The omnipresent buzzing of the lights accompanied the heavy scraping of bare skates against the concrete as players moved in and out of the locker rooms, bumping into one another. The air was thick with the repulsive scent of sweat, mingling with the cloying sweetness emanating from coolers filled to the brim with sugary sports drinks that tasted of artificial fruit. The atmosphere was tense—perhaps too tense. Tonight was supposed to be great: the first game of a new tournament, Zaun vs. Piltover, the long-time fated enemies. Vi had been training for this, spending late nights on the ice until her limbs trembled with exhaustion. All alone, often only accompanied by the quiet hum of music from her phone. She’d long since lost count of the number of times she was forced to walk home, waddling like a penguin and groaning in pain as she clutched her heavy duffle bag.

With such preparation, you’d think things would’ve turned out better, but they didn’t.

Halfway through the second period, Vi and a player from Piltover became involved in a fight. She sent the poor boy, whose jersey read 'Talis' straight into the glass. Their gloved fists clashing against each other, helmets tossed aside on the ice and forgotten before Jinx eventually dragged her away. All bloodied and smirking like an idiot as the referee took over and pushed her into the penalty box.

She would’ve won this game had it not been for you. You blocked all of her shots as if it were your last day on earth—almost taunting her to try harder each time, only for her to be met with disappointment as you stopped the puck yet again. Vi really wanted to hate you but it was hard to. You were frustratingly good, and she could respect a fellow skilled player, even if at times it made her want to hurl her stick directly at your face.

You were always two sides of the same coin—two renowned names that belonged in higher leagues than mere college hockey.

Vi's back was pressed against the cold wall, the rough texture of the bricks digging into her skin through the thin jacket she wore. The jacket was half-unzipped and hung loosely on her frame, with her name embroidered on the front next to her team's logo. Her usual duffle bag hung over her shoulder, overstuffed with equipment, as the worn seams threatened to tear at any moment. A sea of bodies moved in front of her as they exited the locker rooms, occasionally fist-bumping her or wishing her better luck in the next game. She didn’t need it—she knew she’d win.

Her mind was elsewhere, filled with meaningless thoughts, her gaze unfocused until it eventually landed on you. It didn't take long before she picked up her hockey stick, adjusted her bag, and made her way toward you. Her boots struck the rugged concrete floor, while messy strands of sweaty hair fell to obscure her features. Her eyeliner was smudged around her eyes, and her freckled cheeks were still flushed from the game as a grin spread across her face when she approached you. You quickly felt her arm wrap around your shoulders as she began to speak.

"How many times am I gonna lose to you, hmm?" Her words were followed by an awkward laugh. "Go a lil’ easy on meee—you’re gonna hurt my reputation. What if I lose my title, huh?"