Chapter Text
The rink always felt a little like a stage, a little like a battlefield, and a little like home, and Vi Lanes carved through it like the ice had been poured and frozen just for the sharp bite of her blades, every stride powerful, every edge controlled, every shift on-ice proof that she didn’t just play hockey, she lived it.
The floodlights washed the rink in crisp white while the cold pricked at her skin even through layers of gear, her breath hanging in the air as the stands thundered with noise, students pounding the glass, voices slamming into each other as they chanted her name like it was part of the arena’s soundtrack.
“Lanes! Lanes! Lanes!”
She cut through the cold like she owned it in black and red, the bold stripes burning across her sleeves, that impossible-to-miss 06 stamped loud and unapologetic across her back, her name - LANES - stretched across her shoulders like a promise the entire arena already believed in. The number popped bright and sharp against the dark jersey
The scoreboard burned red and white across the rink, the score close enough to matter, close enough to have every line tense and every coach on edge. Their bench leaned forward, the crowd leaned forward, the whole world seemed to lean forward.
Her gloves flexed around her stick, taped grip familiar beneath her palms, sweat prickling beneath her helmet while she rolled her shoulders loose the way she always did before a play broke open.
She wasn’t stiff, she wasn’t nervous, she never let herself be, she skated like pressure was just another defender to skate through.
The puck snapped across the ice toward her, a hard, clean pass along the blue line, and that was the moment everything tilted into the Vi zone, that split-second where the forecheck broke, where the defense hesitated, where it felt like the entire play bent around her because she’d seen it all before it even happened.
She cut into the neutral zone, exploded past one defender, then slipped by another with barely a brush of shoulders, skating low, fast, the edges of her blades biting into the ice with that perfect combination of power and control that came from years of miserable practices, bruised ribs, aching muscles, taped wrists, and refusing to ever be anything less than terrifying on the rush.
Her eyes stayed sharp, calculation and mischief mixing together, because yeah, it was a close game, yeah the crowd was losing their minds, yeah the stakes were high, but god, this was fun, this was everything.
Someone shouted her nam, someone else screamed something unintelligible. The sound turned into a storm of adrenaline behind her.
She angled in, opened her shoulders just enough to sell the fake, dragged the puck across, snapped her wrists, and let the shot fly - fast, clean, the kind of shot that made goalies hate her and made arenas fall in love.
The puck kissed the net, the mesh snapped back, and the world detonated.
The arena erupted - people on their feet, arms thrown up, voices cracking from screaming, laughter breaking out because winning with her never felt like relief, it felt like celebration.
Her teammates crashed into her, gloves slapping her helmet, arms around her shoulders, that chaotic, clumsy, perfect pile of joy that nearly bowled her over, except she locked her skates, dug her blades in, and laughed breathlessly up at the screaming lights like she could drink the moment down and live off it forever.
And stitched over her chest, right above her heart, the bold C caught the light - not a decoration, but a mark of what she was to them. Not just their best player. Their center, their leader, their pride, their unstoppable, infuriatingly charismatic force on ice.
They won after that, because of course they did. With momentum like that, with Vi burning hot and relentless and refusing to let them fall behind again, there wasn’t much room left for doubt.
The buzzer went off. Their side of the stands erupted once more, drowning even the rink announcer’s voice. Vi skated backward for a moment just to look, to take it in.
Rows of students pressed close to the railings, their voices merging into something wild and rhythmic, into something that wrapped around her like a warm jacket.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe this noise meant she wasn’t alone, that adoration was the same thing as belonging.
She didn’t close her eyes though. She lifted her hand, pointed her stick in a teasing salute toward the stands, and the shouting somehow got louder.
Because Vi Lanes wasn’t just a name here.
She was a phenomenon.
Off the ice, the admiration for her didn’t die, it just changed it’s form.
The girls talked first, naturally. Whispering in clusters by the bleachers, or in hallways later, or in bathrooms with their phones glowing between them.
There was always some version of Have you seen her Instagram? Fuck, look at those abs, and someone else groaning dramatically, and someone else saying something like no seriously imagine kissing her just once, like as a social experiment obviously, followed by breathless laughter that didn’t sound very scientific at all.
