on pants. “It probably won’t happen again.”

“Probably not,” Riven said, taking a long puff, watching Akali with narrowed eyes. “I mean it though, Akali - you don’t need to sneak out of here like a thief. You can stick around, watch a movie or something. We’re buds.”

Akali finished tugging her pants on, glanced over her shoulder at Riven. Her back muscles flexed, hair all mussed and kinked from Riven’s fingers clenching it. She studied Riven for a long few moments, and Riven watched her back, crossing her ankles and taking another long drag.

“It really doesn’t bug you,” Akali said, amazed, “that I was thinking of someone else?”

“Why would it?” Riven asked, exhaling the smoke towards the ceiling. “I don’t see myself settling anytime soon, and whoever your mystery boo is doesn’t need to be threatened by me.”

Akali chuckled, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “You’re something else, Riv.”

“Ain’t nobody like me,” Riven smirked, and then took another drag on the joint. “So. Movie? Late night snack?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a euphemism.”

“It can be, if you want,” Riven said, easily, “or it could be literal. You call the shots - I’m easy either way.”

Akali paused for a moment, looked down at her feet. The joint continued to burn to a roach, and Riven finished it off, tapped the cherry off of the roach and left it in her ashtray.

“Movie sounds great,” Akali said, “and room service.”

Riven lifted the phone off of the receiver. “What are you feeling?”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Thanks for coming in, Riven,” Mel said, folding her dainty nails on her desk. Sevika was there- Sevika was always there - in her little corner, sitting on the bookshelf. It had started to sag a little under her weight last season, so Mel had it reinforced with a cushion built in and a sturdier leg. Riven wasn’t sure who they thought they were fooling, but held her tongue.

“No problem,” Riven said, folding her ankle over her knee. “This about the new contract?”

“Yes,” Mel replied, “we noticed that you took the option to become a free agent.”

“That’s right,” Riven confirmed.

“I was surprised when you weren’t retiring,” Sevika said, scrunching her nose, “I thought that you’d be hanging them up by now.”

“Eh,” Riven replied, shrugging, “mom didn’t raise a quitter. I still have most of my speed, my ankles aren’t failing me yet. I figure I’ll keep playing until someone doesn’t want me - then I’ll go overseas.”

Mel nodded, thumbing through some pages on her desk. “Are you looking to move on from the Sumprats?”

Riven leaned back in her chair, put her hands behind her head as she looked up at the ceiling of the room - the swirling beautiful patterns that Mel had drawn there, the awards and trophies that she’d had made for every season one of her players had won something - the case full of rings that declared how many times the Sumprats - her Sumprats - had come through on top.

“That’s right,” Riven repeated, and smiled, “leaving the family.”

“We’re sorry to see you go,” Mel said, “was it something on our end?”

“Fuck no,” Riven said, laughing, “you guys are great. Best team I’ve ever been on. But the writing is on the wall - you guys are steadily going younger, Poppy and Ashe and Thresh and them are your focal point. It’s smart, it’s going to be really successful, but I don’t really see me in it.”

“You’ll always have a place here,” Mel insisted.

“Yeah, I know,” Riven replied, warmly, “you guys would’ve kept Graves and Claggor and Darius on, too - when they were sacks of bone shards, and you might not’ve won the next three cups if you tied up your books with old people. I’m not ready to stop playing, but I don’t want to stand in the way of what you guys are building - I’m being good family.”

Sevika folded her hands. “When are you looking to hang them up?”

“Never,” Riven said, honestly, “I’ll play overseas if I have to. I don’t want to stop skating so long as someone will pay me to - even if it’s pennies. It’s not about the money for me, Coach - it’s about the ice, you know?”

Mel exhaled, long and slowly. “Well, at least let me drive your price up when someone offers you a contract - for old time’s sake.”

“I’ll never say no to that,” Riven grinned, and the woman smiled back.

“I’ll see you again,” Mel said, when they shook hands, “but I want you to know how integral you’ve been to our successes, and how you’ll always have a home here.”

“I know,” Riven winked, “you couldn’t have done it without me. As long as nobody forgets that, we’re all good.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Powder, Lux, this lovely woman is Katarina. Kat, I’d love for you to meet Powder and Lux - they made the documentary about the Sumprats.”

“Didn’t you date my brother at one point?” Lux asked, shaking the redheaded singer’s hand.

“Oh - you’re Lux Crownsguard!” Katarina said, smiling, “yes I did. Great guy - really intense guy.”

“Katarina was in town and made me promise to show her a good time,” Riven said, eyes gleaming.

“Well, it’s so rare that you’re in Runeterra these days,” Katarina replied, swatting at Riven’s shoulder.

“How’s the overseas hockey?” Powder asked.

“Kicking ass, taking names,” Riven replied, “it’s great over there. Every new team is a new family opportunity, all of that. I do miss Runeterra when I’m gone.”

“Runeterra misses you, too,” Katarina jumped in, eyes skating over Riven’s jawline, the collarbones that peeked out of her suit jacket - a tanktop substituted for a collared shirt.

“I’m jealous,” Lux admitted, “we haven’t been overseas since Wooden Horses. Any good vacation destinations?”

“All of it,” Riven said immediately, “you guys should come with me on a road trip or something. You’ll get to see the sights on the cheap - just stay in my hotel rooms. Way easier than travel managing.”

“Your team won’t mind?” Powder asked.

“Won’t mind me having two girls in my hotel room for a road trip?” Riven said while Katarina slowly ran her hands down Riven’s arm, threading their fingers together. Riven smirked at her date before giving the couple her full attention again.

“They’re used to it.”

Riven continues to play for overseas hockey leagues around the globe, traveling constantly. She has no current plans to retire from the game of hockey, and has won an additional five trophies with various hockey clubs.

Every so often she can be spotted on the cover of magazines, having been seen with various models around the world. She spends every holiday she can in Zaun with her old teammates.

In the home next door to Caitlyn’s old house:

“Carrie,” Janine said, “you can’t make us late for this.”

Carrie went pfft , holding earrings up to her lobes, observing herself in the mirror and twisting this way and that. She was short and curvy where Janine was tall and thin, the two of them often making a striking pair whenever they went out. Their hair was a lot more gray than it had been at the beginning of the year, their faces a little more weathered, laugh lines a bit deeper, crows feet a little longer.

Janine watched her wife futz with her appearance a while longer, pfft ’ing back at her.

“Carrie,” Janine whined.

“I’ll be right along,” Carrie said, smiling, “be a dear and turn on the radio for the birds, would you?”

Janine was in the middle of selecting a lo-fi channel to chill to when there was a rap at the door - Lenny’s signifying knock, a two-tap followed by a solo. Janine opened it to find Lenny and Old Gene, smiling in suits - Gene with a bow-tie, for god’s sake - immediately glancing around behind her.

“Carrie running late?” Lenny asked, knowingly.

“Just a bit,” Janine said at the same time as Carrie hollered I’ll be right there! f rom the bedroom.

“Can you believe we scored an invite to this thing?” Old Gene rasped, “I hear it’s been sold out for weeks.”

“The Kirammans insisted we be there,” Janine replied, not without some pride, “they’ve been good friends.”

The three glanced across the two-driveway setup, towards Caitlyn Kiramman’s old house. Tobias and Cassandra had moved into it when their daughter had moved out, to be closer to friends. Carrie and Cassandra had stricken up a healthy rivalry in card games, despite Tobias and Janine making awful partners. Their lot was to drink beer, smoke weed, and stay out of their better halves’ way.

“I can’t believe she’s retiring,” Lenny said softly, rubbing at his face, “do you think the team’s going to be alright?”

“I don’t think she’d retire if they weren’t,” replied Carrie, emerging from the bedroom at last - sporting a completely different pair of earrings than the two she’d been trying on. “Lenny, Gene - we all ready?”

“We are,” confirmed Janine, handing Carrie her clutch, strapping her own purse across her body as the four trooped to Lenny’s minivan. As they piled in, Carrie pulled the ticket stubs from her clutch and fanned them out, checking the seats.

Across the top of each was stamped CAITLYN KIRAMMAN JERSEY RETIREMENT.

“Seatbelts,” Lenny reminded, as he adjusted his mirror, “we wouldn’t want to repeat Christmas.”

“That was one time,” Carrie huffed, as she dutifully buckled herself in.

The van reversed into the street, and the foursome began to make their way to the Last Drop.

Mel and Sevika

Mel Medarda had cared about regulations and rules her entire career - considered it part of her job, really. Her role in the organization was to oversee every detail - no matter how small - and make sure that the Sumprats were as competitive, as successful, as she could make them.

She’d prided herself on being unflappable - unruffled. She had paid her dues in an organization that maximized efficiency in all aspects of its running - from personnel decisions to custodial to the way that practices were performed. The Noxus War Horses were successful because they would brace themselves against the newest trends and rather than chase them, they’d define them - they were the first to draft offensive defencemen back in the 70s, they were the first to establish a free-wheeling, positionless style when the 90s came along, and they were the first to make real resistance against the Zac and Singed era, the first of the franchises to really throw their hat in the ring and emerge as a viable winner alongside those two’s teams.

Mel had been involved at the end of those stages - an associate GM who started with getting coffee, suggesting rosters, answering phones. She’d always lived and breathed hockey, and her mother had been a GM of renown in her day - running the War Horses with ruthless efficiency - an efficiency that had resulted in 0 cups but a fearless reputation. The rule went that if you called Medarda, you had to look for the fleecing - she’d take your eyes out in any trade that you made with her.

Mel had done her best to walk that reputation away - she believed in more diplomatic approaches. She believed in setting herself up for success without trades, believed in rolling the dice on talent that had more upside than down, and believed, most importantly in stars - she had no problem paying for star players so long as they were able to produce.

But that night in June, when the black, red, and white confetti rained down around them all, when the cup was being hoisted above her roster’s shoulders, she forgot all about legacies or deadlines or regulations and rules. All she did was close her eyes, tilt her head back, and let the confetti rain down on her face, her hair, stick to her eyelashes and cheeks. She let the feeling wash over her - a feeling of pride, accomplishment - a feeling of contentedness.

Mel and the Sumprats had just accomplished what even her Mother had never been able to do - win with a roster of her own, in a situation of her own, far away from the Noxian rules and regs and demanding standards of performance.

She did it with Sevika’s eyes on her the entire time, like they were now - hungry, open and wild and maybe something else that she did her best not to analyze.

“Congratulations are in order, Coach Sevika,” Mel said, eyes still close, face still tilted, enjoying this little sightless bubble where all that existed was the feeling of confetti hitting her face and the jubilation of the crowd.

“Same goes for you, Ms. Medarda,” Sevika said, gruffly - and another sensation joined the barrage on her senses, Sevika’s wrist gently locking around her wrist, holding her in place.

Mel was all about regulations, usually - propriety and the separation of business and pleasure were tantamount to a healthy and successful personal life, private life. But sometimes, Sevika waded her way - brute forced her way, more like - into that separation of pleasure and professionalism. Sometimes Sevika planted herself on Mel’s bookshelf like she’d planted herself in Mel’s sphere of influence, planted herself in Mel’s sights and leaned back and chewed her gum like there was no hurry or problem.

So when Sevika stood there, holding Mel’s wrist, Mel reached over with her other hand and squeezed Sevika’s hand, meeting her halfway - a less than professional touch, away from the sight of the cameras and crowd. Just a little moment between them as she slid Sevika’s hand a little lower, past her wrist, towards her thigh, and curled it there - over her clothes, big and warm and rough.

Sevika kneaded at the skin she found beneath Mel’s skirts, and Mel finally opened her eyes, looked at Sevika, and sighed quietly.

“Later?” she asked.

“Definitely,” Sevika said.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“We should probably sign something,” Mel said later, lifting herself smoothly to a seated position to look down towards the foot of the bed. Sevika was lying face down at that end, harness still on her midsection, black silicone pressing to the bed. Sevika lifted her heavy head, her long hair torn into long flyaways that curled around her tough face, consequences of Mel’s hands gripping at the back of her head-  doing anything for purchase as Sevika threw her around every square inch of her king sized.

Sevika was a competitive, mouthy, and rough top - rougher than Mel had been used to. Mel liked to be in charge, liked to instruct her partners very deliberately about what to do and how to accomplish it, but Sevika had understood her fairly immediately when they’d started this - anticipated what she’d want, even if Mel herself didn’t understand what exactly that was.

The same emotional intelligence that made her a good leader on the rink made her a refined leader in the sack.

Mel was fulfilled.

“Like what,” Sevika asked, groggily.

“Like, relationship papers,” Mel mused, “just to cover our ass. This probably wouldn’t look good if it was found out that I was having sexual relations with someone I technically employ - even if in practice we don’t treat it that way.”

Sevika grunted, rolled onto her back, the black cock bobbling as she stared at Mel’s ceiling. Then, she rose, stepping out of the harness as Mel’s eyes raked over her back - the muscles bunching, little scars and marred skin from the beatings and surgeries those shoulders had taken over the course of Sevika’s long career.

Naked, Sevika strode to Mel’s bathroom, causing Mel to roll her eyes as the sound of the shower echoed out.

Mel wrapped herself in a robe before following, rolling her eyes at the non-answer. Mel was sitting on the toilet with a toothbrush in her mouth, brushing her teeth and taking care of business - stance wide, unashamed.

“Did you hear me?” Mel asked.

“Nothin’ wrong with my ears,” Sevika said, pausing in her brushing briefly.

“And?” Mel prompted, leaning her hip against her counter.

Sevika wiped, stood, flushed, washed her hands all with her toothbrush in her mouth. She dried them, pulled the toothbrush out, spat in the sink with her hip touching Mel’s, and rinsed the brush without looking at her. Her movements were efficient, methodical as she plopped the brush into the holder - beside Mel’s - and finally turned to look at Mel.

She watched her for a moment - hard brown eyes meeting Mel’s darker ones, and slowly crept forwards, crowding Mel against the counter. Mel held strong, keeping her back straight as Sevika loomed above her, around her, filling Mel’s nostrils with her scent.

“If you’re thinking about relationship papers,” Sevika said, her breath moving Mel’s hair, her fingertips slowly tugging at Mel’s robe, opening it slowly, carefully, “then I didn’t fuck you hard enough.”

The protestations died in Mel’s throat as she sucked in a shaky breath. “You’re welcome to try again,” Mel said, throaty.

In response, Sevika grabbed Mel’s hips, flipped her around, and pushed her against the counter, gripping her wrists to slide them further along the counter, make sure Mel’s ass was out and against Sevika’s hips.

“Don’t get up until you’re numb,” Sevika growled, and Mel swallowed - hard.

Mel forgot about the papers that night.

~*~*~*~*~ 

It was a summer day in 2025 - the Sumprats fresh off of their 3rd cup victory in a row, fresh off of Sevika and Mel both receiving extension offers to stick with Zaun through 2029 - when Sevika walked into Mel’s office, slapped a file folder on her desk, and threw herself into one of the office chairs across from Mel’s desk.

“What is this,” Sevika asked, gesturing to the papers.

Mel put on her reading glasses, lifted the paper, and glanced at the headline - even though she knew exactly what it was. “Looks like a promotional package.”

“Promotional package,” Sevika grunted, “says your name on it.”

Mel set the papers down, turned back to typing at her computer. “That it does.”

Sevika’s eyes remained on Mel’s face as she typed. It was part of the game they played - who would break down and speak first. Mel knew Sevika enjoyed making her work for conversation - a game that Mel sometimes indulged in, sometimes grew tired of. Tired was winning out more and more lately - the coach’s refusal to discuss their relationship starting to stretch Mel a little thin.

“Mel,” Sevika said, voice harsh and too loud for this quiet space, signalling that Mel had won this round.

“Yes, Sevika?” Mel asked, still typing.

“Why are you sending me a promotional package to elevate my position within the organization,” Sevika asked - more stated.

“I thought you deserved it,” Mel replied, distracted, “you have a real and practical position handling personnel as is, so why not be paid for the privilege.”

“I don’t want to do personnel shit,” Sevika grunted, “that’s your fucking job. My job is to  coach the team.”

“Does it say that you’ll be removed as coach in there?” Mel asked, looking over her glasses at Sevika’s gorgeous, angry, scowling face.

“No,” hedged Sevika, “just that I’ll be GM/Coach.”

“Well, we can reverse the order - make you Coach/GM, if you’d like.”

“That’s not the issue,” Sevika growled.

Mel huffed. “Please, arrive at the issue. Mylo and I are very busy with staffing choices, Sevika-“

“Why can’t you just tell me that you want us to spend more time together?” Sevika asked.

Mel blinked, stared. “What?”

“It’s always this shit,” Sevika said, gesturing to the paper, “official memos for my presence in your office. Media co-requests. You provoke me with this shit so I’ll come up here and we’ll talk, or we’ll fuck, or - whatever. But you never actually just come down and ask me to give you what you want.”

Mel continued staring. “Way back,” she said, “when we won the first cup, I asked you to-“

“You asked me to sign a relationship document, ” Sevika sneered, “you didn’t fucking ask me to go steady. Even then, it was couched in work.”

Mel was stricken for a moment, replaying a dozen little interactions in her mind. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Yeah, well,” Sevika responded, and left it there.

“You never told me it was deeper than that,” Mel pushed gently.

“I thought the relationship form thing was a clear boundary - work only. Every time we’ve interacted, it’s been at work - I invite you over after work and all you talk about is work. You don’t turn off.”

“It’s my passion,” Mel said, defensively.

“And I admire that - I really do,” Sevika said, “but I don’t want just work from you - you know?”

Mel stared at her, long and hard. “So,” she said, weakly, “I assume you’ll be turning down the promotion.”

Sevika watched her, watched her carefully - flinty eyes roving around Mel’s face, body, searching for cracks in the armor that just weren’t there.

“If we don’t want the same thing, Mel,” Sevika said, rising from her chair with a soft grunt, “then perhaps we should maintain a professional distance.”

“For the best,” Mel said, turning back to type a few more lines to Mylo. Sevika watched her again, but this time it wasn’t a game - Mel felt a burning behind her eyes, couldn’t turn to look at the other woman for fear of what she’d reveal if she were to open herself up to vulnerability.

“Sevika,” called Mel when the coach turned her back, began to walk away. Mel heard her sneakers stop on the hardwood floor, heard them creak as she turned back to listen.

“Can you get the door?” Mel asked.

It closed quietly with a click, and Mel pushed her glasses up to rub her eyes, pressed her elbows to the table to bury her face in her hands for a moment. She’d just need a moment - it was overwhelming, that was all.

It was a pity - she was disappointed that Sevika didn’t take the position. It’d have been good to have her alongside Mel when she entered into negotiations - that was the source of this wave of disappointment that weirdly tinged of sorrow.

When she composed herself, she got back to hiring her new staff, and almost tricked herself into thinking she’d forgotten the whole thing.

~*~*~*~*~ 

The first time the Sumprats lost in the finals, they did so to Ahri’s No-Names. It was widely regarded as one of the best finals of all time - an intense, back and forth duel between two hot goaltenders, two well built teams, two incredible, all-timer coaches.

Lucian and Sevika went toe to toe in everything from schemes to roster shakeups to post-game pressers. When game 7 ended in overtime in Placeholder’s arena, Sevika was the first to leap over and shake Lucian’s hand, the two admiring, sharing respect, clapping one another on the shoulder.

The Sumprats had won four straight in the previous years, had seen so much success, and still were devastated by the loss - the locker room quiet, upset. Many amongst the team took the blame onto their own shoulders, vowed to get back here, vowed to make it right. They had won so much in such a short period and still hated losing - hated losing with a passion that had sparked pride in Mel.

She blamed herself, mostly - the Placeholder No-Names were a squad built in the Sumprats’ image, built around three scorers and a lot of defense. Somewhere along the way, the league had caught up to her strategy and adopted it - other franchises adopting what had become known as the Medarda Model. She had been beaten, in a way, at her own game - the game that she had invented.

Sevika and her had a debriefing session scheduled in her office the next day, and she’d had every light blazing, scheduled the meeting for noon. Mylo couldn’t make it - his daughter was being born - which would leave Sevika and Mel in the room, alone, for the first time since Sevika had come to her with her promotion offer.

Sevika arrived two minutes early, dressed in a full jogging suit, and had sat down with her typical exhaling of effort. She wasn’t chewing gum, had her hands in her pockets, looked sullen and uncomfortable. Viktor wasn’t with her.

“No Viktor?” Mel asked, quiet in the quiet room.

“He has interviews,” Sevika replied, “lots of coaching spots opening up. I told him I’d catch him up to speed if he needed it - I doubt this will take long.”

“You do?”

Sevika shrugged. “We know why we didn’t win.”

Mel frowned, steepling her fingers. “Why didn’t we win, from your perspective?”

“We needed one more win,” Sevika replied, “we dropped four away games, won all three home games. We needed to be better on the road all year, needed to fight through some injury luck - the back half of our roster was new and not used to Sumprats hockey. Give me another offseason with them, another season with Caitlyn and Vi, we’ll get them next time.”

“We don’t have many more miles on Vi’s odometer,” Mel warned, “I suspect her and Caitlyn may be closer to their last game than their first.”

Sevika lifted her big shoulders. “Poppy,” she said, “Ashe, Thresh, Illaoi aren’t going anywhere. That’s a talented group - a championship group. We’ll see them again.”

Mel tapped her pencil against the pad of paper on her desk, lost in thought. “We can always shore up in the draft.”

Sevika lifted a shoulder. “That’s your department.”

Mel’s pencil clattered to the pad as she leaned forwards, eyes narrowed. “In the past, it’s been your department, too.”

“If you have someone you need my opinion on,” Sevika said, evenly, “send it to my email and I’ll take a look. If you-“

“Sevika,” Mel said.

“If you don’t have anyone in mind right now,” Sevika carried on, as if she hadn’t tried to interject, “then I’m not sure what use I can be to you.”

“Sevika,” Mel repeated.

Sevika raised her eyebrows.

