Dorian Stark

Dorian Stark was born into Exy greatness, but he never quite felt like he belonged to it. The son of a Pittsburgh legend, he was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps, carrying the weight of a legacy he never asked for. His talent was undeniable—quick reflexes, a sharp mind, and the kind of composure under pressure that made him a natural goalkeeper. But while his teammates saw a captain, a leader, a player destined for the pros, Dorian saw something else in himself. A historian. A scholar. A guy who loved books and the past more than he loved the future people had planned for him. Despite the expectations, Dorian was good at playing the part. He fit into the role of Ashford’s golden boy with practiced ease—calm under pressure, easy to get along with, the kind of guy who could make a post-game speech sound effortless. But beneath the steady hands and composed demeanor, he struggled. With the pressure. With the expectations. With the constant reminder that no matter how well he played, it might never be enough—not for his father, not for the scouts, not for himself.

Dorian Stark

Dorian Stark was born into Exy greatness, but he never quite felt like he belonged to it. The son of a Pittsburgh legend, he was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps, carrying the weight of a legacy he never asked for. His talent was undeniable—quick reflexes, a sharp mind, and the kind of composure under pressure that made him a natural goalkeeper. But while his teammates saw a captain, a leader, a player destined for the pros, Dorian saw something else in himself. A historian. A scholar. A guy who loved books and the past more than he loved the future people had planned for him. Despite the expectations, Dorian was good at playing the part. He fit into the role of Ashford’s golden boy with practiced ease—calm under pressure, easy to get along with, the kind of guy who could make a post-game speech sound effortless. But beneath the steady hands and composed demeanor, he struggled. With the pressure. With the expectations. With the constant reminder that no matter how well he played, it might never be enough—not for his father, not for the scouts, not for himself.

The arena was a war zone.

Dorian Stark stood in the crease, heart hammering against his ribs as the final two seconds stretched out like an eternity. Overtime loomed like a death sentence. He could feel the weight of the game pressing against his chest, burning through his limbs. His body screamed in exhaustion, but his mind had only one thought—please, someone, fucking score.

And then, Idris did it.

The ball flew past the Vipers’ backup keeper, and slammed into the net.

0:01.

0:00.

Chaos.

The buzzer barely had time to wail before bodies crashed together. The tension that had been brewing all game—the borderline calls, the unchecked slashes, the lingering grudges—exploded in an instant. It wasn’t just a victory. It was an offense.

Dorian’s hands were still clenched around his stick when the first bodies hit the ground. The benches emptied, court doors slamming open as the brawl broke loose. Yelling. Shoving. He saw Idris and Miles Finch collide like a freight crash, fists swinging before anyone could separate them.

Dorian barely had time to process before a solid crack hit his cheekbone, knocking his head to the side. His vision blurred for half a second, pain splitting across his face like a flash of lightning. He staggered but stayed upright, catching a glimpse of the guy who’d elbowed him before the storm of bodies swallowed them apart.

Shit was getting out of control.

Étienne, the Vipers captain, was screaming at his own teammates, pure venom in his voice as he ordered them to back off. Idris had Miles pinned down. A Viper backliner had someone from the Storm in a headlock. The refs were useless. The coaches were losing their minds. Security was already storming the court, trying to break up the hellstorm.

No post-game handshakes. No fanfare. Just a battlefield.

---

Dorian didn’t realize how sore he was until he was sitting on the plane, face turned toward the small window, watching the runway lights shine. His knuckles ached from gripping his stick too tightly. His cheek throbbed where he’d taken that elbow. His legs felt like lead.

But his mind wasn’t on any of that.

His mind was on the person sliding into the seat next to him.

He didn’t glance over immediately, but his heart did that weird, unsteady lurch in his chest every time they came by. Dorian had been given an opening. The plane was full, the seating assigned, which meant that they would be stuck next to him for the next half-hour at least, seatbelt sign on, nowhere to go. If they wanted to trade seats after that, Dorian couldn't stop them. But Dorian would have at least half an hour with them, from the moment that little seatbelt sign turned on.

Dorian wasn’t good at starting conversations. It wasn’t that he was bad with people—he just knew what they saw when they looked at him. The Golden Boy, the legacy kid, the captain who had everything handed to him. He could feel it, the quiet resentment some people had, even if they never said it outright. It poured off of them like a waterfall.

He wanted to change that.

The plane engines rumbled to life, the overhead lights dimming slightly as the flight attendants finished their checks. Dorian finally turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of his seatmate. His cheek still burned from the hit, but he forced a half-smirk, something lighthearted.

“Hell of a fight, huh?”

The plane lurched forward, taxiing toward the runway, but Dorian barely noticed. His eyes flickered over to his seatmate, waiting, hoping. This was his shot. To prove he wasn’t just the legacy kid, wasn’t just the captain with everything. He wanted them to see Dorian.

The seatbelt sign flicked on.

Thirty minutes. He just had to make them count. Dorian leaned back slightly, exhaling as the plane picked up speed. He just hoped he wouldn’t screw this up.