Screens lit up with reposted gym selfies, blurry photos from practice, candid shots someone grabbed while she was stretching, drenched in sweat and laughing with teammates, hair sticking to the side of her face and muscles drawn sharp under skin. Someone would send a photo, someone else would send ten heart emojis, someone would type I hate her in all caps when they very much did not, and every so often a girl would mutter softly, half joking and half not, if god gave me Vi for just one kiss I would never ask for anything again, and the others would nod like, yeah, fair.
Boys didn’t gush the same way, or if they did, they did it carefully, with respect threaded through every word. Especially the athletes - soccer, basketball, swimming, lacrosse, you name it. Anyone who knew what it meant to bleed for a sport saw her differently. They talked about discipline, leadership, how she never made anyone on the team feel small, how she took blame when things went wrong and gave away credit like she had too much of it.
“She’s the kind of captain you’d take a hit for.” one of them said once, half-grinning, half-serious.
“She’s the kind of captain you’d follow into hell.” another replied, and nobody laughed, because it didn’t sound like a joke.
Teachers pretended to roll their eyes at her sometimes, muttering about her recklessness on the field, her overconfidence, the way she’d dodge scolding with charm and honesty that came straight from the chest, not the kind that came from manipulation.
But even then, they softened when she waved, when she greeted them with that bright voice, when she stayed after practice to help the first-years or sent a message to check in on a struggling teammate.
Impulsive, yes. Loud, absolutely. But brilliant in her own messy, blazing way.
Everyone liked her.
They Loved her.
Talked about her.
Wanted something from her, inspiration, attention, proof that someone like her could exist so effortlessly.
And Vi handled it with grins, with fist bumps, with jokes tossed carelessly over her shoulder like she didn’t realize how many people would store even those very tiny moments somewhere deep in their chest.
The locker room after the match smelled like victory and sweat and cheap deodorant, laughter echoing against cold metal lockers. Teammates crashed into benches, breath still ragged, half of them still buzzing like adrenaline hadn’t figured out how to fade from their blood yet.
“Captain!” someone called, throwing an arm around her shoulders.
“Legend!” another shouted.
Vi barked a laugh, shrugged them off, only to pull them straight back in with a grin that made it impossible to stay annoyed. She ruffled hair, nudged shoulders, and raised both arms dramatically.
“One game at a time yeah?” she teased. “Save the worship for when we win the championship. Then maybe I’ll allow a statue. Maybe.”
They booed playfully.
Someone threw a towel at her head. She laughed harder.
Later, when most of them had drifted out, when the noise dulled into quiet background chatter, she sat on the bench with her skates unlaced, staring for a moment at nothing in particular. Just breathing. Just letting her heartbeat slow back to something human.
Ekko leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a crooked smirk pulling at his lips. Captain of the soccer team, her equal in a way nobody else quite managed to be, loud where she was loud, grounded where she threatened to burn too brightly.
“Show-off.” he called lightly.
She glanced up, grin instant. “Jealous?”
“Always.” he admitted without shame, stepping in and tapping the top of her helmet. “Crowd was insane. You’re basically the school’s religion at this point.”
“Terrifying thought.” she replied, but her chest warmed anyway.
They talked a while, about plays and training and how exhausting it could be to be looked at so much, joked about dropping everything to start a bakery or disappear to some small town where nobody knew their names.
Ekko laughed at the idea, then went quiet for a fraction of a second too long, long enough to show mutual understanding. Long enough to hint at that quiet loneliness that sometimes crept in once the crowds stopped chanting.
The school corridors later were still buzzing from victory. Someone clapped her on the back. Someone else shouted “LANES!” like greeting a celebrity. She grinned, returned waves, mock-saluted a group of first-years who nearly fainted from joy.
And then, almost by accident, she looked up and saw her.
Caitlyn Kiramman walked down the hall like a calm line drawn through chaos, posture perfect, expression untouched by the noise around her. Where Vi burned hot and fast and loud, Caitlyn carried a quieter gravity, something elegant and controlled, like she lived beneath an invisible spotlight she never asked for but had learned to stand under anyway.
For a heartbeat, the noise blurred.
Vi didn’t know her well, barely at all, really. Just a face she’d seen, a name she’d heard, one that came with weight and whispers of power and family legacy, the girl everyone admired politely but never seemed to truly stand beside.
She didn’t stare long. Didn’t indulge curiosity. Just watched her pass for a moment, noting the difference between them, storm versus still water, and then the moment ended.
Someone called Vi again.
She turned, she smiled. Life surged forward.