“Are we going to keep doing this?” Mel asked, annoyed. “You’re too mature to punish me for not trying to have a physical relationship outside of work with you - clearly you see how childish that is.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow. “Punish you?”

“You don’t drop by,” Mel said, annoyed, “you don’t seek my advice, you don’t collaborate. This used to be a shared system - the product is suffering because of this… choice to seek retribution.”

“I’m not seeking retribution , Medarda,” Sevika sneered, “I’m enforcing work distance.”

“To punish me,” Mel snapped, “that makes it retribution.”

“Contrary to what you might believe,” Sevika snarled, “not everything is about you . We’re supposed to do our jobs separately - everyone else in the league fucking manages just fine without two people running around and sharing two jobs.”

Mel’s nostrils flared, her tapping a report on her desk, sliding it to the side to steeple her fingers. Sevika’s posture was relaxed, but her eyes blazed, her body tensed up.

“Look,” Mel said, “I don’t see any reason why we need to continue - we were friends, before we got… tangled up. I don’t see why we can’t return to that.”

“I can,” Sevika said immediately, “I can see several reasons why we can’t return to that. At least, why we can’t just snap our fingers and turn back the clock.”

Mel quirked her eyebrows at that description.

“Is it -“ Sevika hesitated, “is it too hard to see that I might need some time?”

Mel paused for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “No. That’s - not unreasonable. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Sevika said, leaning forwards and clasping her hands between her knees, “it’s not - it was never about punishing you, Mel. I’m sorry if it felt that way. I just - I guess realizing I was more invested hurt, and I was trying to sort that out - it’s hard to see you a lot, feeling what I did.”

Mel nodded, confused. Sevika didn’t display that - didn’t show how much she cared, really. Other than constantly popping by, posting up on her bookshelf, inviting her over for wine, displaying little signs that she cared, dropping little pieces of herself-

Shit. Shit.

“But I can find my way back,” Sevika said, rising from her chair with a grunt, “it’ll take me some time, but I can find my way back. I’ll work on it.”

“Okay,” Mel’s mouth said, even as her mind raced to a dozen little moments where Sevika was telling her she cared, that she wanted more. Sevika taking care of her, anticipating her needs before she could voice them - Sevika acting almost offended about the suggestion they sign papers. She never said it - not with words, but she was always better at showing than telling.

“I’ll see you,” Sevika said, and it felt like she teleported out of the room - Mel was sitting alone and thinking and realizing, belatedly, that she had been the one to fuck up.

Sevika had given her so many opportunities, had reached bit by bit outside her comfort zone. Just being beside her, sitting on her bookshelf, was taking a chance.

Mel hadn’t done the same - not once.

She folded her hands in her lap, watched the place where Sevika had just vacated, and resolved to do better.

~*~*~*~*~ 

The Sumprats went back to work with renewed vigor, that sixth season.

Five finals trips in five seasons would likely have been enough for any franchise to have started slowing down - a loss in the fifth trip might have heralded the end of an era, the end of a dynasty. The Sumprats were determined from the jump to not allow that to happen - they had their first taste of losing, and didn’t care for it.

Mel walked into practice on the first day, posted up in the stands with her laptop and a litre of cold brew, and watched the Sumprats show off what they’d learned in the offseason.  She answered e-mails and collaborated with Mylo - who was shut in in his tiny little broom closet of an office - on personnel changes, pricing upgrades, figuring out strategies for free agent signings and trade deadlines.

She didn’t look up until Vi was standing right in front of her, a crooked smile on her face.

“What are you doing in the barn, Mel?” Vi asked.

Mel gestured. “Needed a change of scenery.”

“I see,” Vi said, then turned to tuck into the chair one away from Mel, lean back. Her hockey gear made it so that she sort of spilled over into the seat beside her. She propped her socked feet up against the railing in front of them, watched the practice with her GM for a few minutes as Mel rearranged the icons on her desktop and waited for Vi to speak.

“I think this is it for me,” Vi said, softly, “I’ve already told the team.”

“This season?” Mel clarified with a frown.

“Yeah,” Vi confirmed, “win or lose, this might be it.”

Mel made a quick note, nodding. “I figured this was coming sooner or later.”

“I wanted there to be no drama around it.”

Mel shrugged. “Even if there were, you’re special to the franchise. We’d have made it work.”

“I appreciate that.”

They sat in silence as Sevika skated around her team, whistle dangling from her teeth. She kept shooting little curious glares in Mel’s direction, sending little pockets of pleasure to Mel’s brain centre.

“You’re here to unsettle her?” Vi asked, smiling crookedly.

Mel didn’t even bother to pretend.

“I’m just being a little more clear about what I want,” she said, shrugging as she began typing a reply to Mylo’s email, “and she’s had her turn to bug me where I work.”

Vi laughed, and laughed louder when Sevika skated close, rapped on the glass, spread her arms out like she couldn’t believe Vi was taking a break.

“Wickett, we’re in the middle of practice here.”

“I had some news,” Vi said in amusement, rising to her feet and walking back towards the entryway where she’d ditched her skates, “saw our GM was here.”

“I see that, too,” Sevika murmured, then turned to skate back to the rest of the team.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Mel invaded Sevika’s space all season long, collaborated with her, showed her the attention and care that Sevika had tried to give Mel. Mel was assertive, confident, and kind - in Sevika’s way in a helpful way versus an obstructive one, finding ways to be useful as Mylo took on more of her job.

Mylo was an excellent GM - she could let him have the reigns while she made sure her personal project went well.

The playoffs were a nail biter, the rounds a blur of hard hockey, but the Sumprats were hungry to get back to the finals, hungry to prove that they were still the team to beat, that the dynasty hadn’t died - they were still lurking, ready to beat up on teams, devour them as they stepped up to challenge them.

When the Sumprats met the No-Names in the finals, came face to face with Ahri and Rell for a third time in a row, it felt poetic.

When they beat them in a five game series, it felt like an exclamation - Vi Wickett’s last series as a Sumprat was one where her team out muscled, out defended, and dominated the opposition.

When the Sumprats took the trophy, Mel leaned close to Sevika, leaned up to whisper into her ear.

“I want to take you home,” she said, “and I never want you to leave.”

Sevika leaned back, turned to look at her, and her lip curled into a smile.

They spent a lot of that summer together. Come the fall, the papers were signed.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Mel and Sevika made a striking pair - Mel in a floor-length blue gown that dripped off of her, Sevika having clearly been talked into a barrel-chested suit that made her seem distinguished, especially the gray wisps in her hair and the tough, brand new wrinkles around her eyes. She still shook Powder’s hand like she was trying to snap it off at the wrist, but her expression softened, seemed genuinely happy to see them.

“Your edit had me looking like a genius,” Sevika admitted, “thank you for cutting out all the mistakes.”

“We barely edited you,” Powder said flippantly, “really. You were good at your job.”

“Yeah,” Sevika said, patting Mel’s arm as the shorter woman beamed up at her, “yeah I was.”

“You both were amazing at your jobs,” Lux said happily, “it’s very gratifying that the rest of the league recognized that.”

Mel looked up at Sevika - Sevika glanced down at her. Mel’s arm slipped through the crook in Sevika’s elbow, gripped it lightly, squeezed.

“It didn’t matter,” Mel said, “the point was that we proved something - all together, we proved it.”

“Our time to ride off into the sunset,” Sevika said, laughing.

Mel and Sevika Medarda are retired from the RHL, and live in Zaun with their adopted son, who is learning how to play hockey. They train dogs and assist with the Hockey Centre, and have been married since 2039.

Sevika is currently the coach of her son’s hockey team.

She still chews a lot of gum.

The Tayl and Jack Podcast, dated in 2029:

“Time to revisit this,” Taylor Swiffer said as Jack nodded, “now that our girl has five cups in six years and with the retirement of Vi Wickett, we need to have the conversation every once in a while - greatest of all time.”

“It’s picked up a lot of steam since the Sumprats won their fifth, yeah,” Jack agreed.

“Okay. So you and I - we’re students of the game, but we weren’t exactly around during the Grayson days.”

“Yeah, we’ve seen footage but we haven’t - I think I saw those Lone Stars teams once live? But I was way too young to like, understand what I was seeing.”

“It’s a familiar story. So the question really is a race of two people for me - Grayson versus Kiramman, and it’s becoming less of a race with every passing minute that Kiramman remains active.”

“It’s still a competition to you?” Jack asked, surprise in his voice.

“Kind of,” Taylor replied, “I mean - I’m pretty sure that I have my choice. It likely won’t surprise people.”

“It’s not a competition to me at all,” Jack said, “it’s Kiramman for me.”

“Walk me through it, see if you can convince me.”

“Sure,” Jack said, “so basically, when we’re talking about the GOAT - greatest of all time, to the civilians out there - you basically look at it like this: the competition they played against, the teammates they played with, stats, and game feel.”

“Okay.”

“Now, game feel and stats - Kiramman’s taking a victory lap on those ones. Grayson never skated for a twenty minute shift, and Kiramman is approaching all-time scoring leader records and - critically - doesn’t show many signs of stopping until she’s - what, forty?”

“The way she’s going? Yeah, forty isn’t outside of the realm of possibility.”

“So if Kiramman waxes Grayson in stats and game feel, we need to look at teammates and competition. I know there’s a lot of smoke out there about how Grayson never had a Robin to her Batman, which is Camille erasure, bluntly.”

“Have people really forgotten how crucial Camille was to those teams?”

“I mean, she wasn’t Vi Wickett by any means, but it’s not like Grayson was playing with a bag of pucks. Also, the dropoff from Vi Wickett to the third best player on the Sumprats is massive when compared to those stacked Lone Stars teams.”

“The Lone Stars, at one point, had seven all-stars on their roster. Have the Sumprats had more than three?”

“Eh, they may wind up having more,” Jack said, wobbling his hand, “we’ll see how many all-star votes get handed out after Wickett retires, since Poppy and Thresh will see more of the ice, the Sumprats will need to fill defensive holes.”

“That’s fair, I guess.”

“Yeah, I want to give the edge to Kiramman in terms of having worse teammates, but like - they just won their fifth cup in six years, and they have Vi Wickett who is a top 10 talent in her own right.”

“Edge Grayson?”

“Edge Grayson. But then you have talent of the league at the time, and folks, the 90s RHL was rough in terms of talent.”

“Yeah the reason that the Lone Stars were the best team to watch was that there were no other good teams.”

“None,” Jack replied, “like, there was some action in the War Horses, and we had a few points where the Axolotls got scrappy, but for the most part the only consistent challenge was the Lone Stars. Meanwhile, in the Kiramman era, the league is fucking loaded.”

“Kai’Sa on the Assassins,” Taylor said, “Garen’s Knights, any team Akali and Ahri found themselves on during the run.”

“You had the Mountaineers, you had the Red Pandas, you had the Placeholders - you have all these teams who were frisky and competitive and were legitimate threats, and Kiramman and the Sumprats had to fight them all off. So I say that Kiramman wins that in terms of having to beat a better crop of teams.”

“So Kiramman wins in stats, game feel, and competition, Grayson wins in terms of her team being worse, meaning she has to play better.”

“Yup. As I said, it’s a discussion but not a competition. I was a Grayson over Kiramman guy for 2023 and 2024, but as soon as that three in a row was won by the Sumprats, I switched teams.”

“Yeah, I think I agree with you.”

“You do!?”

“I do! It’s hard to win two cups in a row with the turnover in the league, it’s nearly impossible to win three in a row, but four?”

“Never been done.”

“Sumprats are the first team ever to do it. That’s either because this team is just full of studs, or they have a human cheat code.”

“In their case, I think both.”

“So, the Sumprats win their fifth cup, Wickett retires as a winner, and Kiramman is still going to play for the foreseeable future. Who knows if they have one more in them.”

“Even if they don’t, I mean - the road to the cup finals still goes through Zaun.”

“And it will for a long time, if she keeps skating like this.”

Claggor

Confetti rained down like the end of a drought, a persistent rain that had him stunned, staring around himself, a goofy grin on his face as his teammates clumped together and held one another and cried and shouted. He was a rock in the river, the black and red jerseys swarming around him, someone’s helmet spinning idly on the ice from the force of their throw, the visor clipping the sheet of glass every now and again to make it wobble, slow down, eventually stop. Claggor unsnapped his own helmet, pulled it off of his head, held it under one armpit.

Watched and waited.

Claggor had never been capital F Famous. Claggor would never shake Tony the Tiger’s hand. But what Claggor had been - what Claggor was, was a team player. He’d prided himself on not worrying about the accolades, because the team, the family, always came first.

But this time, the family came in first, and he was surrounded, faced with the inescapable truth that sometimes you really did win it all.

Claggor looked to the bench, saw how he was feeling writ large on Graves’ features as tears stained the old goalie’s cheeks, him rocking back and forth in an embrace with Ekko and Illaoi - the giant woman dwarfing both men in her hug as she leaned back and screamed in jubilation. Graves released the two of them with paternal back pats, skated towards Claggor with arms open.

“Ya old fossil,” Graves said warmly, and Claggor dropped his helmet to grip Graves’ shoulders.

“Am I dreaming?” Claggor asked, dumbfounded, looking around at the crowd, the glass being impacted so heavily by fans’ fists that it was a constant rumble like thunder, like an undulating wave of plexiglass floating around them - faces, hard faces, prematurely aged faces, weathered faces all experiencing the same bliss everywhere he looked.

“We fucking won, Clagg,” Graves said, as Claggor’s gaze turned to watch Caitlyn and Vi, staring at one another, fondness on their faces as finally - finally - Claggor’s face started to catch up with his surroundings.

“We won,” Claggor said, distractedly, a grin finally fighting free.

“We won,” Graves confirmed as Claggor whooped, gripped Graves’ face, kissed him on the forehead.

“I love you, you weirdo,” Claggor said.

“I love you too, normie,” Graves said happily, as the two were slammed into by Ekko and Illaoi, who brought the celebration to them.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“I’ve had an incredible run,” Claggor said, weeks later, hat perched on his head that still read 2023 Champions with a picture of Grapes the Sumprat on display, “but I can’t think of any other way to call it quits then walking away with a cup. My family took pictures with it, the foster families that raised me all got to see it, and I brought it to the orphanage so the kids could see it - that all meant a lot to me. But I’ve thrown my last right in hockey gear, and I’ve skated my last overtime period.”

Claggor squinted at the question, looking out over the small gathering of reporters. An enforcer quitting was never going to be a top billed headline news - he was more of a tweet the next morning - CLAGGOR RETIRES - than major, front page stuff. Graves’ retirement two days earlier would still be talked about long after Claggor’s came and went.

“The two main reasons,” Claggor answered, “are my body and my skillset. In terms of skillset, I’ve maxed out my potential - the only way forwards is declining, and I never want to decline. The history books are filled with players that quit too late, had a few seasons of bad hockey before they put them on the mantel, and I don’t ever want to skate a season too long when I have the option of choosing when I stop. As for the other reason, my body isn’t cut out for enforcing anymore - and, well, when your star player can skate for 20 minutes and take all kinds of punishment, I’m not even sure what I’d do.”

This earned him a few sensible chuckles, and he smiled fleetingly. “No, what I’d rather do is something in youth sports - I’ve been graciously offered the job of scouting for the Sumprats, of sharing what I know about the game to younger people, maybe getting into coaching down the line. I also have a secret project I’m working on that might come to fruition in the next few years, but we’ll see. It all comes down to it being time - for me, for my body, my knees, my fists.”

Claggor squinted at the next question - a few more reporters had shown up to take their seats, looking a littler grungier and unkempt.

“I could probably enforce elsewhere, yeah,” Claggor replied, “but I mean - honestly? I don’t want to. I like it here. I’m done with the travel and the hotel rooms for a while - I’m probably going to take a year off to just sit in Zaun and bother the team at practices now and then.”

More reporters - looking more and more like regular citizens - filed into the room, filled all the seats until there was standing room only, where they milled about at the back of it, hands folded behind their back or stuffed in their pockets, watching him. Claggor’s focus was torn away from the other reporters with questions, forcing him to ask a woman to repeat her question.

“Best fight? I mean, I think it’s obvious who I enjoyed beating on the most.” This earned him a few laughs. “But it’s hard to choose. It’s just business after a while. You fight who you’re supposed to fight and you go on to the next town. This season has a lot of my ‘best’s, though - best coach, best captains, best teammates I’ve ever seen. I don’t normally get so intertwined into the locker room because my contract got moved so often - the Sumprats really gave me a lot of opportunity, a lot of playing time, and all I can hope is that I did my part.”

When the reporters didn’t have more questions, suddenly most of the bodies in the room jerked to attention to cup their mouths with their hands. As one, they started shouting.

MVP. 

MVP. 

MVP. 

MVP.

He’s our guy ! Roared a voice above the others, and the chants were replaced with shouts of approval as Claggor smiled fondly into the microphones, tears stinging his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Name pending,” Caitlyn said as she sat at Claggor’s kitchen table, Vi beside her. Vi had a bruise on her jaw and Caitlyn was looking a little windswept - they’d both just finished a home stand in the 2023-2024 season, had a few days to rest between games.

“It looks impressive,” Claggor said, honestly, “but I just took that scouting job to start next year. I can try and find time to advise for you guys, though.”

Caitlyn looked at Vi, and Vi leaned forwards, scraping her chair lightly.

“That’d be great,” she said, softly, “but Claggor, we weren’t thinking of you for an advisor.”

“We want you to be an instructor,” Caitlyn continued, “full time. Teach the kids the right way of doing things.”

Claggor looked between them, hesitant. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Clagg,” Vi said, touching his hand, “you’re going to be a great scout - I have no doubt about it. You’ve got a good eye for talent, you always knew how to improve someone’s game. But we’re talking about a hockey institute for every kid in Zaun - non-profit, no high maintenance fees, no parents’ banks being broken. Just kids, sticks, and ice.”

“We can match your salary at the Sumprats,” Caitlyn offered, “we can even work around your schedule so you can put facetime in at the institute. Nothing’s in stone until one of us hangs them up-”

“It’ll be me,” Vi confided with a wink, “Caitlyn’ll play until she’s forty.”

Caitlyn kicked Vi’s chair lightly and continued, “but we’ll want to move on it and fast when we’re done. You’re our first call.”

“I’m flattered,” Claggor said, “but what do I know about teaching kids?”

“You taught kids every day of your life as an enforcer, bud,” Vi said, fondly, “they’ll just finally have the height to match.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“I’m Claggor,” Claggor said, more grey in his hair, as he skated across center ice, “and welcome to the WickMan Institute of Hockey. You’ve heard from the founders, Vi and Caitlyn, about how important the next few years are going to be for your personal development. I’m here to teach you about the game you play, and how to play it so you don’t get hurt, your other skaters don’t get hurt, and everyone can go home happy, healthy, and exercised.

“Hockey is a polite game played in the rudest way possible,” Claggor continued, “there are rules - codes - that everyone sticks to. They’re developed and agreed upon through decades of this sport, hundreds of thousands of hours spent on refining and discussing three things; safety, sportsmanship, and quality.

“You’ll hear about these rules - they call them unwritten rules, which is silly. They could easily be written into a rulebook and implemented, but then, they’d be in the hands of people with suits and ties who don’t play our game, just manage it. We keep them between us because you’re entering into a club, of sorts. We don’t talk to anyone about what happens behind closed doors, we settle on-ice grievances on the ice, we treat each other with dignity.”

Claggor looked around at the young faces, each on a padded knee in the rink of the Institute. Vi had started it up as soon as she’d retired, her and Caitlyn’s new project to tinker with and improve on when their playing days were over. The young, eager faces were all Zaun kids who came from situations that wouldn’t necessarily be able to hold the cost of equipment, ice time, league fees - the Institute took care of all the excess cost, made it accessible for kids to play hockey.

Home grown talent, was the slogan. No more slushy lakes or uneven high school rinks.

“Who’s going to run it?” Claggor had asked during a planning session, eating peanuts out of the communal bowl of the bar while Caitlyn sketched out ideas on a napkin and Vi explained her vision. He gestured at Vi. 

“You’ll go crazy in a month with all those numbers.”

“Cassandra,” Vi had said, “she loves numbers, loves hockey, loves kids.”

“What Vi means is that she’s bored,” Caitlyn had put in, “and has taken to wandering around our house like a lost puppy every time she’s got a free moment. Which is always.”

“Be nice,” Vi had chastised, a smile on her lips, “so what do you think, big guy? Want to help us out?”

Now, four years later, looking out over the faces, rapt with attention, Claggor couldn’t hold back the joy.

“Once you understand my basics,” Claggor continued, “we can start teaching you how to hit. Any questions?”

Immediately, hands shot into the air. Claggor pointed at one at random.

“How did it feel to smoke Landsman?” she asked immediately, and a chorus of tittered agreement and rustled equipment as the kids got comfortable.

Claggor laughed. “It felt good, but she gave me provocation, reason to step up and step in. Most of my time as an enforcer was figuring out whether or not something was justified, reacting accordingly. In Landsman’s case, she had no cause to act the way she did, so I let her know how I felt about it.”

“They played it at my school,” the kid said, and Claggor laughed.

“I’ve never watched it again, but a lot of ex Sumprats watch it a few times a week. She wasn’t popular in our locker room.”

The kids nodded, falling silent, and Claggor clapped his gloved hands together.

“Right. Everyone up - let’s talk about roughing.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“I’m a scout, nowadays,” Claggor said to Lux as they both held cocktail  glasses, a sole olive rolling around in the clear liquid, “I submit my reports to Mylo mostly - in the summer I’m teach at the Institute in Zaun.”

Lux smiled softly. “I love that place. You know that Powder helped decorate it?”

“I hear she did more than help,” Claggor snorted, “the echoes of her and Vi’s arguing can be heard throughout the halls still. I thought they were going to kill one another sometimes.”

Lux laughed. “The Wickett family,” she murmured, referring to her fiancee’s new surname, “always has strong opinions. If there are two sides to an issue, they’ll have opposite ones - or will pretend to to drive their sibling crazy.”

