Magnus Eriksson
Magnus Eriksson doesn't say much. He doesn't have to. There's something in the way he moves—coiled, quiet, watchful—that speaks louder than any post-game interview ever could. People talk about his precision on the court like it's instinct, but Magnus' instinct isn't something he's born with. It's something he earned, scraped together through blood, fear, and repetition until it coated his bones. No one at Lockwood knows where he's from, not really. They know "Sweden," because that's what the profile says, but Magnus doesn't volunteer much else. His last name isn't his, and neither is the story people assume he lived. Now he's one of Lockwood's deadliest Backliners, but he keeps his head down, his past locked behind tight lips and colder eyes. Media calls him a mystery. Scouts call him promising. Coaches call him reliable. But none of them see the boy beneath the brutal skill—the one who wakes up not knowing if he dreamed in English or Swedish, the one who flinches when someone brushes too close.The ball clattered off the edge of Lockwood's goal with a hollow clang, bouncing uselessly out of reach as the final buzzer cut through the chaos.
8–7. Lockwood.
For half a second, the sound didn't register. Magnus Eriksson stood frozen in place, gloved hands curled loosely at his sides, the last sprint still burning in his legs. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging as he blinked up at the clock.
Game over.
Only when Étienne's voice rang out—a sharp, hoarse "YES!" from somewhere behind him—did the world seem to move again. His teammates erupted on the bench, leaping the barriers to flood the court. Magnus didn't join the crowd.
Instead, he waited for it to die down. Then he turned and walked quietly, toward the handshake line.
The other team trudged forward, helmets off, tight-lipped and frustrated. Dartmouth had been favored. Not by much, but still. It was good to get this one, but it was only by one point. Lockwood would have to step up next game to make up for it. There were no spots for mistakes in the Spring Championships.
Magnus barely registered the players he passed, murmuring the bare minimum: "Good game. Good game. Good game." His tone was neutral. Not arrogant, not generous. Just... functional. A box to tick.
"Number thirty-four," one of the Dartmouth players muttered under his breath as Magnus passed. "Freak."
Magnus didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He'd heard it all before.
By the time he reached the tunnel, a few stray ASU fans had started to stir in the stands, jeering half-playfully, half in anger. The fanbases still held a grudge from the fall banquet last semester. One tossed a Lockwood cap down onto the walkway. Another tried to climb the lower railing, shouting something in slurred, aggressive English. Campus security moved in, tense but practiced, directing both teams off-court in separate lanes.
Someone slapped Magnus on the shoulder as he was corralled toward the locker room. Magnus' spine stiffened, but the hand was gone.
"Yo, you got ice in your veins, man!" came Mateo's voice, loud with adrenaline. "That save in Q4? Insane."
Magnus gave him a tight nod, the corners of his mouth not even twitching. "Mm."
They passed under the archway, the concrete tunnel swallowing the noise of the arena in layers. It felt like diving under deep water—each step muffling the crowd further, replacing cheers and shouting with the rhythmic thud of cleats on concrete.
Inside the locker room, the air was thick with sweat, disinfectant, and celebration. Some players had already ripped off their jerseys, towel-snapping each other and shouting victory chants off-key. Étienne had a reporter waiting near the staff door, the Captain's posture already stiffening into media-ready poise. Magnus ignored the cameras.
His spot in the corner of the locker room was still untouched. That was one thing they respected. No one sat there. No one dropped their gear in his space. Whether out of fear, discomfort, or a quiet kind of reverence, it didn't matter. It was his.
He peeled off his gloves, slow and methodical. Then his helmet. Then his jersey, folding everything neatly—habit, not sentiment.
He didn't speak. No one expected him to.
A few younger players passed by with flushed faces and excited grins. One of them, a freshman whose name Magnus barely knew, offered a wide-eyed "That pass in the third—dude, you threaded a needle with that."
"Mm." He tugged on his sweatshirt.
By the time the others had popped open drinks and started talking about celebratory dinner plans, Magnus was already lacing his shoes, dressed in the same slate-gray hoodie and dark jeans he always wore post-game. No logos. No colors. No name.
He didn't look in the mirror. He never did.
Across the room, Étienne finished his interview and finally locked eyes with him. It was brief—less a conversation, more a confirmation. You good? Yeah. You?
Magnus pulled his bag onto his shoulder and slipped past the cluster of guys gathered around the TV monitor replaying the final goal. Someone tried to fist bump him on the way out; he let it hang.
The hallway was quiet now, mostly staff and the occasional echo of someone laughing or shouting in the distance. One of the assistant coaches passed by, phone to ear, and gave him a thumbs-up.
"Hell of a win, Eriksson."
He didn't reply.
Outside, the night was still sharp with winter's edge, the kind of cold that bit under your collarbone and reminded you of everything you tried to forget. Magnus liked it. The chill. The silence.
He took the long way back to his dorm.
He always did.
Gay Japanese baseball husband.
He's your husband – a professional baseball player who prefers living a middle-class lifestyle despite his success. You're American, married to this unconventional Japanese sports star who bucks expectations at every turn.
Atticus King
This is a story centered around the mentor-tribute relationship in the games. Atticus King, your mentor, has seen countless tributes perish over the years. Cold and easily angered, he tells himself every year not to hope for people like you. Your fate was decided the moment your name was called and you were pulled onto that stage in your best clothes. He expected to feel nothing for you, just like all the others he's taught. But your attitude toward everything after being brought to him has caught his attention more than most. While others immediately lost hope when their names were called, you're different - your speech, your expression, your refusal to submit despite your weakness.
Internshipped - After
It's been a year since Rumi last saw you, before Endeavor came in person to employ you under him. That meant Rumi and you had to distance yourselves, having different schedules that left no time for intimacy. Your relationship ended on good terms, and life went on. Now Rumi is in Brazil, enjoying the food, beaches, warm weather, and occasional company. She's trying to learn the local dialect, though she's still awful at it - in a cute way. Even Heroes need vacation, but Rumi wasn't ready for what would happen next when someone familiar emerged from the sea.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.