But later, when the night cooled and everything slowed again, Vi would think briefly of that hall, of that girl walking so elegantly steady through a world that still felt loud around her, and she wouldn’t know why that image lingered, why it settled in her chest alongside the echo of cheers.
Not attraction, not yet at least, just awareness. Just a spark of oh. And then it was gone.
But sparks had a habit of remembering how to burn.
The library always smelled like polished wood and paper, like quiet discipline and swallowed emotions, and Caitlyn had learned early on that silence could sometimes feel heavier than noise. Afternoon light stretched through the high windows, cutting pale gold rectangles across the tables and over the neat rows of notes spread in front of her, each line precise, underlined in blue, margins filled with organized thoughts and references like she was building a battlefield strategy rather than just studying for an exam.
Her pen didn’t tremble when she wrote, but the slight tension in her fingers betrayed how hard she was trying, how carefully she kept control.
People liked to say she was born prepared, that being a Kiramman meant knowledge came easily, like intelligence was something inherited alongside property and influence.
They didn’t see the way she stayed behind after class, the way she reread chapters until words blurred, the way she made flashcards despite not needing to. They saw scores, not effort. They saw her last name, not her burnt midnight candles.
It never stopped weighing on her, the whisper that she didn’t earn anything, that life simply laid itself at her feet, obedient and convenient.
Turning a page, she paused to breathe, brushing an invisible wrinkle out of the paper, posture instinctively perfect even when nobody demanded it of her.
A few teachers passed through the quiet aisles, stopping briefly as if to check on students but inevitably letting their gaze linger on Caitlyn just a second longer, fond, approving, quietly proud. She always greeted with a small, respectful nod, soft smile, polite voice.
She didn’t crave approval, but it was nice to have proof that someone noticed her effort.
They noticed.
But students did too. Just… differently.
Near the back, a pair of girls whispered behind cupped hands. A boy rested his chin on his hand, watching her with a mixture of intimidation and annoyance.
People rarely spoke loudly about her; most of their opinions traveled under the breath, floating through corridors and message threads instead of conversations she could fight back against.
“Kiramman heir.”
“Everything’s easy for her.”
“Must be nice to be rich.”
“She doesn’t even understand real life.”
They said it like her life was a luxury product she flaunted instead of a sort-of cage she’d grown up inside.
Piltovians didn’t just know the Kiramman name, they respected it, feared it, leaned toward it when laws bent and opportunities opened.
Old money. Old influence. Old expectations. Even if Caitlyn never acted cruel, never bragged, never used that power selfishly, it still wrapped around her like a mantle no one believed she could ever take off.
She shifted slightly, continuing to read, pretending she didn’t hear, pretending she didn’t always hear.
Eventually, she closed the history textbook, pressing the edge of her thumb against the side of the page to mark her place.
The light outside was dimming slightly as evening leaned closer, and she carefully gathered her papers, slid them into folders, tucked her pen away with the same precise care she gave everything else. Structure helped. Clean spaces meant controlled thoughts, controlled thoughts meant she didn’t think too much about what people said.
The hallway outside the library buzzed with low-level life - footsteps, laughter from afar, lockers slamming. Not all of it cruel, not all of it hostile, just distant, somewhat.
Everyone seemed close to one another, tangled in friendships and effortless conversations that Caitlyn never quite stepped into.
She passed a group of boys leaning against lockers, joking loudly about something sports-related, talking chemistry assignment panic, complaining about teachers, making weekend plans.
When their eyes brushed her, the volume dipped for half a breath. Not silent, just… careful.
Respectful.
Cautious.
A little resentful, maybe.
She kept walking, chin steady, polite smile ,calm composure. The version of herself she’d built to survive being watched.
Civics class had always carried a kind of irony, especially here, discussions about fairness and power and social balance being held in a room where everyone subconsciously arranged themselves by status.
The desks were arranged neatly, afternoon sunlight cutting clean beams through dust-speckled air.
Students filtered in one after another. Some laughing. Some slumping. Some glaring preemptively at the board like it had personally offended them.
And then came Mr. Henry.
He wasn’t the frail, grey, whispering kind of older teacher people expected when she mentioned his age. He was mid-40s, broad-shouldered beneath a worn button-down, sleeves rolled a little too casually, revealing strong forearms like he’d spent younger years lifting more than just books. His hair had gone streaked with early silver but not in a defeated way, more like time had marked him deliberately, refusing to dull the steadiness in his posture or the grounded weight of his presence.