Claggor chuckled, took a sip of his glass, and said, “you guys are doing incredible work.”

“Yeah, thanks. Run at the Cup really opened doors for us - sometimes the wrong doors, but you can’t win them all. For a while, we were the ‘hockey documentary’ guys - other teams wanted a seasonal documentary about how they did, but none of them really interested Powder.”

“I hear she wanted to do a Lone Stars one.”

Lux shook her head as she watched Powder talking animatedly with Riven, a beautiful raven-haired woman on Riven’s arm. The girl was slightly star struck, looking around the reception space with a slack jawed wonder - must be a puck bunny.

“She was offered the contract, but I think those guys were so out and out corrupt that it didn’t interest her. She likes to take on stories about corruption that’s below the surface level - she wants to expose dirt rather than cover stuff everyone already knows.”

“She wants the challenge,” Claggor nodded, “makes sense.”

“We’re mostly doing the reunion bit because we love everyone - and I think Powder doesn’t trust anyone else that Mylo would hire to do it.”

“Mylo wouldn’t have hired anyone but you guys,” Claggor assured.

Lux finished off her vodka martini, let the olive roll into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully as she looked at Claggor.

“I hear congratulations is in order, by the way.”

Claggor raised his eyebrows in a terrible lying face.

“Assistant coach.”

“Oh,” Claggor said, rubbing the back of his neck, “yeah. I guess Vi told you?”

“She did. Are you excited?”

“Kind of,” Claggor said, wobbling his hand, “it’s going to be a lot, I think. Having Vi there will help a lot - the two of us together will be great on Sevika’s bench. I guess the plan is for me to take over for assisting when Vi steps into Sevika’s job.”

“Sounds like a solid succession plan,” Lux said, smiling.

Claggor smiled back. “It’s a scary succession plan. But yeah. Feels right. I get to still be involved, and - who knows, maybe I’ll love it.”

As he finished the words, Lux looked past him to Powder, grinning wide as Riven touched her shoulder, laughing with her date about something Powder said.

“I think you’ll do great,” Lux said, smile widening.

Claggor Stoic is currently the assistant coach of the Zaun Sumprats. 

He has, so far, won 1 RHL Cup in this role, and was recognized for his playing days with a post-retirement Sportsmanlike Player of the Year award for a career well played.

He lives in Zaun with his wife.

From inside a house in Zaun:

“You absolutely will be hearing from our lawyers on this, Amara,” Cassandra said, “I meant what I said when I said it. In my opinion-“

Tobias held up a legal pad that had WHEN DINNER scrawled across it for Cassandra to squint at. Cassandra held up seven fingers, which Tobias gave a thumbs up to.

“I’m quite aware of your situation,” Cassandra said into the receiver, “and frankly, it couldn’t be happening to a nicer person. But it isn’t about your professional career to me - I don’t particularly care about taking ownership of that, or money from your pockets. What I want is an admittance of guilt, and I have yet to hear one.”

Cassandra listened as Tobias began setting out a clear dish and some olive oil, preparing for the baked chicken he was preparing for tonight - Caitlyn and Vi were coming over to talk strategy around the Hockey centre, and Tobias found that the four of them did much better when strategizing if they had some food in them.

“But you did,” Cassandra said, “you did prevent her from opportunities. Many times over, in fact. It’s documented in the case for your removal as an official agent - by my count, you went against client interactions five times. That’s five admittances.”

Cassandra listened for a moment longer, writing in a notebook - a notebook filled with imagery for Caitlyn and Vi’s hockey centre, sketches and diameters and classes for children to take. She’d written down willing donors that she’d made connections with through the Reparations act, Zaunite contacts that she knew would back the project and give them something to look forward to. Her daughter had her sights set on building something in Zaun - something that would outlive all of them, make their legacy as hockey players ingrained and helpful to the society that they owed so much to, and it was going to be Cassandra’s mission to see it done however Caitlyn wanted it.

“Amara,” Cassandra said, “Amara - okay, Amara, listen to me. There is a time in our relationship when getting hysterical might have worked, but it was a brief time - between the first and second contracts at Piltover, right around when you misled me into leaning on Caitlyn to resign. Since that time, this does not impress me. You do not impress me.”

Cassandra plucked the barbecue lighter from the kitchen table, flicked it and held it out as Tobias approached with the joint behind his ear now dangling from his mouth. He leaned forwards to light it on the flame, inhaled, and winked at Cassandra. Cassandra winked back.

“I’m hanging up this phone,” Cassandra said, “tell me that you’re going to apologize, or we will be seeking financial damages, Amara. Goodbye.”

She hung up the cordless with a beep of the button, set it on the table, and began to write in the Centre’s notebook.

“Dear,” she said, pausing to look up, “do you think Senator Chambers still thinks he owes me?”

“Last I checked,” Tobias said back, coating the glass dish in the olive oil, generously salted and peppered, “I think he may actually owe you two, darling.”

“I thought so,” she murmured, writing the senator’s name down in the book, “make sure you go heavy on the chili flakes - Vi likes them.”

Tobias held up a spice container over his shoulder in confirmation. “I bet they’ll come hungry - did you tell them dinner’s at seven?”

“Dinner’s usually at seven,” Cassandra responded distractedly.

Tobias paused. “Cass, do you mind telling them? I want to establish that we communicate dinner times ahead of schedule in case they come hungry.”

“If they come hungry they can graze on chips.”

Tobias waited a beat. “Dear,” he said, warningly.

“Fine,” Cassandra huffed good naturedly, “I’ll tell them - I’ll tell them. I just hate this group texting application - I feel like I’m always being made fun of.”

“Only when you make typos,” Tobias said.

“As I said,” she murmured in reply, typing with an index finger, head tilted back to look down at her phone through her perched glasses, “I’m always being made fun of.”

Leona and Diana

The clock ticked down, and Diana immediately shook off her gloves, unsnapped her helmet, and was being lifted up by her waist from behind as Leona’s arms came around her, swinging her around as the larger woman laughed - deep and rich, Diana’s hands coming down to grip her wife’s wrists as they twirled on the ice, their skates flashing through the air as the black and red and white confetti exploded from the roof and rained, gently, down over the ice.

The twirling stopped as Leona released her, Diana immediately hopping to face Leona and grab at her gloves, tugging them off before threading their fingers together.

“Hi babe,” Diana said, skating closer.

Leona smiled, pressed her helmeted forehead to Diana’s as Diana cupped Leona’s jaw, her shoulders, her neck.

“Hey,” Leona replied, voice low and throaty and pressing her lips to Diana’s.

The kiss was short and sweet and deepened slightly when Diana peeked over Leona’s shoulder to see her captain's hungry mouths, pressing and pulling at their bench as Sumprats staff awkwardly shuffled by them to get to the door and fans lined the glass behind them.

“Aren’t you glad you-” Diana started.

“Shh,” Leona said, pressing her hand to her wife’s mouth, looking into her smiling eyes. “I just won the cup with my soul mate - don’t ruin the moment.”

Diana melted a little, pulled her wife closer, slowly skating in a circle as Diana tugged Leona’s helmet off, dropped her own, the black, red, and white confetti raining down onto their hair, their cheeks, sticking to their eyebrows as they circled and watched each other and held each other by the waist. The crowd noise - the elation, the throat-tearing roars of triumph - was their music as they slow-danced, happy, free.

“WHOOOOOOOOOOO,” Graves belted as he tore down the ice around them, popping the delicate bubble. “WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“You were right,” Leona said, smiling, dusting some confetti from Diana’s hair, “I was wrong.”

Diana’s face softened. “I love it when you say that.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Who knows,” Leona says into a microphone, arm around Diana and 2023 Champions hat on her head - Diana’s hat is slightly sideways and askew, her face flushed and happy. “We’re both under contract with the Sumprats for another year, but beyond that - it depends on what the club wants.”

“We’d love to come back,” Diana adds, “but business is business - no matter what, we’ll always have family here.”

“I want to thank Zaun, specifically,” Leona says to the camera, “for being - the best fans. Truly. I’ve never been in an arena that was so alive.”

Thresh and Poppy emerge at the edges of the frame to put their arms around them, pulling them towards a pair of ski goggles as the team got champagne ready in their home locker room, 

“There you have it,” the reporter says into the camera, “we’ll find another Sumprat to interview in-”

The popping of champagne corks interrupt her as she turns and steps out of the frame as Vi - on one crutch - and Caitlyn - still in Vi’s jersey - are sprayed with champagne, ski goggles on their eyes as they grin and laugh, the cup between the team in a tight circle, so all of them can reach out and touch it, press fingertips to it, amazement and excitement permanent features on their expressions.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“My guest,” Graves says, on the Diggin’ with Graves podcast, “for the first time on the show, but one of the people I am privileged enough to call a friend-”

“Stop it,” Leona’s voice crackled with mirth, “this is disgusting.”

“The big bad blue liner, the steel enforcer, the shield of Zaun-”

“That makes me sound like a cop.”

“The one and only Leona Kampf! Leona.”

“Graves.”

“This must’ve been weird for you.”

“Not as weird as that intro was.”

“It’s podcasting, Leona. I’m a podcaster now. The big wind up before the pitch, you know?”

“I liked you better when you just wrote books and didn’t speak to us for weeks at a time.”

“You missed me so bad,” Graves cooed.

“I missed you every day,” Leona said, laughing.

“So how’s retirement?”

“Fucking weird,” Leona replied, “my hockey bag isn’t cutting into my shoulder anymore. At least Diana’s still playing so there’s some routine still and I can still skate with her in the morning.”

“How was it,” Graves wondered, “skating with your soulmate all that time?”

“Honestly,” Leona started, paused, considered. “You know, before I got married - before I met Diana, even, there was this joke about marriage, like - if you spent too long together, you were going to get divorced. Like there was this hatred built into a relationship where you’d just get sick of one another.”

“Boomer humour.”

“Yeah. Like, as if each relationship is built on toxic shit. And I don’t know about any of those people who gave me that advice, but I loved going to work with my wife every day, and I loved coming home with her, and I loved being on the road with her and playing alongside her - I will never forget it.”

“That’s so gay,” Graves murmured, slightly choked up.

“Thank you. How’s TF?”

“He,” Graves said, speaking of his husband, “is also gay.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Now that the mushy shit is out of the way, let’s talk hockey. Let’s talk Sumprats.”

“Sure. I can say that I’m not an expert in what’s going on in the league but I can talk about the Sumprats.”

“So, for the listeners at home who may not know, Leona was one of the core players of the Sumprats squad, and was a big reason for the three-peat these last three seasons. How does it feel walking away from what is now the most successful franchise in RHL history?”

“I mean,” Leona said, “it feels good in some ways, awful in others. Like my body thanks me - that’s for sure. I have a lot of miles on my shoulder and back, especially this last season- it really felt like other teams were trying to knock us off of the top rung.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah - like, it’s sort of like a battle, you know? Every year teams re-arm and load up and know who you are, what your strengths are, and try to beat you. Every year that your team is successful, the front offices around the league go back and try to build a team catered to your weaknesses and see if they can claim your crown. Fortunately for us, our crown is atop the heads of the two best players ever, so it’s pretty hard to find a weakness.”

“But three was enough for you?”

“Yeah. But I feel like I’m leaving a few more on the table, Graves - like, I’ve been in those practise rooms this year with Diana - Vi and Caitlyn aren’t slowing down, Poppy, Thresh, Illaoi, Ashe - they just get better every year. The Sumprats, in my opinion, are the favourite until someone - anyone - can prove otherwise, you know?”

“That’s sort of how I feel. Take the 2025 finals - your last game as a hockey player. The entire time the Axoltls had their one goal lead, you just knew that Vi and Caitlyn were coming - you could feel it.”

“We could feel it, too. That’s the crazy stuff about playing alongside those two - you can sense the energy shift. They get this look in their eye, and you know that something amazing is about to happen.”

“They’re awe inspiring. But, okay, let’s backtrack - you left a few on the table?”

“My shoulder can’t handle it anymore, unfortunately. That, and Illaoi really came into her own, so I felt like it was time to step away, start a new chapter in my life. Diana and I just adopted this irish wolfhound named Sparks-”

“Awww.”

“-yeah, thanks. And he’s a handful, so I’m walking the dog more, skating for leisure, and just kind of taking my year to figure out what’s next, you know?”

“Well, I’m hoping to drag you on here as often as I can.”

“I’m always happy to talk to you, Graves, in this awkward booth with a microphone between us.”

“Just wait until my new setup - there will be two microphones. But what I wanted to talk to you today about was just - memories of the old days, kind of a walk down how our careers went. You ready?”

“I got all the time in the world.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Diana fought the puck into the net to the roaring approval of the crowd, leaping into the air once before colliding with Vi and Caitlyn with a trail of equipment behind them, the goal horn of the Sumprats erupting into the building.

“Diana Kampf! Overtime Winner! The Sumprats have claimed their fourth title in a row!”

Sevika and Viktor hugged tightly on the bench as the Sumprats exploded in excitement all around them, arms, legs, sticks flying into the air as they celebrated with their team - four in a row, a new RHL record.

“From it’s inception,” Marv Allston says, “this hockey club has existed to shatter records and seize the reins from the league, and here they have once again made history.”

“Nobody,” Danielle adds, “not even the 90s Lone Stars, have ever achieved four titles in a row. It’s unheard of, almost impossible, and this team just did it.”

Diana grins upwards, turns towards the net, and skates forwards as the glass thumps - she skids to a halt in front of a woman - large, a lion’s mane of hair, tears in her eyes. Leona presses both hands to the glass - Diana presses her gloved hands back, and the two women bow their heads so that their foreheads are separated by only plexiglass.

Later, in the press conference, Diana wipes tears from her eyes and smiles exhaustedly.

“We did it,” she says, “again, and it feels like we really did something here - we really saw it through. I think this was my last ride as a Sumprat, but what a fucking ride it was.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Well, if it isn’t the two married broads,” Powder said, grinning as she slung an arm around Leona and Diana - Leona dressed in a burgundy suit, Diana in a black dress that she appeared poured into. Leona’s colouring was a stark contrast to the paleness of Diana’s hair and skin, the way that she seemed to slink from place to place instead of the way Leona plodded ahead.

Both shot winning smiles at the documentarian, Leona clapping her back amicably.

“Powder,” she said, warmly, “how are you?”

“Busy, busy - you remember Lux?” Powder asked, holding a hand towards the blonde as she approached.

“How could we- Powder, come on,” Diana laughed, “you’re acting like we haven’t been in regular contact.”

“The two top teachers in the WickMan Institute of Hockey,” Lux said, amused, “Claggor was just raving about you two.”

“Well, he should,” Leona complained, “considering he’s ditching us this year to come hang out in The Last Drop all season.”

Lux laughed, shaking both of their hands as the four of them slid a little out of the way, watching the way that several Last Drop employees started to bring chairs into the team meeting room of various sizes - sized for each different teammate of the Sumprats, accommodating old bones and bad knees. 

“Is it weird for you?” Powder asked, softly, “being back here after everything?”

“No,” Leona said immediately, “it honestly feels like home - in a way. Not many of us left Zaun, really - Riven and Ahri did, but the rest of us kind of stuck close.”

“We found somewhere we belonged,” Diana added, “which is the damnedest thing. That was the real magic around this Sumprats team - it kind of became bigger than hockey for us.”

“That came through in the doc,” Leona continued, “which - credit to you guys. You really sold the found family aspect of it.”

“There was nothing to sell,” Powder said, softly, “that was just the fact of it.”

The two women smiled at one another, drank from their flutes - Diana drinking water from hers.

“We’ve been thinking a lot about family,” Leona said, watching Diana with a soft expression. Diana met it, a smile curling her features, her hand resting lightly on her stomach.

Lux and Powder both noticed - they were filmmakers. They couldn’t not.

But like good filmmakers, they knew when it was their story to tell.

Leona and Diana von Kampf still live in Zaun - both teaching at the WickMan Institute of Hockey. Leona occasionally tours to lecture on fitness regimens, but mostly stays home to guide younger generations of Zaunite hockey players into playing the game with ‘integrity and grit’. 

They have a daughter, an Irish wolfhound, and a cat.

An interview with an Unnamed RHL Player:

TEDDY: So tell me what happened.

SOURCE: Well, I approached the board - as we’re directed to do - and they agreed to look into the counts of abuse.

TEDDY: Right.

SOURCE: They looked at it for six days, kept me updated the entire time via my preferred communication.

TEDDY: Right. Which was text?

SOURCE: Yeah, I asked them to do text.

TEDDY: Right. So they had your phone number?

SOURCE: Yeah, well - my personal-

TEDDY: Your personal- okay.

SOURCE: My personal phone, yeah.

TEDDY: Okay, so what were these updates?

SOURCE: Just like, confirming my side of stuff - asking clarifying questions, asking deeper questions. They came across something that conflicted with my report, asked me to re-verify, if I had evidence-

TEDDY: The onus  was on you to-

SOURCE: No, they just wanted to know if I had any. I didn’t get the impression that I had to give any over.

TEDDY: Oh, that’s good.

SOURCE: I honestly felt really protected.

TEDDY: Okay, so you go to them, they take six days-

SOURCE: Yeah, they came back conclusive.

TEDDY: And then what happened?

SOURCE: Well, they stepped in. They actually - it was really safe for me. Because they sectioned off the GM, I guess, and talked to him directly, privately.

TEDDY: Right.

SOURCE: I actually don’t know how long it took, but the - he wasn’t working here anymore within a few days.

TEDDY: The abuser?

SOURCE: The accused, yeah.

TEDDY: The abuser. They abused you.

SOURCE: I guess.

TEDDY: [REDACTED], they did. You did the right thing.

SOURCE: I’m just glad they’re gone.

TEDDY: Okay. And do you know where they are now?

SOURCE: No.

TEDDY: I do. I can tell you, if they like.

SOURCE: Please. Just so I know-

TEDDY: No problem.

SOURCE: Just so I know that [REDACTED]

TEDDY: They aren’t working in the RHL again, and they’re facing charges.

SOURCE: Oh. Oh, thank God.

TEDDY: You can relax. The system worked, it looks like.

SOURCE: It did. Thank god.

TEDDY: Okay. Thank you for being on the record - I’ll make sure to redact your name. Thanks for meeting with me - can I take you to lunch? Are you okay?

SOURCE: Can I just-

TEDDY: Are you okay?

SOURCE: I just want to thank you, Teddy-

[Recording Ends]

Poppy

Poppy had been to afterparties, but had never experienced one after winning a title. It made her realize that parties didn’t have a hard limit as to what they could be - they could always be a little wilder.

The locker room celebration had been about the team - about the group of them coming together, holding one another, and crying privately, shouting publicly, and generally being emotional messes in a space they knew to be a safe one. Within the locker rooms, with Grapes the Sumprat staring at them from the floor, they were able to just be a team - with Viktor and Sevika and Mel and Dr. Lansbury celebrating with them, drinking champagne that they had just sprayed all over each other and wearing drenched, too-big T-Shirts that declared them the 2023 champions. They had grabbed one another for dear life and clung, sobbing, to the people who had brought them all here.

But after the locker room, it no longer was about the team - it was about the city. And everyone brought their crew - their managers, their family, their friends - in Riven’s case, the word ‘friend’ was in heavy quotations - and colleagues. The party went from under twenty to in excess of fifty, and they found themselves closing a club to rock the night away.

Poppy and Claggor had given up on trying to control it after the first twenty minutes, when Riven had a girl under each arm and Darius and his wife were sloppily making out in the front entrance, her leg hooked over his hip. Thresh was high out of his mind in a quiet corner, talking to one of the servers about something in a quiet, intimate way - her posture seemed invitational, his seemed excited to discuss. Graves and Ekko were wearing each other’s goalie masks on their heads as they walked around daring people to do shots through them, to see who could get people drunker with each other’s masks.

Their beloved captains hadn’t made it to the afterparty - which made sense, considering Vi’s knee and Caitlyn’s exhaustion. Poppy made them promise to come to the later rager when she was fully healed - when the cup began passing to each one of them for their alloted time with it, when they got to show to their friends and family and extended relatives that they’d done it, and could let them touch and feel and lift the cup themselves.

But she’d let them go, and figured that it was a good thing they weren’t here, because there was some degenerate Sumprats behavior happening.

“This is crazy,” Poppy said over the music to Ahri, who was sitting alone, ears twitching. The two of them were posted up near the bar, the three bartenders working having a blast racing up and down the bartop serving hockey players and their extended crews.

“Yeah,” Ahri said.

“Is it like this for you every time?” Poppy asked, turning to the other woman, getting an eyeful of her for the first time since they’d won. She seemed happy, a little looser, but not as happy as the rest of them - not as happy as Poppy would’ve expected.

“Yeah, mostly,” Ahri said, taking a sip of her cocktail - something electric blue that smelled like lemonade. “It changes depending on who’s on the team - we’ve had some real party animals some years.”

“I’ll bet,” Poppy laughed, “you guys always seemed like you took it super seriously - made me wonder if you had time to unwind, too.”

“We made it fun,” Ahri said, smiling fleetingly, “Akali found little ways to make it fun. She’d sometimes do this thing, where…”

She trailed off, staring down at her drink, stirring it.

Poppy watched her.

“She had this thing?” Poppy prompted, when Ahri remained silent.

Ahri blinked, looked up at her, and Poppy was suddenly aware that Ahri was very, very drunk.

“Hm?” Ahri asked, and if there was a way to slur a word with no vowels, Ahri was managing it.

“Nevermind,” Poppy chuckled, clapping her on the shoulder, “you played amazingly out there, friend.”

“You too,” Ahri said, sleepily, “we couldn’t have won without ya, assistant captain.”

Poppy placed her hands together, bowed lightly, and continued making her rounds.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Being told that you were the future of a franchise was a weird feeling.

On the one hand, knowing that they had confidence in you - knowing that your place was one that was being counted on and planned for, offered a little bit of encouragement. For a player that had been sent around the RHL time in and time out for her entire career, Poppy appreciated a little bit of stability - for once, anyway.

But on the other, the amount of pressure she felt from that simple statement - from being told, flippantly, that she’d take over for Vi when Vi left - was immediate, immense. It weighed on her shoulders, sunk a little into her neck, made her head droop somewhat.

It was a good pressure - she thought. It was the pressure of being good at your job. It was the pressure of striving to be excellent in every facet of your game, including leadership. She took notes from Caitlyn and Vi, watched the way that they worked a room, found little ways to keep everyone on their game and firing on all cylinders. She’d learned a lot from the first season, and the seasons following.

She’d learned that when her team needed a push, they needed to want to be pushed - or her words would do more harm than good.

She’d learned that she couldn’t ask anyone to do anything that she wouldn’t do - whether it was score four goals or work an offensive skater so hard that they had no options.

She’d learned that leading by example was half of it - the other half was charisma. Charisma, she’d also learned, could be taught to an extent, as she watched Caitlyn start with very little and work herself up to a point where she could hold her own in a conference room or a locker room and be the spark plug they needed.

She’d learned, lastly, that she needed to be her own type of leader - nobody could do it by copying someone. She’d need to find consistency and stick to it - otherwise, it felt less real, the advice falling on deaf ears.

Poppy was lucky in a sense - she never needed to go hunting for her assistants. While Ashe was a remarkable player, she would never be comfortable in a leadership role - she was too shy for it, preferring to live life on the fringes. Illaoi and Thresh, however, followed her lead - Illaoi becoming another version of Leona throughout their time together, her shot ruthlessly worked on until it was one of the most reliable weapons in the Sumprats’ tool chest. Thresh, after the Sumprats adopted to his way of speaking, became insightful, instinctual, and most importantly correct on a lot of his defensive reads, taking away the pressure for shot calling by existing on the ice.

So she had the best possible examples in front of her in Vi and Caitlyn, and she had the best possible team behind her, following her into the breach - she was set up for early success. She had the charisma, she knew she had the talent, and she had the work ethic.

Still, when her number was called, her palms sweat through her fur, her eyes popping wide and wary.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Sevika broke the news to the three of them in their fourth year as Sumprats, after they had already won three in a row and were aiming for number four.  Every year, the league got better in its quest to unseat the new kings of the castle, and every year the Sumprats got better in turn - their players adding more and more to their game, beefing up, bulking up.

“We don’t have Caitlyn or Vi this game,” Sevika said, “both are being shelved for playoffs for a bit. They want to see what you three can do as a leadership squad.”

Poppy, Thresh, and Illaoi all looked at one another, confused and torn. 

“They’re a healthy scratch?” Poppy clarified.

“We’re top of the league,” Sevika said, “our ticket to the playoffs is already punched. I don’t get many chances to experiment with the team’s future - now’s my chance. You’re going to run that show out there like it’s your show - show me that you want it.”

Poppy nodded firmly - Illaoi and Thresh rolled their shoulders, gripped their gear.

“Count on me, coach,” Poppy said, firmly.

~*~*~*~*~ 

It wasn’t the prettiest game in the world - the Artifacts were a team on the rise, adding more and more players to their war chest in their inevitable deep playoff run, and so had weapons and talent to beat the Sumprats - but Poppy, Thresh, and Illaoi managed to dirty the game up some, slow the pace to be a bruising slugfest for most of its run time.

Ashe got them a goal early, and as soon as the horn sounded the Sumprats turtled - taking the aggressive forecheck position, slowing Artifacts skaters as much as possible when they passed the blue line, keeping them stymied and sluggish and without many good chances towards the net. It also helped that Ekko played well, commanding his crease with an ease and confidence that nobody could’ve predicted in 2022, when the Sumprats plucked him off of the trash heap and stuck him in their back pocket.

It was classic, smash-mouth hockey -teams didn’t play like this much anymore. They didn’t do the grinding, the hitting in the corners, the slow pace up-ice with lots of time between passes to force the defense into stepping up and making a play. The Artifacts wanted to play up-tempo, get out and run, try to break the game open with speed and force.

But the Sumprats dragged them into the mud, and in the mud, Poppy and Illaoi were most comfortable.

They battered and bruised the Artifacts for the first two periods, counter-attacking when necessary, making sure that Shurima wasn’t ever comfortable. Thresh managed a goal in the late second period when he stripped a defender of the puck in his own zone and caught the Artifacts’ goalie napping, but for the most part there was a dominance in the Sumprat’s defensive end, a constant brick wall of bully hockey. 

At the center of it all was Poppy, directing traffic, calming teammates down, soothing ruffled feathers and dragging her teammates away from after-whistle scrums. It was also Illaoi, directing her rookie defenseman - Bob Roberts, or Squared as they liked to call him - to hold certain positions, keep the skaters in front of him, when to retreat and when to press the attack. Thresh chipped in where needed, pointing out plays before they could fully develop, anticipating passes, leaping on missed opportunities.

As a unit, the new captain blood of the Sumprats thrived in their first game together, winning 3-1, the Artifact’s lone goal being a fluke snapshot off of a skate and in. When the three of them left the rink, they left with an unshakable, unflappable confidence.

If Vi retired - when she retired - Poppy knew she’d be ready.

They all would be.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Are we in here?” Poppy called in the meeting room, followed by, “woah, this place looks fancy!”

The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, with four cameras all set up to catch different angles of the team - panel-style. The interviewer’s chair sat empty for now, but Sarah Fortune was in the building somewhere, acting as their master of ceremonies to direct questions and coax answers.

“Poppy! Hey, yeah,” Lux said, pointing, “we’re going to have you, Vi, Caitlyn and Claggor kind of in the center.”

“Center stage, huh,” Poppy mused, bouncing her way towards the chair, “have you guys tried the crab cakes? They’re amazing.”

“It’s a great spread,” Powder said, adjusting a reflector, “hey, can you sit in your seat there? I need to make sure the lighting’s right.”

Poppy clambered up the chair, putting her feet on the bottom rung as she relaxed. Powder moved the reflector slightly, watching the way Poppy’s fur shone as she made sure it was perfect.

“Is everyone here?” Lux asked, checking a clipboard.

“Almost,” Poppy said, “Ahri’s not yet. She will be.”

“Fashionably late,” mused Lux, “some things don’t change.”

“Drives me crazy,” Poppy acknowledged, “but when we went as many rounds with her and her teams as we did, it’s hard to hold a grudge.”

“You guys seem to have gotten the better of her,” Powder muttered, nodding at the way the reflector was set, standing to check the monitors to make sure it all looked good.

“On paper,” Poppy acknowledged, “but she still won a few. It was a fun few years when we’d meet them in the finals every year. I’m glad that she finally got what she wanted.”

“Winning alone?” Lux asked, “With her own team?”

Poppy grinned. “That too.”

Poppy Tieth would go on to win league MVP in 2033. She is currently the captain of the Zaun Sumprats, and is widely regarded as the best defender in the league. Currently, despite rumours, she has no plans to retire.

She lives in Zaun with her family.

From the ESPN front desk:

“Thank you very much, Molly,” John “Jack” Jackson says, tapping his paper on the clear glass of the main desk. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen - following Gerry Gertrude’s retirement I want to thank you all for welcoming me to the front of your sports news. I’m of course, John Jackson - you may know me from my podcast work with Taylor Swiffer - who says hello to all of you, too.”

He turns to face a second camera. “News from the RHL as the Ironfists appear to be throwing their hat into the ring to acquire hot new free agent Zeri Freeskate, the Zaunite phenom that was selected in the first round in 2025. Zeri’s first free agency is filled with suitors ranging all over the RHL as teams gear up for the 2029-2030 season - among the competition with the Ironfists is the Piltover Lone Stars, the Ironspike Mountaineers, and the Placeholder No Names. Joining us now for her take - my old friend Taylor Swiffer, look at that. Taylor!”

“Jack,” Taylor says warmly, “you look stupid in a suit.”

“I’m a far cry from wearing sweatpants in your basement studio,” Jack says, grinning, “welcome to ESPN.”

“Happy to be here,” Taylor replies.

“Taylor, your thoughts on the Zeri sweepstakes?”

“Well, whoever lands her is going to immediately be a contender, but if I’m honest, the sleeping giant Zaun Sumprats have already leapt to the front of the field with their acquisition of Shani Adler to their roster of very good scorers - no matter who gets Zeri, I still think Zaun is the team to beat.”

“They do indeed look scary. Taylor, what can you expect her contract to look like with all of these suitors?”

“Well, I think Piltover still hasn’t recovered from what we now call the Landsman Sanctions - they’ve had trouble attracting talent to their roster ever since, so we know they can’t match the dollar figures that the  Mountaineers, the No Names, and the Ironfists can offer. Of the three teams, only two can offer maxiumum contracts - the No Names and the Ironfists.”

“So you think she’ll get a max?”

“Oh yeah. Back up the Brinks truck,” Taylor says, “because Zeri is going to get paid - it’s only a matter of where she prefers to compete.”

Illaoi

The end of an era, they’d called it, when Illaoi left the Schooners.

She’d heard the fans talk about her - how excited they’d been when she’d joined the squad. The Schooners had been characterized by a lack of discipline, a freewheeling team that took a lot of penalties and let in even more goals. Illaoi was described as the opposite of that - a stay-at-home defender, with a hard shot but an even harder body, who could knock you down and out with a few strides and a lowered shoulder.

But that wasn’t what she’d wanted to be. She longed to produce on offense, longed to be able to light it up with the best of them and hang in the difficult areas of the ice to score. She wanted to be thought of as a viable and reliable offensive weapon, someone you needed to plan for and be ready to go against.

But the Schooners had a whole team of scorers, and her value to them was to stay on the blue line and hold it down. She’d played her role, hadn’t complained, and languished on their third pairing until they gave her up for nothing - the fan’s excitement turning to disappointment for what she considered to be bad coaching. She knew her shot was wild, knew that her footwork was awful, but all she had wanted was a chance to correct that.

Enter Sevika. Enter the Sumprats.

Enter Caitlyn Kiramman.

Sevika took one look at her and knew she was destined for more - despite the fact that they didn’t have the time or resources to dedicate to her in their first season. She sat down with Illaoi and promised her that if she played her role, if she took the second pairing in order to make room for Leona in Hot Girl Shit and she stayed at home and made the smart defensive play for a year, she’d make it up to her next season. She’d said that the chemistry between Illaoi and Caitlyn was too strong to ignore, and that they’d play them often together, but couldn’t make room for it with the way the Sumprats were currently constructed.

Illaoi wasn’t used to trusting coaches, but she’d trusted Sevika, played her role, won a cup by doing so.

She was mildly surprised when she showed up for training camp in 2023, and Sevika and Caitlyn were waiting for her, grins on their faces.

“Ready to work?” Caitlyn had asked, and Illaoi had grinned.

~*~*~*~*~ 

The work wasn’t easy, but it was fun - Caitlyn made it fun. Her shot was a piece of it, getting that tamed was a big picture item that Caitlyn set aside for now.

“You can work on your shot all day without me,” Caitlyn said, pushing Illaoi’s hand higher on her stick, “but we want to work on drills that I can help with.”

They trained Illaoi’s clumsy feet to include simple little shuffles and stick-handles designed to buy her space to get her wind-up off. They worked on chip passes, on one-timers, on dump-and-chasing. They worked on it with Leona, too - showed Illaoi how to use her big body to protect the puck from defenders, how to grip it with one hand without losing it. They worked her until she was able to stand strong on the blue line and command it, until she was a powerplay presence and a defensive maestro, until she could call herself 40% the threat that Caitlyn was.

When she was on the ice with Caitlyn Kiramman, she wasn’t asking for the defense’s full attention - but she wanted to punish them when it wasn’t on her.

That second Sumprats season was a blur of mixed responsibilities - mostly, Illaoi remained in her old role as a stay-at-home defender, mostly known as a threat as soon as the other team crossed into her territory. Whenever they needed to punish a team physically, Leona and Illaoi would pair up and generate enough offense together to not be a liability, but skaters would hit the ice all around them, a two woman wrecking crew who would wreak havoc on the ice.

That second Sumprats season she showed flashes of what was to come - hard shots that rippled the net, big blasts on the powerplay that had defenders flinching away from, trying not to block them in case of injury. When they raised the cup for the second time, Sevika’s eyes glimmered with possibility.

In season three, with Leona retiring at the end of the year, Illaoi stepped up and made good on her potential.

Scouts on other teams didn’t know what to do with her - had no answer for her. Caitlyn Kiramman, Vi Wickett, Ashe Arrow - these were known problems, and problems that scouts could draw up gameplans to contain. But Illaoi? The big defender who could level you in her own end and generate shots on goal at the other? The hard hitting, snarling, black-mouthguard wearing predator that set the tone early, set the tone often, and acted as equal parts enforcer and stalwart defender for her team?

Scouts had no idea what to do with her.

That third season was a blur of transformation - with Diana and Leona retiring soon, the Sumprats shifted and morphed to adjust to the absence of two of their greatest leaders. Hot Girl Shit shifted from a fast high flying line to a hammering puck-shooting line. Caitlyn and Illaoi paired up more often than not, Illaoi controlling the defensive end and Caitlyn controlling the offensive but both of them contributing to both ends. The Sumprats’ identity shifted from a defensive first team to a roster of two-way players, who could beat you at either end, who had no weaknesses - a phalanx of talent and skill.

When Illaoi lifted the cup again, it was almost routine - she marveled at her fortune.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Early on in their success, the Sumprats’ core - Poppy, Ashe, Thresh and Illaoi - met up for drinks to talk about awards.

“We’re going to compete a lot with each other,” Ashe pointed out, “I just want to see how you guys feel about that.”

“A win for one of us is a win for all of us,” Illaoi muttered, and Poppy and Thresh immediately pointed at her, whacking her knee.

“Shut the fuck up,” Poppy said, “I was about to say exactly the same thing.”

“Yeah, read my mind,” Thresh croaked.

“I’m not competing with you guys,” Illaoi said, shrugging, “if we lose MVP votes after Caitlyn and Vi retire because there’s too many chickens in the coop - so be it.”

“Same with scoring titles,” Ashe said, eagerly, “like we’ll be splitting votes hard because nobody wants to vote for good teams. But that’s okay with me - I’m in it for trophies.”

“The cup’s what matters,” Poppy nodded.

“So, let’s make a pact,” Ashe continued, “right here, right now. No matter what happens - no matter who gets the awards or accolades, it’s the cup that matters.”

“One better,” grunted Thresh, “if one of us wins, we all celebrate together.”

“I’m down with that,” Illaoi said, grinning.

~*~*~*~*~ 

On a stage, well lit against blood red walls, an announcer clears their throat.

“The winner for Best Defender in the RHL goes to,” they say, lifting a card to look at it, “Illaoi Kraken!”

Illaoi rises, fixing a button on her suit jacket, and looks at her teammates. She gestures for them to stand. As one, the Sumprats all rise to their feet, and laughing, join her as they all walk on stage to accept the award together - a gaggle of fifteen players staring goofily at various cameras.

“We made a promise,” Illaoi says, “that if one of us won an individual award, we’d celebrate it as a team. I’m not sure how we’re going to divide the trophy yet.”

“Hacksaw!” shouts Poppy from the back, earning a chorus of laughs.

“Good idea as any,” Illaoi says into the microphone, smiling, “but I want to thank you for the privilege.”

The Sumprats troop back to their seats to the applause of the auditorium, Illaoi holding the trophy in one large hand, twirling it idly. As she relaxed into her seat, she tossed it to Poppy to hold onto.

“Your name’s probably going to be on that next year,” she predicts.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Poppy says, handing it back, “but the cup is what matters.”

“The cup is what matters,” Illaoi confirms,

~*~*~*~*~ 

Illaoi was nearly unrecognizable to Powder when she stepped forwards to shake Lux and her hand. She was more muscular, somehow - her shoulders broader, reminding them that Illaoi had been fairly young when she’d joined the Sumprats, still growing into her frame. Now she was fully built, tall and broad, her hair cut just above her shoulders and dyed a deep purple.

“Nice to see you,” Lux said, smiling, gripping Illaoi’s calloused hand with both of hers. Illaoi’s hands were gigantic, and Lux could easily picture her swinging them into an opponent’s face, or snagging a puck out of the air on the defensive end of things.

“You as well,” Illaoi said, then stepped back to go find her seat - near the edges of the semi-circle with the rest of the team. Darius and Riven were there, ribbing one another like old times. Thresh and Poppy had their heads bent close, whispering in conspiracies as Illaoi sidled up to Ekko, tapped his shoulder, and goosed him hard as he yelped, spun around, and laughed as they enclosed one another in a big, handshake-clasping hug.

As they took their seats, Illaoi pushed some hair over her ear, leaned back in her chair casually, glancing at the cameras, gaze searching around. Big eyes - intelligent eyes.

She looked good on camera, Powder idly mused, and adjusted her lens to fit her big body in the frame as she turned to shake Leona’s hand, the two discussing something about defensive techniques - talking shop  like they hadn’t missed a beat.

Illaoi Kraken is the backbone of the Zaun Sumprats’ defense, widely regarded as the best defender in the league. She has the current hardest slapshot recorded in the league, and holds the record with most hits in a game.

She lives in Zaun with her wife - who has remained anonymous thus far. They have two children together.

A courtroom trasncript in Piltover:

THE COURT: -okay, fine. Ms. Amara Tidgedale. In light of the evidence presented against you, in light of your failure to produce the required documents in discovery and your legal team’s continued failure to comply with the procedures that this court room has mandated of you, I regret that you have left me with very little choice in my ruling. From the beginning of these proceedings, you have failed to arrive in a punctual manner to court dates-

TIDGEDALE: Your honor?

THE COURT: -and failure to disclose documents with - hold on - to disclose documents in discovery, I find the defendant’s flagrant bad faith and callous disregard for the responsibilities under this court’s authority, and as such, am making a default judgement.

TIDGEDALE: Your honor, that doesn’t-

THE COURT: You had your time, Ms. Tidgedale - you and your attorneys had your time to file motions. This court has been waiting 150 days for you and your team to comply. In that time I have issued four court orders - you have wasted enough of this court’s time. 

TIDGEDALE: What does default mean, your honor?

THE COURT: I’m pleased to tell you, Ms. Tidgedale. This court finds you and your agency legally liable for the damages that the plaintiffs allege. This case will now proceed solely on the issue of the financial damages that Ms. Tidgedale will need to award.

TIDGEDALE: Your honor, why is my punctuality being examined when the plaintiff isn’t even here at this moment?

THE COURT: The plaintiff is a professional athlete, and has responsibilities that include travel. This was all covered in the plaintiff’s original motions - their legal team was always present. You and your team were chronically absent and had no such motivations. We will re-convene tomorrow at 10am to proceed with damages. Court dismissed - be safe going home.

Ahri

She didn’t get rattled - she was too good to be rattled by something as simple as an old coworker discussing a motivation for leaving. But it still sat on her shoulders, a lead based albatross around her neck, pushing Ahri’s head lower even as her team made speeches, even as the awards were being handed out and her team was whooping and cheering and shaking each others’ shoulders with glee.

Illaoi touched her shoulder, concern in her eyes, and Ahri waved her off with a fleeting smile as they all trooped towards the locker room, the sound of the Zaunite fans still rocking and rolling behind them. They were given warnings about travelling in Zaun - about how the city was alight and excited and the celebrations were pouring into the streets, seas of people crashing into the pavement to scream their jubilation towards the sky. Ahri listened with a twitching tail, ears that kept threatening to flatten against her skull as she slowly got dressed into her street clothes, kept thinking, thinking hard.

Let me know when you figure it out, Akali had said.

Figure what out?

“Ahri?” Illaoi asked, nudging her shoulder, shattering her reverie as Ahri glanced up, blinked, shook it off.

“Sorry, what was that?” Ahri asked.

“I asked if you were coming to the party,” Illaoi asked, voice kind, so gentle - like Ahri was someone who was about to break and run at a moment’s notice.

It’d be mildly insulting if her entire body wasn’t taut as a live wire, as if scanning for predators.

“Sure,” Ahri replied, smiling as she smoothed her hair and her ears back, ridding them of the helmet hair before heading for the shower. The hot water was what she needed - the pounding against her skull the perfect distraction from the words that floated in her head on a loop.

Let me know when you figure it out.

Fuck.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“It’s time,” Ahri said to Caitlyn and Vi, her hands clasped between her knees. She was sitting on Vi and Caitlyn’s new couch - a luxurious cloth thing that dominated one wall of their sitting room, to counterbalance the equally luxurious huge flat screen on the opposing wall. Ahri felt like she knew who had bought which item just by looking at them -the coffee table made out of broken hockey sticks was clearly a Vi thing, just like the coasters made out of cat faces yawning was clearly Caitlyn’s.

The domesticity of it - the way Vi was so content and Caitlyn so sure - made Ahri soften a little. It also made images of Akali float into her brain, and she did her best to banish them, keep them behind a locked door where they belonged and focus only on the here, and now, and the telling her captains that it was time to move on.

“You did warn us it was going to happen, I suppose,” Caitlyn murmured around a cup of tea, blowing on it once before sipping. Vi was more direct, sitting in an armchair, her eyes on Ahri’s, coffee untouched on the table.

“I did, and I’m so grateful-“

“Don’t start that shit,” Vi grunted.

“Let me get this out. You both carved a spot for me - never made me feel like the new girl trying to slide into a team that already had what it needed.”

“We didn’t have what we needed,” Caitlyn pointed out, “we needed you.”

“We still would, if you’d stay,” Vi added.

It was tempting - incredibly tempting. Especially with the way all of them owned  a pair of rings that said RHL Champions on them - especially with the way that Zaun always stopped to say hi to Ahri on the street, the way that there was always a table for her at any restaurant she walked into.

Noxus was a hub of sports activity - they had a popular baseball team, a football team, and a basketball team that all thrived and were competitive. Their hockey team, while an important part of their ecosystem, was one of several that the city had to compete for focus.