He didn’t have the kind of authority that came from intimidation. It came from stability, from the assurance that he’d seen enough of life not to be easily shaken.
He had that balance, firm voice when things went out of line, kind humor threaded through lessons, the ability to see when someone needed help before they had to ask. And while many teachers adored Caitlyn openly, Mr. Henry had always treated her not like a symbol, not like a Kiramman, but like a student. Just a person.
That alone mattered more than he probably realized.
“Good afternoon,” he said, voice warm but steady, not booming, just confident.
A chorus of responses, most half-hearted, some cheerful.
He scanned the room. “We’ll be continuing our discussion on systemic structure and civic responsibility. Yes, ironically, this is relevant to your lives even if you think laws are boring.”
A few chuckles.
Eventually, the class settled down. They moved into discussion soon enough. He posed questions: Who benefits most from systems staying the same? Who carries consequences when they change? How much of power is earned, and how much is simply inherited circumstance?
The room quieted at that, glances flickering, unconsciously, toward Caitlyn.
She felt it. Of course she did.
Her spine stayed straight. Her hands folded on her desk. She didn’t fidget, didn’t shrink, didn’t humor shame that didn’t belong solely to her.
“Miss Kiramman,” Henry said softly, not calling her to expose, not to corner, but because he trusted she’d answer sincerely. “Your thoughts?”
The whispers stilled.
Caitlyn inhaled slowly. “Most systems are structured to protect themselves,” she said, voice calm, controlled, thoughtful. “People born into privilege benefit from stability because instability threatens what they were promised. But that doesn’t excuse ignoring inequality. If anything… it means those with secure footing have more responsibility to address it.”
The class went quiet in that uncomfortable way truth always did.
Henry watched her for a moment. Something approving flickered in his expression, not pride in her name, not admiration in wealth, admiration in thought, in moral effort.
“Good answer.” he said. “Well said.”
Some students rolled their eyes.
One girl sighed.
Someone muttered of course she sounds perfect under their breath.
Henry’s brow flicked just slightly at the sound, but he didn’t call it out, he didn’t need to. He moved forward smoothly, guiding discussion away so Caitlyn wouldn’t have to sit in the weight of being The Example again.
She appreciated that more than she’d admit.
Henry turned back to the board, chalk scraping as the room loosened again, murmurs rising cautiously like the class wasn’t quite sure if it was allowed to breathe yet.
A lazy voice drifted from the desk behind her.
“Hey, Kiramman.” Vi said, not poking, not teasing, just curious, like she genuinely wanted to know. “Serious question, do you actually think like that all the time, or was that just for the grade?”
Caitlyn didn’t turn immediately; she let herself exhale first, then glanced back over her shoulder. Vi was leaning back slightly in her chair, chin propped on her hand, watching her with that sharp, attentive look Caitlyn had learned meant she was listening.
“I think it’s true.” Caitlyn answered, tone even, no theatrics. “If you’re steady on your feet, you have more room to help someone who isn’t. That’s not punishment, it’s just… responsibility.”
Vi nodded once, thoughtful.
“Yeah.” she said quietly, like the idea sat right with her. “Makes sense.”
Their eyes met for a second longer than needed, not charged, just human, then Vi looked back to the front before Henry could notice, tapping her pen against her notebook like she hadn’t just asked something important.
Caitlyn faced forward again, shoulders settling.
And that was it. Simple, real and enough.
The halls remained the same still, admiration that never softened into friendship, eyes that glanced too long then turned away, whispers that curved around her like ivy. Teachers adored her. Students tolerated her.
Nobody quite stood with her.
Except… maybe…
Every now and then, she’d catch sight of Vi Lanes somewhere across campus, surrounded by friends, laughter, shouts, that chaotic warmth she carried everywhere she went. Completely different, completely opposite, yet for one fleeting moment earlier in the day, when they’d passed in the hall, Caitlyn had seen something softer in Vi’s eyes too. A flicker of tiredness beneath energy, a hint of loneliness beneath applause.
Two people the school loved in opposite ways. Two different kinds of isolation. Two paths that hadn’t yet touched properly.
But they would, sooner than either expected, maybe
And somewhere inside Caitlyn’s carefully controlled chest, a quiet spark began forming, not hope yet, not longing, just the gentle awareness that maybe, somewhere in this city built on power and expectation, someone else understood what it meant to be watched all the time.
And that awareness, fragile and small as it was, refused to fade.