But Zaun loved hockey, and only had one team - so they showered it with their entire affection, made sure that the players on that team knew how well loved they were.

But the Sumprats, much like the space she sat in now, were Vi and Caitlyn’s team. It was a team that took on aspects of the two of them - the skill and determination of Caitlyn, the competitive fire and refusal to quit of Vi. It was warm and inviting and accepting of all comers, but it never would be Ahri’s - not the way that she craved. Even if she stayed until these two retired, Ashe and Poppy and Illaoi and Thresh were far more of the Sumprats’ nucleus than she would ever be.

Ever since she’d been signed to the Akali-led War Horses, Ahri had wanted to see if she had what it takes to lead her own team to winning. She’d never do that here.

“I would love to,” Ahri said, folding her legs under her, “there’s nothing that I’d love more than to be here for the rest of my career. But you two built something here - and I’ve never built something for myself. I want to try it. Plus, with Rell’s contract up for negotiation, I think I have a real shot of recruiting her to a team with me.”

Vi nodded, understanding perfectly. Caitlyn sipped at her tea again, her slow acceptance something Ahri felt herself craving. She never had a big sister, and would be mortified if Caitlyn knew that Ahri thought of her along those terms.

“Plus,” Ahri added, “I think I can kick your ass.”

Vi snorted, and Caitlyn’s smile turned sharp.

“You’d better get Rell, then,” Vi said, softly, “because you’ll need a lot more than a good goalie to come out on top.”

“I admire the tenacity,” Caitlyn said, smile still fixed to her face, “and I respect your decision. But I want you to know that you’ll always be welcome here - in our locker room if things don’t work out, in our home if things do.”

“I appreciate that,” Ahri replied, her own smile softening. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that - how little I’ve felt like I was competing for a spot. You supported me when I needed time to heal, and you never made me feel like I was letting you guys down.”

“You couldn’t,” Caitlyn replied, soft.

“I’m - yeah. I can never repay that. But you both have to know that you have me for life - I’ll always be in your corner.”

“The same goes,” Vi replied.

~*~*~*~*~ 

"Ahri,” said the reporter, as the Placeholder crowd began to roar its approval, the Finals MVP trophy under Ahri’s arm. As the crowd began to cheer, Ahri stepped back from the microphone, her hand coming up to her face to shield it as her body wracked with a few sobs, happy tears trailing down her cheeks. Seeing her emotional reaction, the crowd increased its cheers as she closed her eyes and gave a watery smile - Rell’s hand landing on her shoulder.

“Ahri,” the reporter said again, when she was a little more composed, “you’ve said in the past that a big part of coming here to Placeholder to play for the No-Names was all about having something you can call yours - your team. You now stand here as an RHL champion.”

The crowd roared its approval as Ahri grinned through the tears, wiping them on her No-Names jersey, trying to compose herself rapidly. After a few moments, she smiled.

“What’s the question?” she asked, and the reporter laughed.

“How does it feel?”

“F***ing phenomenal,” Ahri laughed, wiping her eyes again, “this team - we all fought so hard, and - we had to do it for them, for the people of Placeholder. It’s been-“

Ahri exhaled, slowly. “In a weird way, I have the Sumprats to thank for all of this - because there was a point a few years ago where I thought I’d never play again. I thought I was done. And all I could think was that I’d never done it on my own - I’d never-“

She exhaled again, as the tears started to flow again, Rell skating behind her to hug her from behind as she broke down on camera. Lucian - her steadfast coach - stepped forwards to clap a hand on her shoulder.

“I’d never imagined I’d be here,” Ahri said, exhaling slowly again, keeping it together.

“Do you have anything to say to the Sumprats? It was a competitive series - we’re hearing all about how it was the most entertaining series in decades.”

“They know what I have to say to them,” Ahri said, smiling, “those people are my siblings - they’re my third family other than the people in this locker room. It makes victory taste a little sweeter because I know that it bugs Caitlyn and Vi so much that I got one over them.”

The crowd laughs, Lucian claps along with the statement.

“But in terms of things I have to say, I guess I’ll say see you next year,” Ahri said, and the crowd began to roar, “same place, same time. Let’s go again - I feel like we’re not finished.”

The crowd erupts in cheers as Ahri raises the finals MVP trophy above her head - and Rell raises the cup.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Akali looked good.

She wore black skinny jeans and a gray T-shirt, sunglasses perched on her head in the Placeholder sunlight, preferring to squint at Ahri over the picnic table. They were in public - Ahri thought that it would be best if they kept this part public, so she wouldn’t fall into some form of… temptation.

Because Akali looked really good. Her lips were pursed in concentration, focused on Ahri’s posture, the way that Ahri seemed to not be able to control the fidgeting of her tail or ears, the way that Akali’s gaze seemed to look through her was particularly unsettling.

“Corey said you wanted to see me?” Akali asked, voice cool, quiet.

Ahri nodded. “It’s nice to see you,” Ahri started, “you look good.”

“Are you dying?” Akali asked.

“What?”

“You were on time. I can only assume that means you’re dying.”

“I’m not dying,” Ahri scoffed, “I’m on time sometimes.”

“I played with you for years and you were never once on time for a non-hockey related thing. Fashionable, and late, right?”

Ahri bristled lightly, smoothed the fur of her ears down lightly. “Well, I didn’t want to be rude.”

Akali squinted - Ahri wished she would put the sunglasses on. That way she could try and avoid the way Akali’s gaze traced over her skin - she could stop feeling it like a grazing fingertip.

“So what do you want?” Akali asked.

“I wanted,” Ahri started, “to find out what your plans for free agency were.”

Akali squinted harder. “Why?”

Ahri shrugged, looked up as the server stopped by with drinks for the two of them - a long island iced tea for Ahri, a scotch and soda for Akali. Ahri gave her a fleeting smile as she skirted around them, went back to serving the other outdoor tables.

Akali looked stricken for a moment, glancing at the scotch, and curled it closer to her. “You’re acting weird,” she said.

“I’m not trying to,” Ahri said, honestly.

“You’re on time and not flirting with our server. She was pretty, too. Where’s the Ahri I know?”

“What are your plans for free agency?” Ahri shot back, eyes narrowing.

Akali took a long, slow sip. “You haven’t answered my question. Why the interest?”

“It’s pretty evident what my interest is,” Ahri hedged.

Akali bobbed her head from side to side, looking unsure. “Maybe,” she said, “but it’s pretty suspicious that you’re not answering the question. I could see a few different reasons as to why you’d want me on your team.”

“You’re a great hockey player,” Ahri said through her teeth, “you’re a great leader. I’d be crazy to not want you on my squad.”

“I see,” Akali said, finishing her drink in one long swallow. “Is that it?”

Ahri frowned. “I’m not sure what else you want me to say.”

“You aren’t?” Akali asked.

“Quit it,” Ahri snarled, “I’m trying to meet you on your terms, here. I think we could play well together - you could help us. Your skillset is well sought after - even if you’re slowing down quite a bit.”

“Oh yeah?” Akali asked, smirking.

“Frankly,” Ahri said, “I can’t believe how slow you are. It’s like you haven’t had a challenge in a long time.”

“I’ve got the Sumprats in my conference,” Akali reminded her, “I’m doing very well with regard to challenge.”

“Not from a teammate, though,” Ahri reminded, “remember what it was like? When we’d push each other to be better? We won more than one cup off of the back of those little challenges.”

Akali swirled the glass that once held her drink in a short circle. “Good times,” she said, “I’ve never played better.”

“So let’s do it again,” Ahri said, leaning forwards excitedly, “let’s do the challenge again. Push each other again. I bet we’re in the finals in two seasons, tops.”

Akali slid the glass forwards. “I have no interest in going back to what we were , Ahri.”

Ahri froze.

“I don’t suppose you’ve done any thinking about what I said in the Sumprats final. You figure it out yet?”

“That’s not fair,” Ahri said, “you won’t-“

“Maybe not,” Akali said, shrugging. “Maybe it’s not fair. But it’s self protection, at this point.”

“Who are you protecting yourself from?” Ahri asked, rearing back in confusion.

“You,” Akali said, simply.

Ahri stared.

“Okay,” Akali said, “I thought I was being obvious, so let me make it crystal clear for you - I was attracted to you. Am attracted to you. I had this whole plan in our last year together, where I’d get you appointed as a co-captain or something so there wasn’t a weird power dynamic and I could ask you to-“

She cut off, and Ahri found herself desperate for the end of that sentence.

“But you turtled,” Akali said, “and you were so competitive with me that I was never sure how you felt about it to begin with. Then, Garen happened, and you were so hurt, so small - I felt like you’d break if I told you, and all I wanted to do was see you skate again.”

Ahri remembered being in the thick black sludge, unable to tear herself away from the replay as Akali visited, and visited, and visited. She thought it was a doting, dutiful captain duty - she’d thought Akali hadn’t liked her.

She thought Akali had relished the thought of her gone.

“Then you left,” Akali said, simply, “or Noxus got rid of you. I was so angry with them - with myself for letting any of that happen.”

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for an accident,” Ahri spluttered.

“I couldn’t have stopped it,” Akali hedged, “but still - you’re supposed to look out for your teammates, and I was wearing the C. But you were gone suddenly - your locker was cleared out, you weren’t answering calls, weren’t seeing anyone, and I was so helpless that I had to leave. Then, you’re wearing a new sweater, a deadly third option on a great team with so many good people around you - to protect you, keep you aloft, take care of you when you fell, and I thought, well. That’s it.”

Akali looked down at her glass, spinning it back and forth.

“I really thought I made myself clear,” Akali said, looking up, “at the finals. I really did. And when I got radio silence from you aside from random like, text messages - I thought, huh. She’s not interested. But I don’t really want to play guessing games, Ahri - I’m too old, too close to the end of my career for them. So I’ll ask you straight.”

Akali inhaled, exhaled. “Are you interested in pursuing a relationship with me?”

Ahri stared at her for a long few moments, and realized that that feeling that welled up in her whenever she thought of Akali was fear - fear that she wasn’t good enough, fear that whatever this was wouldn’t be worth the hurt. It was fear that had her staring at Akali, staring instead of willing her mouth to move, staring instead of voicing what was in her heart as the dark haired woman’s gaze went from serious to pained to slightly disappointed. It was fear that had her watching Akali sigh slowly, nod her head in acceptance, and rise from the picnic table.

“Thanks for the drink, Ahr,” Akali said, softly, “and it’s okay - we’ll be friends. But I can’t be on your team right now - not so soon.”

As Akali turned away, as Akali walked away, a new wave of fear - more accurately described as panic - had Ahri leaping from her bench and hastily throwing bills on the picnic table before dashing after Akali, hopping over the short fence that framed the patio before she skid on the sandy beach to be in front of her old captain. She pressed her shoulder into Akali’s, stopped her from moving, and pushed her lightly, sending Akali stumbling backwards.

Akali glanced up in surprise, the sunglasses falling onto her nose so Ahri could see her own expression - panicked, pained, afraid.

“When I was without you,” Ahri said, “you were all I could think about. At first it was about beating you - because you were my rival and you were my white whale and you occupied my thoughts more than you should’ve.”

Akali opened her mouth and Ahri stepped forwards, gripping her biceps, the action stealing the words from Akali’s mouth.

“Then, it was about matching you - I wanted to match what you had, win on my own, prove that I didn’t need you to win - and I didn’t need Vi, or Caitlyn. I could be the person who drags a team to the finals and wins on our own merit. And I did it - I accomplished all of my goals, and lifted the fucking cup and heard everyone screaming my fucking name.”

Ahri shook Akali lightly, Akali’s hands going to Ahri’s tanktop to secure herself.

“And I kept looking around,” Ahri said, “because you weren’t there.”

Akali gripped tighter, sunglasses firm on her nose, slightly dislodged due to the shaking, and Ahri could see her own face - desperate and determined and so fucking afraid.

“I wanted to be worthy of being called your equal,” Ahri said, “and I didn’t know why until - until recently. So, you asked me to let you know when I figured it out and I still couldn’t because why would you want me? You deserve someone who will make you happy, someone put together and nice and - that’s never been me.”

“That’s not what I want,” Akali said, softly, quietly.

Ahri pressed closer, their fronts mashed together.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Ahri said through clenched teeth, “don’t do that again.”

“Are you saying,” Akali asked, pained at having to do so, “are you - is this-“

“Date me,” Ahri said.

“Romantic,” Akali replied, a smile on her lips.

“I just said a whole lot of romantic shit,” Ahri reminded, “date me.”

“Fine,” Akali said, sniffing - a few tears rolling from under her sunglasses, “since you figured it out. It’s the least I can do.”

“Yes,” Ahri said, hands smoothing up Akali’s biceps, curling around her shoulders, “it is.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Ahri arrived to the Sumprats meeting room like a hurricane, carrying an iced drink in one hand and sipping at it casually through a straw. Akali trailed behind her, one hand entwined with Ahri’s free fingers, a smirk on her face as she shook free and stood off to the side, letting Ahri approach her ex-teammates of her own volition, throwing her arms around Claggor and Graves and leaning forwards.

“Let’s get this shitshow on the road, huh?” Ahri called.

“You’re late,” reminded Poppy.

“You’re welcome,” Ahri fired back, “we got held up in traffic - this town got busier suddenly.”

“Traffic,” Vi mocked, gaze landing pointedly on Ahri’s coffee cup. Ahri met her eyes, took a long, slow, deliberate sip, and grinned a devil-may-care grin.

“You are such a shit,” Vi laughed.

“Guilty. Okay, let’s relive the past,” Ahri clapped her hands, slipping into the last free seat, “I can’t wait to roast you guys on camera again.”

Sarah Fortune smiled from her own seat, the papers in her hands rustling as she looked them over.

“Very well,” she said, “let’s start the count in. This will be questions, kind of a where-are-they-now type thing. Most of the questions will be about that first season, so make sure that’s where we focus our time.”

The players nodded, and the lights dimmed aside from the camera lights set up, and Lux held up five fingers, began to count down.

Ahri won 6 cups in her career - three with the Warhorses, two with the Sumprats, and one with the Placeholder No Names. Akali and Ahri retired together on the No-Names after three seasons together, and made headlines as another rivals-to-lovers story in the RHL.

Post retirement, Akali teaches at the WickMan institute in a supply basis, and Ahri currently works for ESPN as a colour commentator of RHL matches. The two reside in the Summer Isles.

wewon1’s YouTube channel:

“So!” wewon1 says, clapping her hands as she looks at the camera, “I don’t often do this - kicking people while they’re down doesn’t exactly offer me any sort of benefit or make me feel good. But sometimes, kicking someone on the way up provides a little bit of benefit, so let’s talk about Douglas Danforth - also known as That Shit Coach That Enabled Terri Landsman.”

The title - That Shit Coach That Enabled Terri Landsman - appears in comic sans across the screen, flashing every colour of the rainbow. A smaller title reads (Douglas Danforth) in plain black just below it. The graphic is accompanied by a failing trombone introduction that sounds like whoever is playing it is out of breath.

“Now wewon, you ask, why bring up Douglas Danforth at all? It’s not like he’s relevant to the RHL ever since his team publicly fired him in disgrace.”

 wewon1 folds her arms. “That’s very true, viewer - he isn’t relevant in actual games played in the RHL anymore, but as they say, time heals all wounds. There was a recent interview where Danforth was making noises about trying to get back into the RHL - as a coach or as a general manager or as any sort of position within a desperate hockey club. He said, explicitly, that he could definitely help against the rash of Sumprats victories in the past eight years - a problem that, to be clear, is entirely made up.

“But his grand standing got me thinking - people don’t actually think that Danforth was a good coach, right? Like he did something terrible and so heinous for such a long time that he deserves to never participate in an organized game ever again, but we’re not all tricking ourselves into thinking that he was effective, are we?”

 Wewon1 drinks from a straw - a bright orange drink in a glass slowly lowering as she sips.

“So it turns out that we forget he was awful,” says wewon1, and the footage immediately cuts to a series of statistics - Danforth’s 65% winning percentage over the 15 year stretch of hockey, Danforth’s playoff pedigree, and Danforth’s history of creating plays.

“These are the three stats that the league seems to value as good coaching. This is incredibly dumb, but let’s take them one at a time. First, his winning percentage - 65% over a fifteen year career is an insane figure, one to be proud of. Until of course you consider two factors: firstly, that Caitlyn Kiramman was drafted three years into his 15 year career. What was Danforth’s winning percentage without Kiramman?”

The screen flashes a number - 33%. It’s accompanied by sad clown noises.

“And how many times did Danforth make the playoffs without Caitlyn Kiramman?”

The screen flashes another number - 0. More sad clown noises.

“Lastly, Danforth’s play history - which is as legitimate a compliment as you can give the man. He came from being an assistant coach in the Zac and Singed era, which meant he was involved with drafting up all kinds of plays for his three teams over the years. Surely that means that he was very creative - creative enough to be given the job coaching the Lone Stars, and-“

Wewon1 is cut off by two articles that are posted - both dated in 2030. The headlines read: Douglas Danforth accused of Play Stealing and ‘That’s My Play’ - College League Coach Speaks Out About Doug Danforth, respectively.

“Whoops,” says wewon1, “turns out he stole them. As head coach, he likely didn’t draft his own plays - but what I can say is that Lucian Sentinel was reported to be drafting plays until eight PM every practice night without a Danforth in sight, which also makes sense when you consider how well the Lone Stars wound up doing without Danforth at the helm in 2023.”

“But all of this,” wewon1, “is a moot point when you consider that the most successful season the Lone Stars have had in the past thirty years was helmed by an assistant coach stepping in for a temporary situation, with a team of loaners, one year contracts, and hired guns, all led by a GM who would lose his job in less than five months since he was hired. It is an abberation that the Lone Stars managed to make it - the product of hard work by all kinds of great players, coaches, and front office staff who have all gone on to find success in other clubs. None of that success - not a single piece of it - has to do with Douglas Danforth or the Lone Stars owner.”

  wewon1 finishes her drink with a final slurp, sighs in satisfaction, and leans back in her chair.

“So, no - Danforth doesn’t deserve a second chance. Not based on his own merits - of which he has very little - and not because he was somehow done wrong in all of this. He created and fostered a toxic environment, knew it was going on, did nothing to stop it. He’s culpable and responsible, and even if he was an amazing, worldbeater coach - which he is not - he shouldn’t be allowed back into any space that values safety.”

The footage cuts to wewon1’s logo, bouncing around the screen, before fading into an ad for Audible.

Vi

She wasn’t accustomed to having her cake and eating it. That expression was reserved for people born into other situations, other timelines - born in places that weren’t Zaun, drafted by teams that weren’t the snake-bit Ironfists, played in organizations that didn’t go up against Caitlyn Kiramman and the Lone Stars every time they made a deep run in the playoffs. 

Whenever something good happened, Vi usually braced for the bad, eyes constantly scanning for falling pianos. In some way - in some form - she had been expecting the Sumprats experiment to go sour all season, waiting for the genie to pop up from its lamp and say whoops, sorry, girlie - this is someone else’s wish .

But when Vi was holding the Finals MVP trophy in the locker room, sitting on the slab of wood in front of her locker with her name carved into the brass plate in front of the little hockey figure that was wound up in a slapshot, and when Caitlyn was beside her with her arm wound tight around Vi’s shoulders (having refused to be more than three inches away from her since the trophy had been held aloft), and when she was soaked in champagne and her teammates were hoarse from yelling and Caitlyn’s eyes were so round and soft and happy that Vi felt it in her stomach-

When all of that was happening, it didn’t leave room to wait and worry about the next thing.

When all of that was happening, Vi couldn’t help the warmth that bubbled inside her, displaying itself as a grin.

~*~*~*~*~ 

The rest of the team was throwing a party - an earth quaker and a room shaker, with everyone who’s anyone in Zaun dropping by. But Caitlyn had just skated a twenty minute shift, and Vi’s painkillers meant that a true party wasn’t really possible - not without risking some unfortunate side effects. Besides, the parade through Zaun was scheduled for the next morning and Vi was ‘already groggy’.

Ashe didn’t look like she was buying that excuse. It was hard to sell, when Vi couldn’t speak for more than two seconds without looking at Caitlyn’s lips, and Caitlyn’s fingers were running a small trail up and down Vi’s jean-clad hip.

Poppy understood - she promised that she’d smooth it over with the team, but held Caitlyn and Vi to the promise that they’d come to the rager when Vi was fully healed.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Caitlyn confirmed, “we could all use some time to blow off steam after this season.”

“There’d better be beer pong,” Vi threatened, “I destroy at beer pong.”

“Beer pong,” Poppy noted mentally, “you got it. Go get some rest, captains - Clagg and I have it from here.”

As the team filed into separate cars, Dr. Lansbury gave Caitlyn detailed instructions on transport - or so it seemed to Vi, who was barely paying attention to anything but the dip of Caitlyn’s hip in her track pants. There was a strip of skin between Caitlyn’s compression shirt and the dark blue of the pants that had Vi’s mouth filling with more moisture than felt strictly appropriate. After resisting mightily for a solid few minutes, Vi gave in and slowly slid her thumb around the strip of skin, making Caitlyn jump imperceptibly, a line of gooseflesh trailing the pad of her thumb.

“This doesn’t sound like you needed the ambulance,” Caitlyn was saying to the doctor, a half smile on her face as her hand snuck down and clasped Vi’s - equal parts  acknowledgment and admonishment.

“No,” Lansbury replied, shrugging, “but the ambulance was faster.”

Caitlyn laughed. “Thank you, doctor.”

“Yeah, thanks doc,” Vi repeated, clearing her throat.

Lansbury nodded curtly, then waved towards Caitlyn’s car. “Have a good night.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Caitlyn had protested that the injury was too fresh, but to Vi waiting to heal was an unacceptable amount of time to hold off. Caitlyn sighed in faux-annoyance when they had gotten through the door and Vi was reaching up on her crutches to kiss at Caitlyn’s neck and collarbone, fighting to keep her balance on the wooden mobility tools while also fighting Caitlyn’s shirt off of her body.

Laughing, Caitlyn spun away. “You’re still healing. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Caitlyn,” Vi intoned, seriously, “if you think I’m not going to fuck my girlfriend on the eve of us winning the cup - if you think I’m going to let an injury stop that from happening, then you don’t know me very well.”

Caitlyn’s eyes widened, her grin loose and free - that was Vi’s best word for it. Loose. Caitlyn didn’t smile like it was expected of her - she smiled like it surprised her, like the expression felt too easy and rubbery on her lips. The taller woman closed the distance, held Vi’s jacket by its lapels, leaned closer to press their foreheads together.

“I know you very well,” Caitlyn replied, pupils darkening, eyes half-lidded, “but we’re waiting until we’re on a bed , at the very least.”

Vi waggled her eyebrows in a way that never failed to make Caitlyn laugh, but what had Caitlyn roaring was the way she promptly broke away and began hustling - crutches thumping the entire way - towards the stairs.

After they’d meticulously and carefully worn each other out - Caitlyn’s legs and arms were still trembling from exertion and Vi’s knee couldn’t bear any weight, so they wound up using teeth, tongues, hands in creative ways - they were lying in bed on their back, staring up at the ceiling with grins affixed to their faces, letting the emotion - the victory - wash over them.

Vi held Caitlyn’s hand, squeezing softly.

“What did you say to them?” she asked, looking over at the love of her life - the only person that had been there through it all, a constant presence.

Caitlyn watched Vi, the soft, loose smile on her face.

“I told them the same thing you would’ve,” Caitlyn replied, “I told them not to throw this away.”

Vi squeezed Caitlyn’s hand firmly, grin lopsided and content.

“I trained you so well,” she murmured, “one of my crowning achievements.”

Caitlyn laughed. “I’m sure you would’ve stopped the bleeding well before the third. You wouldn’t have needed the twenty minutes.”

“Maybe,” Vi murmured, “but I couldn’t have done the twenty. You handled it your way.”

Caitlyn hmm’d, rolling on her side to better look at Vi, tracing Vi’s face with her fingertips.

“You got us there,” Caitlyn said, softly, “all I did was push us the last few steps.”

Vi turned her head, kissed Caitlyn’s palm. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They lay in the dark, blue eyes watching one another, smiles on their faces. They both remembered a time when they’d finish with one another and flee into the night, running from what this was - from what they might show one another. They both remembered a time when they were struggling stars in the league, the RHL crushing its weight on their shoulders, expectation in their every breath, blood sweat and tears with nothing to show for it.

Now, their names were on the cup.

Now, they were immortal.

But that didn’t matter - immortality. The truly important thing was that they were here: next to one another, quiet and content and present .

They remained here - quiet, content, present, until they drifted off into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Thanks for coming,” Vi said, wrapping her arms around Lux as soon as Powder and her had separated. Lux’s black modest dress swished around her ankles. Powder wore black jeans and a black band T-Shirt, so faded and comfortable that it made Vi remember a life of them wearing clothes until they were threadbare, washing them so often that holes would appear where stains once resided.

She tugged her black hoodie down her sleeves, a little self-conscious. Caitlyn remained at her side - dressed in a suit - as the four of them made their way in the drizzling weather, following a well-manicured footpath.

“Are,” Vi began, swallowed, “are you sure that-“

“It’s maintained,” Caitlyn assured softly, “I’ve looked at the schedule.”

Powder’s nails worked at her fingers, the quiet click, click of nails on nails echoing in the space as the four of them walked past rows and rows of stones - scrawled with names and dates. Occasionally, flowers dotted the spaces in front of them. More often, they sat empty, beautifully cared for, barren.

Powder stopped first, staring down a row of headstones, and the four of them stopped after her, a delayed reaction.

“Are you ready?” Powder asked Vi.

Vi screwed her eyes shut, inhaled slowly, exhaled feebly.

“Yeah.”

The four began to walk down the row, matching Lux’s slow pace (due to the heels) and Vi’s feet dragging (due to the anchor that felt like it was tied to her waist) until they finally, finally, arrived at a headstone that bore Vander’s name, the years scrawled there depicting a life lived in the dashes.

They stood, the four of them - two who had never met the man, and two who had known different versions of him - in front of the words for a long time.

Then, with a small, shaky breath, Vi stepped forwards.

“Hey, Vander,” she said, softly.

Vi’s eyes roamed over the marble slab, stark and white and gleaming in the gloom. The weather seemed to match her mood - the light drizzle becoming slightly worse, flattening her pink hair against her head, staining it purple as she stood ramrod straight, wooden in her posture. The man who lay beneath the ground had raised her from complicated origins, had taken her in - and kids exactly like her - and done his best to raise a family. Somewhere in his head, that had to be true - the idea that he had done his best.

But his best had instilled in her a darkness that she couldn’t shake - his best had him hovering over her hospital bed every time she took a shot that was too hard. With the right motivation - with the right circumstances - she was thrown back into the body of a scrawny, too small, heavily bruised up kid, who was slapping pucks at the garage door until the paint chipped and peeled and flaked onto the snowy ground, until her fingers - sliding around in the too-large gloves, blistered and bled into the fabric, made them sticky when she peeled them off.

His best had made her bleed, and it had made her arrogant, made her run to any warm body to find affection and desire and good feelings, strong feelings that she could bury in - even if she knew it was temporary. His best had twisted her until she thought that she hadn’t deserved good things, until she was determined to never be the problem, stick it out in situations where she wasn’t given the best chances and couldn’t possible success. His best made her flounder, made her struggle.

His best had made her strong, at the same time. His best had been the biggest contributing factor to the fact that her name was now embossed in purple, carved there for all eternity. His best meant that she was a champion.

She was immortal.

She stood in front of his grave in silence for a long time, flanked by the little family Powder and her had gathered together - the good women they’d found themselves. Lux was funny, bright, and just as evil-minded as Powder was - the two of them were sometimes like listening to a practiced radio show where the banter was quick and light and fun. They swept you up with their energy, pressed and pushed your moods away until it was all blue skies and apple pies - nothing but good energy.

Caitlyn’s family was amazing - Tobias and Vi had an easy chemistry, and Cassandra wasn’t nearly as severe as she pretended to be, once you got past the eggshell of her stern glare. She had resting lecture face, as Powder had once described, looking for all the world like she was about to launch into an eloquent and passionate description of whatever the current topic was - the worldly way she carried herself made you believe that she was capable of going thirty minutes on just about any topic.

Caitlyn herself, however, was the center of Vi’s world - had always been, ever since she’d laced them up against the Lone Stars for the very first time. They fought rarely, mostly found equilibrium - Vi was hot where Caitlyn was cool, Caitlyn’s level-headed approach balanced perfectly with Vi’s aggression. Caitlyn had a fire in her, too - this untapped competitive edge that Vi liked to think she sharpened.

They wouldn’t have sought these little pockets of warmth out - they never would’ve tried - if Vander hadn’t been so cold.

So Vi was torn. She didn’t know what to do with the two halves of herself - the half that was intensely grateful for supplying her with the cold to seek warmth and the tools to succeed in a competitive environment at war with the half who hated what he made her do, hated what he refused to give her, what he rejected in her. She hated so strongly the man he was, loved so deeply the person he forged her to be, and missed him, and missed him, and missed him.

“You,” Vi said, voice breaking, jaw quaking. She lowered her face, letting the misty rain slide off of her pink locks as she struggled to control her breathing.

“I,” she tried again, feeling Caitlyn’s fingers squeeze on hers, drawing the warmth there, the strength there.

Her other hand was held by Powder, and the four of them formed a line - a little shield - staring at Vander’s headstone.

Vi exhaled, inhaled deeply.

“I wish you had been there,” Vi said, quietly, “I wish you’d gotten to see it - any of it.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Footage of Vi in the 23-24 season - hair a little longer, a stubby ponytail at the back of her head as she pulls a home jersey over her pads. Caitlyn is beside her, her hair cut to her chin as she sticks her tongue out in a little thin line, working her laces through her skate in a specific pattern - over and under, over and under, little rituals. The Sumprats locker room is quiet, calm, even as the crowd roars around them - the thrumming, throbbing chants continuing to rain down around their ears.

Zaun still showed up, and Zaun still showed out.

The footage cuts to a tense Wild Cats locker room, as the team keeps barking back and forth in anxious bursts, desperation and passion in their tones. The dark purple of their jerseys popped against the black and red of the Away locker room as the coaches go over a gameplan - the clipboard in their hand having Vi and Caitlyn’s names scrawled in big letters, circled in red pen, the two of them pointing at them and speaking urgently to one another.

Back in the Sumprats’ locker room, Vi pulls her hair out of her pony and pulls her helmet on, rising to look at her team.

“Who’s ready for a back to back?” Vi calls, as the team whoops around her and begins standing up to head towards the ice.

The title of the video is GAME 5 - SUMPRATS V WILD CATS 2024 RHL FINALS.

The footage jumps ahead to the last minute of play - the score 4-1 for the Sumprats as Vi and Caitlyn cruise around their own end, Caitlyn passing it off to Vi to hold for the winding clock as Vi raises her fists, the crowd erupting with her as the final few seconds ticks off the clock. As their team wins their second finals in a row, Zaun begins an age old chant - even as Vi and Caitlyn glide towards one another with their gloved hands on each other’s faces, even as Ekko throws his stick and gloves into the air in a tight spiralling arc and the Sumprats begin to pile onto the ice as the goal horn extends loud and long.

LET’S GO THUMPRATS , the crowd chants.

LET’S GO THUMPRATS.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Sometimes,” Vi said to the headstone, alone this time, “I want you to see it so you can see how much better we are - I am - without you. That’s the fucked up part. It’s not enough that you’re gone and I can move on - no, I want to rub your face in it. I want you to see that I didn’t need you, you know? That I never needed you.”

The graveyard was mostly empty - she showed up at midday on a weekday. Caitlyn was at a sponsorship meeting and would be in and out of sportswear conversations all day, asked Vi if she wanted her to cancel on all of that to be with her. Vi gave her the go ahead to take care of her brand - Caitlyn was finally being recognized as one of the greatest people to lace them up, and Vi wanted her to bask in it as much as Caitlyn could bask in attention.

Besides - Vi didn’t want anyone to hear this conversation, hear how ugly it made her. It was venom that she needed to get out, needed to let it hang between her and the rock that she’d called Dad, once upon a time.

She sat down next to the headstone, her sweatpants threadbare and falling apart, anyways. She hung her elbows on her knees and exhaled, long and slow, shifted to get comfortable.

“What’s messed up about it, though, is that I kind of did need you - you made me better. Nobody can dispute that, really - you pushed and pushed and allowed me to find that extra gear in myself. I think I play better when I’m chasing you out of my head - or I thought I did.”

Vi picked at her nails, idly, leaned her head to the side so that her scalp touched the cool marble, the sun high in the sky and beating down on her shoulders. She’d freckle, and Caitlyn loved that about her - Caitlyn had spent so much time tracing Vi’s freckles with her fingertips and lips, treating them like constellations to map in the sky, little points and anchors to follow back home.

“But I played better when you weren’t there, Vander,” she said, softly, “when the only thing in my mind was my team and Caitlyn. I played better when I wasn’t asking myself what I was trying to prove - when I wasn’t insisting that I needed to be better, or live up to a standard that you’d set.”

She stared at the pathway that connected the little plot of land that had her father to the rest of the graveyard.

“So you can suck my dick,” Vi finished, as she rose.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Nobody has ever won three finals in a row,” Gerry Gertrude, wearing a tight blue suit in the 2024-2025 pre-season show, says, tapping his papers on his desk as he waves a hand. The lower third of the screen reads a question: CAN THE SUMPRATS WIN 3 IN A ROW?

 “I don’t care how strong your team is - there’s too much that needs to fall your way. The season’s 82 games long, the playoffs are filled with teams that are going to stack against you, and they have all the time in the world to load their guns with the right ammo. No way, no how, will the Sumprats win three.”

“I stand by it,” Gerry Gertrude says, wearing a black tuxedo for the Halloween broadcast, “this is just smoke and mirrors. The Sumprats have some obviously glaring flaws, and it’s a long season - being first place in November doesn’t mean much in the long run. They still need five healthy months from Wickett, they still haven’t found scoring to replace Ahri when she left in free agency to sign with the No-Names, they have a lot of issues with coaching, with Viktor potentially leaving to head up his own team. This Sumprats wagon will fall apart - mark my words.”

“Just because they’re on a hot streak doesn’t mean they’ll win three in a row,” Gerry Gertrude says, a Christmas tree behind him, “three cups in a row would be ridiculous - not even the best teams in RHL history have managed that. There’s no chance.”

“So they clinched a spot in the playoffs,” Gerry Gertrude says, a snowstorm outside in mid-February, “so what? That doesn’t mean that they won’t get axe-murdered by one of these other hungry teams. I’m telling you guys, it is a statistical impossibility.”

“After round one,” Graves says on his podcast, “Gerry, I want to give you a get-out-of-jail free card, here-“

“If this is about the Sumprats prediction,” Gerry groans.

“You’re goddamn right it is!” Graves says, delighted. “You really, REALLY rode this horse hard, Ger - I think Vi and Caitlyn are about to make an ass out of you.”

“It’s a long playoffs,” Gerry says.

The purple cup is hoisted in Zaun, and Vi holds the microphone first after being asked a question about how it feels to win their third in a row. There’s a glint in her eye as she finds the nearest camera, looks right into it.

“Hey Gerry,” she says, “eat your heart out.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“I think the idea,” Vi said, beanie on her head and her hands in her pockets, “is to forgive you - eventually.”

The December winds blew through the graveyard as Vi watched the headstone, watched the way the overcast light in the snowy sky danced around the words scrawled there.

“Because, in some fucked up ways - you’re part of the reason the Sumprats exist at all with your little insistence with Silco. You almost made the team possible with my money - but we both know what you were supposed to do with it, don’t we.”

Caitlyn gave her space, but came with her - she liked to be here, didn’t like to be too far away. She was recovering from a minor injury in her foot - a bruise from slamming the brakes on too hard on a routine play in her own end. She wasn’t used to missing time, and when the doctors had recommended that she take a full day to relax and let it heal she about hit the roof.

It was funny to see her so unsettled as Vi waited on her hand and foot, acting like Caitlyn was permanently injured. Caitlyn griped at her the entire time, swatting at her whenever she was in reach. Whenever one of them had time off, they spent it stapled to one another, glued at the seams so that they could never get too far away.

With every year that passed, Vi was slowly and surely letting go of the bad ‘what ifs’ - the what if she leaves me or what if she gets tired of me or what if we’re a bad fit . She let those get eroded away with the passage of time, grinded into sand and disappearing in the December winds. Now her life - their life together - was filled with maybes - maybe a dog next year, maybe go into business together, maybe a coaching career. Her focus shifted from worrying about now and planning for when , and that made her unsettled and happy in the best of ways.

“That’s what’s hanging me up,” Vi said to the grave, boots crunching lightly as she shifted in the snow, “ultimately - you were supposed to be there for Powder when I wasn’t there. You were supposed to help her make it all easy - you were supposed to be there for her because I was doing my thing.”

She glanced down, toed her boot into the snow.

“You were shitty to me, but I can move past that. I will, eventually. But the Powder shit, Vander. That’s…”

Vi shook her head. She was growing her hair out this year - it fell around her ears, and usually was annoying. She’d chop it off when she felt like it, but for now she liked the way it felt when she shook her head after her helmet came off - she also liked the way Caitlyn liked to play with it, tug on a piece of it, curl her fingernails into it.

“I can’t forgive that,” Vi said, simply, and shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s not my place to.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Center ice was unsteady on their skates, and by all accounts this was an incredibly stupid thing to do - a season risking injury. Either one of them could fall and smash their heads open on the ice, and then they’d need to explain exactly why they had been out here, helmetless and with their pants open at two in the morning to someone - likely many someones.

One of the concessions to this fantasy of Vi’s was that they were pressed into the glass of centre ice - Caitlyn had insisted on it by way of fisting both hands in Vi’s hoodie with her mouth planted on Vi as she pushed, cajoled, and shoved the smaller woman against the glass, one hand snaking down her pants to find Vi slick and bare beneath them. Caitlyn paused to pull away, eyebrows raising at the discovery, giving Vi time to arch up and skate her lips down the column of Caitlyn’s throat, working her way up to Caitlyn’s chin with tiny little bites.

“Well,” Caitlyn said, and god , Vi loved it when she was smug, “ someone was eager for this.”

“Like you’re so calm,” Vi chided, squeezing Caitlyn’s hips as her fingers worked to Caitlyn’s ass in her hockey pants, hauling her closer as Caitlyn’s palms slapped against the glass, steadying both of them as Vi nipped down Caitlyn’s neck, her hands tugging, tugging until Caitlyn’s leggings were tugged over her hips. Caitlyn hissed at the sudden exposed cold air, the hiss turning to a wet little gasp as Vi’s hands worked their way to where Caitlyn needed her, her touch light and playful.

“I’m so calm,” Caitlyn responded, belated, breathless. Vi slowly worked two fingers to Caitlyn’s clit, rubbing lightly with gathered moisture, making Caitlyn squirm lightly. “Don’t tease.”

Vi made a faux-pleading expression. “You’re the one who said we needed to be careful , babe.”

“We do,” Caitlyn said, tone clipped, “but don’t tease.”

“Yes ma’am,” Vi cooed, voice soft, and she pressed her fingers to Caitlyn’s core, pleasuring instead of exploring as Caitlyn’s palms pressed harder to the glass on either side of Vi’s head, her face scrunching, eyes squeezing closed in concentration. Vi watched it all, cataloged it as she looked up at her girlfriend, listened to the little pants and moans she made.

Over Caitlyn’s shoulder, Vi could see the championship banners.

All four of them in a row.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Ahri looked nervous - uncharacteristically so. Her ears were flat against her head, her eyes were darting around the space, eating up the scenery, never focusing on any one thing for more than a moment. Caitlyn and Vi shared a look of concern - a subtle one, born of their comfortable six years together - before Caitlyn took a small sip of her mimosa and Vi leaned back in her booth seat to watch Ahri a little more closely.

The brunch spot was a familiar one - the same space the three of them had come to in that initial meeting, where Ahri had laid out her plan, told them that she was a rental - a short term solution. It was here, in this seat, that Vi had watched the pissing contest between Caitlyn and Ahri unfold, the confidence of both women doing weird things to her insides.

The Ahri that sat across from them now wasn’t the same cocksure, easy-to-grin foxkin that had assured them of her readiness five years ago. This one was unsteady, unsure - even as she wore a champion’s ring around her finger.

Ahri and the No-Names had been a story for the past three years - her battle to turn her own team into a contender. The media were calling it her Solo Venture, a name that Ahri privately had complained about - it was like comparing the Sumprats to a band, to her. She wasn’t a member of a band - she was her own artist, and she resented the implication.

These past two finals, the Sumprats and the No-Names had squared off and gone toe to toe - trading haymakers as Ahri’s No-Names and the CaitVi Sumprats battled for the cup. Last year, the Sumprats had taken the No-Names down, and taken them down swiftly.

This year, after a grueling seven games, Ahri had come out on top.

It was heralded as one of the best finals in history, an entertaining battle down to the very last second - full of drama and athleticism. Ahri had taken her win with a humility born out of respect - thanking Caitlyn and Vi profusely in her victory speech, full of emotion and excitement for having finally - finally - done it on her own.

But even with the ring on her finger saying everything she’d ever wanted had been accomplished, Ahri looked… miserable.

“What can we do for you, Ahri?” Vi asked, as Caitlyn took another small sip of her mimosa.

Ahri watched the two of them for a moment - eyes darting back and forth, before asking, “how did you do it?”

Vi looked at Caitlyn, confused. “Do what?” Caitlyn asked.

“The whole - working together thing. How did you guys pull it off?”

“Not well,” Vi said, truthfully. Caitlyn nodded.

“We were bad at it - at not… pulling our relationship into it.”

“We were basically seeing each other the whole time, honestly,” Vi said.

“We tried to keep us out of it - at first. Or, we said we would. But we were so ready at that point to be together that even if we fought it we still wanted us to be real.”

Ahri nodded, ears still flat. “That’s what I thought. Diana and Leona said that they were at each other’s throats until one day they weren’t. Or, they were at each other’s throats in a different way.”

Vi waggled her head from side to side. That made sense with what she’d heard from their teammates - the horrified stories of sounds coming from the showers when Leona and Diana thought they were alone. Hell, that happened on the Sumprats, too - ducking into the locker room to grab something and hearing a squeak and a shhh from beneath the shower spray.

“What’s this about?” Caitlyn asked, head cocked, eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Ahri fidgeted in her chair, slowly exhaled.

“Akali,” she said.

“Oh,” Caitlyn said, and flipped open her menu - almost making Vi bark with laughter.

“Oh?” Ahri piped up, ears immediately going taut, “what do you mean oh .”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Vi piped up.

“What’s obvious?”

Vi raised her eyebrows. “That you guys were a thing.”

“We were not ,” Ahri spluttered, “we’ve never been.”

“Sure, sure,” Vi said, nodding, “if that’s true, why does she stare at you all the time?”

“She doesn’t stare at me,” Ahri said.

“She stares, darling,” Caitlyn murmured, reading the menu, “I think I’ll have an eggs benedict.”

“Good choice,” Vi said.

“She does not stare,” Ahri insisted, “I’d know if she stares.”

“She only does it when you’re not staring at her,” Vi pointed out.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ahri said, “neither of you. You’re too blinded by your relationship - just because you guys worked out-“

“Ahri,” Caitlyn asked, folding her menu and setting it back down on the table, “how long did it take you to be able to tell that Vi and I were an item?”

Ahri glowered. “Immediately.”

“How?” Caitlyn asked, sweetly.

Ahri kept glowering.

“I bet it was the staring,” Vi prompted.

“It was,” Caitlyn replied, picking her menu back up, “undoubtedly, the staring.”

“You guys are dicks,” Ahri grunted, “and are no help at all. We were never a thing - we didn’t have a relationship like that. If anything, it was like I was her annoying hanger-on.”

“That she respected,” Vi said, “that she cared about, that she quit her team when she was without.”

“That doesn’t mean - she was on a justice kick. That didn’t have anything to do with me , Akali is just like that - she’d do that for anyone.”

Vi looked at Caitlyn. “Were we this bad?”

“Worse, probably,” Caitlyn said.

“Fuck you,” Ahri pointed at Vi, then pointed at Caitlyn, “fuck you, fuck you both.”

Vi smiled, and then her expression softened when Ahri still looked in distress, fidgeting in her chair, picking at her menu.

“Hey,” Vi said, reaching over and taking Ahri’s hand, “we’re only teasing. If you and Akali were never in a relationship, we believe you - what’s wrong?”

Ahri exhaled lowly, slowly, gripped at Vi’s hand. “She asked if I’d be okay with her coming to the No-Names. Next season.”

Caitlyn frowned. “That’s courteous of her.”

“Yeah,” Ahri said, sighing. “Lucian got wind of it first - gave me the head’s up. He wanted to make sure I knew - thought it’d be a really good thing, something to look forward to.”

“Is it not?” Vi asked.

“I don’t know. I think - I don’t know. I don’t know how she feels, where we stand. I know she’s seen other people - and it’s not fair of me to assume that she’d just wait around until I figured myself out or whatever, but - what if she isn’t interested? What if I’m not interested? What if she comes to the team I built up and we start something and that ruins everything?”

“This isn’t like you,” Caitlyn said, continuing to frown, “the self-doubt.”

“I know ,” Ahri said, exasperated, “and that’s fucking me up, too. I’m never like this around anyone else.”

“That says something to me,” Vi said, softly, “it says that you’re unsure because you want it badly - it says that you care .”

“What if I care too much?” Ahri asked, timidly. “What if she gets here and it's like, actually, we’re an awful fit and the team disintegrates.”

“You’re good together,” Caitlyn said, firmly, “the hockey at least is good. You were good together for a long time - way longer than you’ve been without. Don’t you owe it to yourself to try?”

“You owe it to both of you,” Vi said, softly, “what if she’s the one who can make you feel complete?”

Caitlyn looked at Vi when the words escaped her, a small, stunned smile on her face. Vi refused to look at her - kept her eyes on Ahri.

Ahri exhaled, long and slow.

“You’re right,” she said, at last.

Vi picked up her menu, mirroring Caitlyn’s pose. “You should be used to that.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“This will be the last time I come to you like this,” Vi said to Vander’s grave, flowers in her hand.

It was late summer, the start of a new season - the first season that she wasn’t concerning herself with being in shape for the start of practice. She was dressed in a tuxedo, picked out by Caitlyn - who was waiting in the car, a familiar red dress on her body, a red dress that made Vi’s eyes darken with want in the car window reflection when she’d first seen it.

They had an appointment at the Sumprats arena. They were running late, but Mel, Mylo and Sevika all knew what the holdup was, asked Vi to take her time.

When the Sumprats won their fifth cup in six years - when the No-Names vs Sumprats trilogy ended with the Sumprats taking home the cup - Vi had waffled back and forth on whether to resign with the organization. The reality of her career was that her entire body ached when she woke up every morning, from her knees singing with pain to her neck and back feeling crunchy and pop-y every time she rolled her shoulders. The hockey team was in great hands - Poppy was developed into a mini-Vi, Ashe was one of the best two way players in the game, Thresh and Illaoi were perennial defensive player of the year candidates. Caitlyn would be with the team, still - ensuring the leadership had continuity.

Vi wanted to keep playing, but at the same time, her knee was pre-arthritic - Landsman’s parting gift. Skating was taking its toll, her physical style of play catching up to her. Adding to her decision was the way it would end - she’d retire just after winning her fifth ring in six years, her name on the cup not once, but five times as a skater.

She called Mel one morning in July, officially announced her retirement, and refused all interviews - wallowed in Caitlyn’s chest for a full day. When she emerged from her cave of sadness and resignment, she got the news that her jersey would be retired - immediately.

Retiring a jersey meant that nobody in the future of the Sumprats - not a single other person - would be allowed to wear the number 6. It would hang in the Last Drop Arena, displayed there with pride, an honor only given to the most important players to a franchise.

Mel had made the decision two minutes after Vi had hung up with her announcement, and the ceremony was scheduled for the day before the season started - normally, it was done after a game or before it to coincide with ticket sales, treated as a draw to fill the building.

But Mel had never had difficulty filling the Last Drop, and the tickets were at a reduced price - cheap to buy and sit and listen to the presentation as Vi’s jersey was lifted alongside the five championship banners that graced the Last Drops’ rafters.

“I want you to know,” Vi said to the grave, “that you’re the reason that all of this happened, but you don’t get to take pride in it. I get to - my girlfriend gets to. My coaches and teammates get to, because they were there for the important things. And I realized something - that all I wanted was for you to be there during the important things.”

Vi tossed the flowers down at his headstone, and exhaled slightly.

“Thanks for some things,” Vi said, and walked back down the path. Caitlyn was waiting for her, in her red dress - the red dress that had made Vi’s mouth water, made her stare at Caitlyn the entire time she was accepting the rookie trophy, the entire time Vi had followed her to the bar to sit next to her and make a shitty pickup line that started their entire collision course towards one another - a cycle that would see both of them careening around one another, pushing and pulling, orbital bodies fighting for control.

Caitlyn opened her mouth to ask how Vi was, how it went, and Vi pressed her into the car and kissed her - kissed her long. Kissed her smoky because her mouth knew this so well - the feel of Caitlyn’s lips softening, the little explorations they made as if it was the first time. Vi kissed her with all of herself - everything that she had already given this tall woman that had invaded her thoughts and fought until it was the only thing on her mind, the only beat of her heart, the feeling and friction in her palms.

“Will you marry me?” Vi asked, pulling away from Caitlyn to watch her eyes, the question serious, unflinching.

She expected Caitlyn to hesitate.

She didn’t.

“Of course.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

That night, Caitlyn and Vi held hands as the ceremony played out around them - people from Vi’s life coming forwards to say a few words about her, speak from the heart about her time as a hockey player - her time as a competitor. Old high school teammates, college coaches, Ironfist employees - all stood up there to sing her praises, talk about her victorious spirit, her strength of character. In some ways it was like they were speaking about someone else - this other Vi Wickett, who apparently was an inspiration, a vision, a leader in their game.

Caitlyn’s fingers kept squeezing hers, little fluttering pulses, and it didn’t become clear as to why she was having difficulties until Mel Medarda took the mic, smiled at the crowd, and spoke.

“Last, but certainly not least, please welcome to the stage, Vi’s co-captain, teammate of six years and opponent of twelve - Ms. Caitlyn Kiramman.”

The crowd went ballistic as Vi shot a look at Caitlyn - accusatory - as the taller woman rose and flowed her way to the microphone. She had a slight hitch in her step - being thirty eight and still a professional hockey player reminded them all of how mortal they were. Caitlyn took the stage, thanked Mel with a slight bow, and laid her hands on the podium, looked out at the crowd.

“Yes,” Caitlyn said, self-mockingly, “I can speak for longer than a minute at a time. I know that comes as a shock.”

The crowd laughed - Vi, too. Caitlyn’s reluctance to talk in interviews became part of her persona in Zaun - she went from being ‘unlikable’ to ‘private’. Memes about her reticence to talk to media cropped up everywhere in Zaun - the most famous one being a big image of her neutral expression in front of a microphone, with a caption of ‘Yes Girl, Give Them Nothing’.

“It’s very hard to state concisely,” Caitlyn began, “the impact Vi has had on me personally. In some ways, we’ve always orbited one another - ever since we first started in the league. Our relationship wasn’t quite rocky, but it was icy - we wanted to beat each other, but we had a respect for one another. I think that’s where Vi first positively touched my life - she respected me enough, respected my game enough, to make sure she handled me personally.”

Caitlyn smiled. “I remember when I first realized that she was gunning for me - it was a Piltover-Ionia game, and Vi hopped the boards every single time I did. It was a mirror matchup - she was just constantly in my face. Vi was a talker - we all knew she liked to chirp and mix it up. It was an underrated part of her game at the time.”

Caitlyn shifted behind the podium - didn’t look down at it once, had no cue cards, no paper. “She didn’t speak to me the whole game. She just worked to contain me, keep me off my game. I think the end of game statistics had her with two seconds more ice time than me - she matched me so well that we were nearly the same total.”

Caitlyn drummed her hands against the podium. “But when we both came to Zaun, that’s when I realized how truly special she was. I knew she was special because I’d have to go through her every year - and even though we won, it was never easy. Vi never went down easy, and that was her guarantee - she’d make you bleed for every inch you took. But when I got to Zaun, I found that she was compassionate to her teammates, that she didn’t take shit. She stood up to bullies. She kept a running list of everyone’s food preferences in her phone.”

Caitlyn paused for the titters in the crowd. “That’s not a joke, either - she did that. She still has it. She has them from her fourth year in the league, from a team that she doesn’t play for anymore - just in case someone gets traded back to a team she’s on. She takes her leadership so seriously, she refuses to half-ass it. From her, I learned the diligence in people skills, I learned how hard she worked on herself as a captain - how much she demanded from herself. She worked so that when she turned to you, when she called your number, you knew that she wouldn’t ask you for what she wasn’t willing to give.”

Caitlyn locked eyes with Vi, then, and it was like the crowd melted away, like there was nothing between them but their eyes.

“On a much more personal level,” Caitlyn said, “she saved me. She was a light to cling to in the darkness, a rock in my storm. Everyone knows what I went through, and Vi never judged - never pushed me for answers, accepted me when I was low. When I lashed out, she forgave. When I broke down, she held me. She’s a hell of a hockey player - we have five banners to prove that. But as a woman, Vi.”

Caitlyn smiled, teary eyed.

“As a woman, you are the best person I’ve ever met. I’m honored to say that I love you, and I’m proud to call you mine. There is no other jersey more worthy of hanging from these rafters than yours - this building deserves to have it there, watching over it. Because you, more than anything, are a protector.”

Caitlyn paused as the crowd applauded, and Vi wiped her own eyes, bracing her hands on her chair.

“Thank you very much, Zaun,” Caitlyn said, smiling, “and thank you, Vi.”

The applause increased as Caitlyn stepped away from the podium, and Vi was already running down the aisle to step towards the stage, leaping up on it in a way that made her knees sing. Caitlyn was open armed as Vi charged into her embrace, their lips meeting under the spotlight of a Zaun crowd, the cheers and wolf whistles raining down around them.

They held hands and watched, moments later, as WICKETT, number 6, was slowly, ceremoniously, lifted into the rafters - where it would remain forever.

Vi pressed her face into Caitlyn’s shoulder and cried, Powder’s hand on her shoulder, her teammates and friends around her to add their applause and cheers to the crowd.

Her family was here, she thought. Her family got to see this.

It was all she’d ever wanted.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn had once said that she couldn’t imagine hockey without Vi, an errant thought that had been full of a confusing yearning she hadn’t been able to fully parse at the time. It embarassed her slightly, when she thought back to the days and months that she hadn’t had fully formed thoughts or words to describe who Vi was to her - other than bitter rival, source of frustration, occasional fuck buddy.

They had both admitted to specific kinds of uselessness to one another - mostly in the form of breathless laughter at each other’s expense, at their own expense - and it was usually followed up by their new competition: expression of love. They loved to one up each other, loved to make a goofy little game around how gone over one another they were. Vi’s trump card was always that she had told Caitlyn first - not in so many words, but that she had waited and longed and wanted, admitted that.

“You have no idea how lowering that was,” Vi would say with a laugh.

Caitlyn’s trump card was that she actually said it first, the words ‘I love you’ leaving her lips before Vi could ever utter them.

“You were my rock in the darkness,” Caitlyn would say, and then wince. “I think I mixed my metaphors there.”

“Rocks in the darkness seem dangerous,” Vi would reply with a laugh.

But in hockey, Caitlyn was never unsure of who Vi was to her - there was a slight bit of hero worship in admiring her game, the way that she effortlessly wielded her charisma and emotional intelligence to the betterment of her team. There was more than a little jealousy of the way Vi could lower a shoulder into a hit, or instinctively cover a pass she couldn’t know was coming.

Mostly, however, there was an inherent trust that Caitlyn had never managed to find with another - a feeling of where Vi was on the ice at any given moment. They knew each other so well that they rarely needed to communicate - just worked the puck where it needed to go, a heat seeking missile that would find and settle to its target. Vi and Caitlyn together were a hurricane wreaking havoc, a well oiled machine of defense and offense.

The first day that Caitlyn drove to the practice facility by herself, got dressed alone amongst her teammates, tried to stop staring at the fact that Poppy had moved to Vi’s locker and there was a new face in Poppy’s - a hulking forward named Samsonov who seemed awkward and shy - she couldn’t shake that something felt weird, different.

Caitlyn wore the only C on the team, now - the first time she’d ever had to do so. She was the only one in private meetings with Sevika and Kallista, the only one who came away from team meetings with notes. She addressed the team during group skates, was responsible for setting the tone emotionally, a cadre of new responsibilities under her wing.

Caitlyn also, in some ways, understood Vi a little better. Her calves started to bother her after long games, her back ached lightly at night despite her yoga and her self care. She was pushing forty, and bodies weren’t meant to play extremely intensive sports past their twenties - the aches and pains little signatures that reminded her that time was passing, had passed.

Meeting the new blood was different, too - Vi had a way of disarming them, was less intimidating by default. Caitlyn’s reputation was one of lethality - she was often spoke of in hushed tones as a killer or a deadly sniper or with comparisons to some of the best skaters in the world. Vi, by contrast, would always rely upon her reputation as a people person, someone with deep emotional intelligence. Caitlyn had never been that person - reputation-wise or in actuality - and needed to work a lot harder at being liked.

She considered it a personal victory when she’d drop off her new teammates at the hotel - having driven them from the airport - and they’d say you’re so much nicer than I thought you’d be.

So the first day was weird - Vi’s absence looming over her shoulders, a spectre in the arena. But after a while it got easier. The Sumprats’ identity shifted - they went from being loud, big, fierce, to quiet, reserved, and dangerous. They walked to the rink in silence, skated with seriousness, and won efficiently. Slowly, the team stopped taking their cues from Caitlyn and Vi, and just started taking them from Caitlyn herself - a team of quiet assassins.

The first game without Vi, Vi was sitting in the stands. Her days were filled with responsibilities at the WickMan Institute, but her nights were free - so free that she had pre-bought tickets to every Sumprats game and sat in the crowd to scream throatily as the Sumprats warmed up. Caitlyn’s motivation was always to impress Vi - to equal Vi - but with her in the stands, it became more about showing off.

Caitlyn skated a little sharper when she felt Vi’s eyes on her, worked the puck a little more safely, stood a little taller. She didn’t have the 30 minute shifts in her anymore, but she still gave a hard 20, let her younger and more eager teammates eat the minutes she left on the table. She became a second coach, a quiet one - one who wouldn’t yell from the bench, instead one who would take you aside and quietly offer a word or two during the game.

Poppy became the emotional engine, the beating hart of the Sumprats, and she took the responsibility seriously. Illaoi became the enforcer, skating close while Poppy had words with opponents, pulling people out of Scrums. Ashe became the true number one talent, the first option on offense to bag goals and create. With Caitlyn’s reduced minutes role, Ashe stepped in to fill her shoes and began to shine in the new spotlight.

It became apparent, early in the season, that this new Sumprats team had different strengths. The Thumprats era was over - instead of a bruising, defensive minded team, the Sumprats were about passing and awareness and offensive output. They could defend for a solid period, but that wasn’t the style they wanted to play - they wanted to push the action, play fast and free, skate hard and work the opposing tendie into knots.

Ashe led that charge - a high flying, risk taking scorer. She was backed up by a stalwart defender in Illaoi, a quiet and sturdy Samsonov, and burly no-nonsense Poppy Tieth in the center. Caitlyn kept her quarterback status, calling plays and working the puck.

“It helps to have the best player in history as your second option,” Ashe said in an interview, “because I know if I yack it, that Caitlyn Kiramman is back there to help me out. It’s a pretty good confidence booster.”

When Caitlyn was asked if she minded a reduced role, she looked at the interviewer dead on with a neutral expression.

“I’m 39,” she said, and didn’t elaborate further.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Vi was very good at massages, and gave them often at home after a long game with younger players. Caitlyn would be stretched out horizontally, ice packs on her shoulder, elbow, and knees, groaning as Vi worked her calloused thumbs into Caitlyn’s bare skin, chasing away tension wherever she found it.

Vi’s eyes were always in Caitlyn’s mind now - staring at her from behind the glass, whispering to herself, fingers crossed. Sometimes she’d sit with Caitlyn’s parents - the three of them leaping for joy and hugging whenever a play broke the Sumprats’ way, or pounding on the glass and barking furiously whenever Caitlyn got called for something questionable.

Vi’s eyes were what sucked Caitlyn in at first - the eyes, smirking as she said the trophy Caitlyn held would look better in her name, the eyes turning smoky when Vi was knuckle deep inside her.

Vi’s eyes now were listening to Caitlyn’s groans with fire behind them, her hands decidedly turning less medicinal, more arousing, and Caitlyn lifted her face from the couch to look back at Vi, catching sight of them, letting them fuel her.

“How much tension,” Caitlyn mused, “do you think is in my ass.”

Vi thought about it.

“A little more,” she replied, and gripped even firmer, making Caitlyn grin and flush at the same time.

“Thank you very much for doing me this favour,” she said, softly, as Vi’s hands trailed lower and lower.

“Pleasure is all mine,” Vi replied, gravel in her throat.

~*~*~*~*~ 

The 2029 Sumprats made the playoffs as a third seed, but injuries began to strike at the worst possible time in the first round - Poppy going down off of a fluke slapshot that struck her in the cheek, and Samsonov pulling a tendon in his calf that had him hitting the ice and screaming. The rest of the Sumprats adjusted, tried to work the puck to the net, but were overcome by their injuries. There was a moment late in the series where Caitlyn and Ashe put together two spectacular games, where announcers around the world thought that the Sumprats had one more miracle in them, but it wasn’t to be - on their last gasp, they lost in six games, were bounced in the playoffs for the first time in franchise history before the finals.

Caitlyn’s entire body hurt, but she still stood in the locker room, looked at her dejected, disheveled team, and spoke.

“I know you guys are hurting,” she said, “and I know it didn’t end the way we wanted it to. But when we lose two key skaters in the first two games, it’s hard to get it done. We still made them scared - we still forced them to say to themselves ‘oh, shit, they might get us back’.”

The Sumprats nodded, clapped their sticks on the ground in acknowledgment.

“This club isn’t used to losing,” Caitlyn said, “and we now know we don’t care for it. We’re going to go home, gear up, enjoy your vacations, add to your game. Next year, we’re going to make the whole league say ‘oh, shit’, because we’re going to come and take it all again.”

The Sumprats whooped, clapped their sticks again, and Caitlyn bared her teeth, nodded, and gestured to Sevika to take the floor.

In the parking lot, Caitlyn dialled a number she’d saved from long ago, lifted it to her ear as it rang.

“Shani, hey,” Caitlyn said, smiling, “I hear that you’re looking for a team next year.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Shani Adler arrived in Zaun as a free agent, signed to a four year deal, and she arrived hungry. Her undersized style of play and quick feet made her a natural fit for the power play, for the way the New Sumprats wanted to work the puck - speed, style, and hustle. She was weak in terms of hitting and she was lacking in some defensive discipline, but gone was the wallflower who shied away from contact in her rookie year. Gone was the person who nervously asked about her place instead of going to find it.

Shani Adler was confident, knew her skillset, and worked it into the rotation seamlessly. She asked Caitlyn and Ashe a lot of questions, built goals into her workouts, busted her ass every practice.

“As soon as I was able to, I left,” Shani said one night over drinks - Caitlyn, Poppy, Thresh, Ashe and Illaoi in attendance. “Took my bag and said no to a new contract, cruised the league a while. Thanks to Akali, I knew I had a place here - I’ll never forget her for that.”

“We knew you were going to be good,” Illaoi pointed out, “you didn’t make the finals on accident.”

“Oh yeah,” Shani confirmed, “but it didn’t feel like I made the finals. It felt like I was just along for the ride.”

“Well, you’re going to make them this year,” Poppy said with confidence, “because we’re ride or die.”

“Ride or die,” Shani said, lifting her glass.

When asked later in an interview why she chose the Sumprats, she looked surprised.

“When Caitlyn Kiramman calls you personally and asks if you want to be a part of her team, you say yes,” she said, like it was obvious. “Plus, I’ve always loved Zaun winters.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

For the first time in her career, Caitlyn was injured in a cold night in October on a routine hockey play. She was going for the puck in the neutral zone against the Void Stars’ defenders - the Void Stars having emerged as one of the Sumprats’ most respected rivals, having built a solid team in the draft and standing as one of the major obstacles to the Sumprats’ sixth cup quest. Caitlyn went for it hard, the defender refused to cede ground, and it resulted in both of them slamming into the boards, tangled, falling backwards.

The defender managed to get underneath Caitlyn to cushion her fall, had the presence of mind to put a glove to the back of her helmet so she didn’t hit her head on the ice, but Caitlyn still twisted around, something in her elbow tweaking and sending hot pain all the way through her arm. She rolled onto her stomach, looked around for the puck, found it in the netminder’s trapper for the whistle as the realization that she was hurt caught up with her brain.

“Fuck,” the big dude said, “you okay?”

“Pulled something,” Caitlyn grimaced, “good play.”

“Good play,” he said, helping her to her feet with her good arm as Caitlyn flexed her hand, shook her arm, winced at the pins and needles shooting through her.

She skated to the bench holding her elbow to the applause of the Void crowd - they clapped for the Sumprats. It was the damnedest thing to witness the way the fans interacted - Void actually clapped for the Sumprats, and Zaun shushed for the Stars. The two fanbases were full of jabs and memes flying back and forth with very little of the vitriol that usually came with it.

The vitriol both fanbases reserved for the Lone Stars, because the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

“I think I fucked my elbow up,” she said to Sevika as she stepped into the door. Sevika glanced at it, pointed for Dr. Lansbury to take a look. After a few moments, Caitlyn was ushered back into the tunnel to have a more serious look.

“You’re forty,” Dr. Lansbury said, holding her wrist, “you’re starting to fall apart, looks like.”

Caitlyn grimaced, rotating her arm back and forth, feeling numbness spread through it.

For the first time in her career, she missed time due to injury - six games, early in the season.

For the first time, she drove home, met Vi at the front porch, wrapped her good arm around her.

“I think I’m done,” Caitlyn said, softly, the words choking her up.

Vi understood - the same conversation she’d started two years ago, reflected in a mirror.

“Let’s talk about it,” Vi said.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Now, this is a very special surprise,” Taylor Swiffer said, “for everyone in the RHL - when we first announced my guest today, most of the fans out there assumed that it was going to be a Gotcha! moment, where I’d have hired some impersonator or something. But ladies, gentletheys, and men of all ages, I am currently seated across from Caitlyn Kiramman of the Zaun Sumprats in an undisclosed location.”

Caitlyn laughed.

“You wouldn’t come to my studio,” Taylor said, amused, “your stipulation was that we have to have it here while you recover from an elbow injury.”

“Yeah, driving’s hard right now,” Caitlyn said.

“Makes sense, makes sense. It’s lovely to see you again, and to talk to you.”

“You as well,” Caitlyn said, “long time, first time - is that what they say?”

“You can say anything you want,” Taylor said warmly, “you know, my producer Katherine and I were talking on the ride over - we were wondering if we can make this interview longer than every other appearance you’ve had on media combined.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah - we figure when we hit like, 35 minutes, we’ll have it.”

Caitlyn laughed again.

“So we can start there, I guess - you’re famously blunt and don’t enjoy interviews. Is there a reason behind that?”

“Not really,” Caitlyn replied, “I just - most of the time when I’m being interviewed, I either just won a sixty minute hockey game, or I just lost a sixty minute hockey game. And both of those outcomes mean that I need to meet with my team and sort out what happened, and go to night skate, and the last thing I want to do is sit with a reporter and answer very reductive questions.”

“That makes sense.”

“If the questions were- not to blame reporters,” Caitlyn said, putting a hand on Taylor’s wrist.

“No, it’s okay, we’re the worst,” Taylor said.

Caitlyn scoffed. “Not to blame reporters, but the questions are bad. They’ll be something like ‘you lost, could you have avoided losing?’ And what are we supposed to say to that, exactly? What answer would be interesting there? Combine that with the complete adrenaline crash from playing a very physical game for a very long time - I just have never really had patience for it.”

“So why now? Why this show?”

“Well, as everyone’s heard,” Caitlyn said, “I’m retiring at the end of the season, so I figure it’s as good a time as any. Also, you and I go way back - the listeners might not know this.”

“Yeah, we can get into this if you want.”

“You were very, very kind, very supportive to me in a very dark period of my life. You and Jack, and Theodore. So I thought that this was a good way to pay back that kindness, so you can hold it over other media members’ heads.”

“And that, I promise, I will do,” Taylor replied smugly. Caitlyn chuckled again.

“So, retirement, huh?” Taylor asked. “That must’ve been a difficult decision.”

“The hardest,” Caitlyn confirmed, “but the elbow injury made me sort of wake up and realize what I’ve had - the run I’ve had has been a true blessing, and it’s hard to find things that I haven’t achieved in terms of personal goals. The Zaun Sumprats are set up for the future - we have an amazing core group of players, and my fiancee and I have the WickMan institute set up so I know what I’ll be doing for my future. It feels as opportune a time as any to move away. Plus, my body is clearly not handling the game as well as it was when I was younger.”

“You’ve taken a lot of punishment in your career.”

“Oh yes,” Caitlyn said, smiling, “yes, you can say that. Sometimes I think back to the 2023 finals and go ‘was that really me?’”

“Twenty minute shift,” Taylor exclaims.

“I could never do that now,” Caitlyn replies, “I’d need an oxygen tank.”

“So it’s mostly a health thing? The body is breaking down?”

Caitlyn paused, considered. “That, and - I was lucky enough to do something, spend every day playing the sport I love with my soulmate. I did that for six years, and now that she’s gone, I just don’t have the same appetite for it.”

“Aww,” Taylor cooed.

“She’s going to be so mad I said that,” Caitlyn laughed, “but it’s true. I love my teammates - they’re my second family - but I’m eager to just - continue my life with Vi. It’s hard going to work every day without her. I wouldn’t have been able to picture it before last season.”

“I want to talk about that for much longer, but. But - okay, so I have all kinds of Sumprats questions,” Taylor said, fidgeting in her seat with excitement. “About your career in Zaun. Do you mind if we start at the beginning?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Caitlyn said.

“So how did all of this start? How did coming to Zaun start?”

Caitlyn thought for a moment, smiled a little ruefully.

“It began,” Caitlyn said, “in Ionia. In a motel, actually.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

Caitlyn returned to the Sumprats lineup, but they didn’t struggle without her - Illaoi picked up her slack, Adler helped, and Ashe still led the league in goals. Ashe was having an MVP caliber year, the votes heavily weighing towards her, and Caitlyn watched the numbers tick upwards with pride.

Caitlyn enjoyed playing the third option - enjoyed teams realizing, with dawning horror, that covering her was the worst possible decision they could make. Ashe and Shani split the ice between them, Illaoi prowled the blue, Poppy and Thresh were able to fill them in. Even Samsonov’s handle improved, becoming less wooden and more of a goal scorer as time went on.

Caitlyn enjoyed even more letting teams know that she was still Caitlyn Kiramman - she could still pull out the old bag of tricks. The confidence was hard won, so ingrained after playing so long with people who she knew had her back that she didn’t mind stunting.

Late in the game against the Ironfists, down 2-1, Caitlyn got the pass on the blue line from Illaoi, looked around, saw that every one of her teammates were covered, and smirked as she wound up. She could see Viktor in her peripheral leap to his feet, roaring in slow motion - get up, get up, shot shot shot! She could see Sevika’s slow, curling, confident smile, her jaw working her gum hard, laser focused.

The crowd was already groaning, the Ionian arena holding its breath. When her shot clacked home off of the post and the light above the net lit, the exhalation of breath, the low groan, felt amazing to hear.

Caitlyn pretended to blow on the end of her stick - as if blowing smoke from a rifle - and met her teammates in the celebration.

“You almost let them forget,” laughed Ashe, as the Sumprats tied it up.

“That’s how people get hurt,” Caitlyn said, smiling.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Caitlyn missed another game with a hyperextended knee - a tweak that had her sidelined in December. She spent the game off with Vi, going over the Institute’s long term goals, outlining obstacles they still had to go through, checking attendance numbers, writing thank-you cards.

It was only on the cusp of retirement that Caitlyn realized how much she was looking forwards to doing this full time - finding a problem, working through it, providing a safe and stable place for kids to learn their game the right way, the good way. People like her, who felt isolated, and people like Vi, who felt pressured, would have a space where they could feel neither - where they could feel at home, look forwards to working on their game with professionals and experts.

It was a dream fully realized, and Vi was doing a great job.

Even if she grumbled the whole way.

“You never said,” Vi muttered, “this would be this much paperwork. I assumed it was mostly going to be skating around in circles with kids holding onto my stick.”

“You do that too,” Caitlyn said mildly, glasses on her nose as she worked her way through some tax documents. Her knee was propped up on a spare chair, ice on it as she filled in reports, made sure her figures lined up.

“Can’t we hire your mom to do this?” Vi asked, spinning in her chair like a child.

“Yes,” Caitlyn said in response, not looking up from her work.

Vi kept spinning, rotating her ankles as she moved. She talked a big game, but Caitlyn had seen her with them - with the teenagers, specifically. Vi had a bond with them that ran deeper than Caitlyn could know or touch - a tough-kid connection that only Zaun kids could tap into, a specific language only they knew. Vi treated them like adults, treated them as equals but with distance, remained every inch the role model they thought they were getting.

Caitlyn might have been the most popular Sumprat, but Zaun would always know that Vi was their MVP. It melted Caitlyn’s heart a little bit to think of the future of Zaun hockey players being a little more closely guided by the person they idolized.

“You know,” Caitlyn said, idly, “you’re very good at teaching.”

Vi lifted her head from the headrest, raised an eyebrow. “Are you about to talk about coaching again?”

“Is it something you’d want? You’ve had a year plus to think about it.”

Vi leaned back down. “Dunno,” she said, gruffly, “it’d depend on the team.”

Caitlyn hummed. “Not Piltover, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Vi said, flashing a grin. “Honestly, it’d have to be Zaun, or a similar situation - I know that Sevika’s nowhere near close to stepping down.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Sometimes I think she’ll die on the bench.”

“Maybe not with this year’s squad,” Vi sniped, “but last year’s - I’ve never seen her face so purple as when we lost in the first round.”

Vi hadn’t skated with the Sumprats for a year and a half, and it was still we. Caitlyn expected she’d be the same, for a long time - we, us, our. The Sumprats would never just be a franchise to either of them.

“Bad luck,” Caitlyn admitted, “maybe a few misplays. We could’ve used our emotional leader.”

“You won’t this year,” Vi said, smiling, “I think you guys have the gas to go the distance.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

“Three minutes left in the third period - the Sumprats leading the series 3 to 2 in the Finals here, and the Sumprats are down a goal - folks, what do we see?”

“We’ve been saying it all week, Marv. If you have the Sumprats down, you better put your foot on their neck - you have to kill them with a silver bullet, otherwise they’ll squirm their way back into this game.”

“Yeah, we’re a big fan of saying anything can happen in Hockey, and that goes double for this Sumprats team - the core of the team have all been to the finals seven times before this, they’ve known only winning in their entire franchise history - if you leave the door open a crack, they’ll find a way to kick it in.”

“Just a quick look at stats, here - in terms of series clinching playoff goals - goals scored in games where a team has a chance to win the series, Caitlyn Kiramman is number one in history with forty six goals.”

“She is lethal in these moments. There’s a reason the league is afraid of her, and I’d watch for the Ironfists to pinch in on her in the next few minutes.”

“Alrighty, both teams seem to be set up after the timeout, so let’s go back to RHL action - the Ironfists lead three goals to two in the 2030 RHL Finals over the Zaun Sumprats as the puck is ready to be dropped.”

~*~*~*~*~ 

The puck slashes back on Poppy’s stick to Caitlyn Kiramman, and the crowd noise fades from her awareness. She pushes up ice, and she’s ten years younger - ten years fresher. The cold air hits her face, washes over her ears as she pushes the puck forwards, Poppy, Adler, Ashe getting tangled up in the corners as she keeps the puck alive, whirls, spins around in a tight circle to keep it from clacking sticks and slashing reaches, dancing and weaving.

She’s slow - a step slower than she would be, but she’s always been faster than everyone else. She’s aching, her whole body feeling like it was filled with wet sand as she suddenly leaps left, raises her stick over a diving Ironfists defender, taking the puck with her, and she’s alone with the goaltender.

Vi’s eyes in the stands, watching her, slowly rising to her feet as Caitlyn crosses the blue, her face a grimacing mask of concentration. The only three points on this earth - the only three things that matter - are the goalie’s eyes, Caitlyn’s eyes, and Vi’s eyes, and Caitlyn feels the other two like knives in her skin, like a live wire rippling through her flesh as she skids the puck forwards, as she watches the goaltender push off and close the distance, expecting the snapshot.

Caitlyn has always loved a challenge. So she met his prediction, her stick clapping the puck with an impossible speed, pinpoint accuracy, twenty years in the big leagues behind the satisfying snap of wood on rubber on ice.

The puck launches. The goalie’s trapper flails, his body dives to block it, legs splaying out, head whipping around to track it.

Too slow.

The crowd noise bleeds back into her consciousness as the Sumprats tie it up at three, and the Zaun crowd begins to roar its approval as her family swarms around her, Vi’s eyes on her the whole time - a battle roar from their direction.

Two minutes later, Ashe nets a beautiful one-timer to send the Ironfists home, and the Sumprats secure their sixth cup.

Caitlyn’s last.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“It feels wrong, kind of,” Caitlyn said later, when she’d washed the champagne from her skin, when she was stretched out in bed with Vi, their hands - engagement rings on each of their ring fingers - clasped over the sheets. Vi had pampered her endlessly, loved on her completely, made her feel cherished, adored, seen.

“To win without me?” Vi asked through a yawn.

Caitlyn nods, rubbing her nose on Vi’s cheek, a small and comforting gesture. “Yeah. It’s always felt like our team. I missed you out there.”

Vi yawned again, deeper, sleepier. I was there,” she said, softly, “and I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

“Let’s get married next summer,” Caitlyn murmured.

“I’d marry you right now,” Vi whispered back, “but my jaw is too sore to do my vows.”

“Quitter,” Caitlyn accused, and was met with a low, quiet hum.

~*~*~*~*~ 

“You know,” Vi said, at Caitlyn’s retirement ceremony - a ballcap on her head, the Sumprats logo scowling out from atop it, “when people talk about strength, toughness - they usually talk about me.”

Caitlyn’s jersey was spread out on two cables, much like Vi’s had been. Vi’s jersey - WICKETT, number 6 - was the only jersey the Sumprats had retired, the first one in their history. Caitlyn following her made the most sense, the organization excited to hoist both to hang together, sleeve to sleeve, watching over and blessing The Last Drop.

Vi stood in front of the jersey in her stupid ballcap, her full suit - the combination was ridiculous , even if it made Caitlyn clench a little with want - behind a podium. She leaned against it, arrogant, quiet, her gaze taking in the assembled crowd.

“That’s the first thing in my journal entry - it’ll be the first thing people discuss about me when I’m just a memory - how tough I was. And for most of my life, I believed them - I really thought that I was the toughest person around. Prided myself on it, you know? I could take any fight, I could work the body, I could lay the lumber and play through injury. Because I was tough .”

Vi smiled, standing, and plucked the microphone from its stand to walk the stage. She walked better than she had just after retirement - the knee was given time to heal, time to ease away from playing constantly and pushed towards a life of relative leisure.

“But I hadn’t really understood toughness until I became partners in crime, teammates - with Caitlyn Kiramman. Caitlyn was tough in ways I realized I wasn’t - she wasn’t just physically able to take punishment out there, physically able to work through pain. She was emotionally tough - mentally tough. Nothing ever rattled her, or distracted her. She was able to stand tall, stay on the ice.”

Vi paused, twirled the microphone cord once. “Stay on the ice - that’s all she wanted. She was willing to do anything to just keep playing the sport she loved - the sport we both loved. It made me in awe of her - made me worship the ground she walked on. And it made me fall in love with her game, first, her mind second. She was just - a genius. She could solve defences so quickly, could tear other team’s hearts out, step on them with her skate. She’s… magical.”

Vi smiled. “And it’s a sad, sad fucking day in the RHL, because today the best in the world is hanging them up.”

Vi looked at Caitlyn, grinned wide - so wide that her gapped teeth were prominently displayed.

“Cupcake,” she said, and the crowd erupted into a loud roar at the nickname, “there will never be another like you - I was so fortunate when you came into my life. You’re my soulmate, my best friend, and the love of my life - and I’m so fucking honored that we’ll be here together in this building - for as long as it stands.”

The crowd erupted in applause as Vi watched Caitlyn’s watery smile. Caitlyn could take her eyes off of Vi’s eyes - the striking, piercing blue that anchored her, made her weak as much as it had given her strength.

“So, without further adieu,” Vi said, lifting her hands, “stadium guy - would you mind indulging us with one last Kiramman rifle shot?”

The goal horn sounded - twice in rapid succession, two quick blasts to the jubilation of the crowd. After another moment, it sounded again - long and loud, with the rifle explosion rocketing through it. Throughout the stadium, coworkers, fans, family, Vi and Caitlyn, all lifted their hands like they were holding a stick and fired along with it - her own 30,000 gun salute.

KIRAMMAN hung next to WICKETT in the rafters, gently swaying with the motion of raising 33 next to 6.

Caitlyn sobbed into Vi’s shoulder the whole time.

~*~*~*~*~ 

Their wedding was in the offseason - they wanted everyone to come. Ahri brought Akali, Ekko brought Rell, and Senna brought Lucian - a pairing that Caitlyn and Vi both raised their eyes at. They were married in the Summer Isles, a destination wedding that had some of their friends and family roll their eyes, but they all went without much complaint to enjoy some surf and sand, good company and good food.

The ceremony only had two pieces of drama surrounding it - Caitlyn told Vi that she wasn’t allowed to wear a hat until the reception before Vi could even ask, and Vi had insisted that Caitlyn wear a dress - a gown, to be precise, with suspiciously similar measurements to a certain red dress that Caitlyn squeezed into for their rookie award season.

Vi was walked down the aisle by Powder, who was blubbering the entire time. The tears fell fat and thick, and Vi squeezed her arm and held her tight near the end, kissing her forehead and whispering that she loved her. Vi had walked Powder down a similar aisle a few years earlier, and Powder had done the same thing - the emotions too much for the moment.

Caitlyn was walked down the aisle by Tobias, who had made promises not to light anything up until after the ceremony. He, also, blubbered the entire time - the only words he could manage the entire morning was my girl and grown up and she’d better , platitudes that had to be forced out of him when he could manage real words. He gave her away with a kiss to her temple, careful not to muss her hair or her makeup as he took a seat next to a silently crying Cassandra.

Caitlyn looked across at Vi - Vi looked at Caitlyn, and they became the sun, the center of their own private celestial body. The moment felt big, weighty, and nerves shot up Caitlyn’s spine, made her hesitate and clench at her flowers in a vice-like grip, her fists tensing and relaxing in little rhythms meant to calm her down.

A hundred hockey players, media members, and plus ones crammed into beach front pews as Graves stood at the pulpit, watched them all, and gave a soft, quiet smile.

“Hello,” Graves said warmly to the assembled hockey goons, “you fuck-ugly sons of bitches.”

The tension shattered - Vi and Caitlyn laughed, and the wedding became much more them .

The vows were short - that they promised one another. In many ways, they’d said their vows to one another when their jerseys were lifted into the Last Drop, words meant for each other that were spoken in public. In front of their friends and family - found and born - they kept it very simple.

“I’ll love you until the sun goes out,” they said, “I’ll love you for forever. I’ll love you so long as I have any strength inside me.”

The words said, the promises made, Graves pronounced them married.

~*~*~*~*~ 

The reception was exactly the same as a championship party, but instead of stories of how good the game was, it was stories about how dumb Caitlyn and Vi had been.

Diana and Leona did a comedy duo show about the ins and outs of trying and failing to keep their relationship a secret.

Elora stood up and made the crowd weep tears of laughter describing how Vi suddenly realized she was stupid in love with Caitlyn - that night when they sat on their couch.

Tobias - red eyed from crying, he swore - gave his rendition of the Harvestday adventures, how Vi had tried to hide in her car - it turned out he had been watching from the window most of the exchange.

Sevika talked about them both calling in sick, Mel supplying how angry Vi had been when she had accused Mel of leaking their relationship to twitter.

But Powder did the cruelest - and best thing - she could’ve.

In front of their family and friends - with Caitlyn and Vi’s blessing beforehand - she wheeled in a television, hooked up a camera, and showed the cut footage from the documentary - a fifteen minute montage of Vi and Caitlyn being in love. Stolen glances, quiet touches, private laughter. Uncut interviews with motel managers swearing that they saw them together two years before they had been Sumprats. Their shared hotel room with a do not disturb sign on the door.

By the time they played an interview with a Summer Isles resort maid who had to clean up their honeymoon sweet, the crowd was rioting - drinking and laughing and cheering as Caitlyn and Vi were red as tomatoes, jaws aching from smiling. Their hands - adorned with wedding bands - remained on the table, the rings catching the light.

The inside of Vi’s ring was inscribed with 33.

The inside of Caitlyn’s was inscribed with 6.

“Welcome,” Sarah Fortune says, “one and all to the 2022-2023 Sumprats ten year reunion - we have the entire team, coaches, and GM of that 2023 season here to ask an open round of questions. Firstly, I want to thank the Sumprats and the Last Drop Arena for hosting us today - we are in the lovely Sumprats team meeting room, a place where most fans have never really been inside before. Welcome, Sumprats.”

The Sumprats all give a different wave or shout. Caitlyn and Vi are seated in the center, both wearing their old jerseys. Caitlyn’s hair is closely cropped above her shoulders, Vi’s is longer and in a ponytail, the two of them with slightly more weathered faces, brighter smiles.

“Now, I think we all know who most of the questions are for,” Sarah Fortune laughs, “but we’ll start out with a general one - we’ll go through each of you guys and you can describe a little about how you found out you were going to be on the Zaun Sumprats - we’ll start with you, Vi.”

Vi looks at Caitlyn, gives a crooked smile. Caitlyn presses her hand to Vi’s knee, squeezes lightly in encouragement.

“Well,” Vi begins, “the phone call that uh, changed everything, could not have come at a more embarrassing time.”

The camera freezes on Vi and Caitlyn as the Sumprats laugh all around them, smiling at one another, love and affection reflected in their eyes.

Caitlyn Kiramman and Vi Wickett live in Zaun.

Caitlyn Kiramman is an outspoken representative for youth hockey in Zaun, and has opened three WickMan institutes across the nation. She speaks across the country about abuse, victim blaming, and toxicity in the media.

Vi Wickett took over for Sevika as Head Coach of the Zaun Sumprats in 2033. There, she won her first cup as a coach - tying Caitlyn's total of 6.

Both were inducted into the hockey hall of fame on their first ballots, sealing their legacy as two of the best to ever do it.

They are happily married.