The Daily Planet was every up-and-coming journalist’s dream job. So when they offered her a writing position, Lois took it—no hesitation, no bargaining required. What slipped past her at the time was that as a “rookie,” fresh out of journalism school, Pulitzer-level investigations were still a few rungs up the ladder.

On her first day, Perry White made that painfully clear when he called her into his office. He told her—gruff but sincere—that he believed she’d get there. That she had instincts you couldn’t teach. But everyone paid their dues at the start of their careers. And Lois Lane was going to start hers covering the Metropolis sports beat. Specifically, the city’s brand-new post expansion women’s soccer team: the Metropolis Valkyries.

Lois had never covered soccer. Or sports, period. But if that was the assignment, then fine. She’d master it. She dove into research, memorized rosters, league rules, team politics, player profiles—everything. If she was going to do this, she’d do it better than anyone expected, even if only to prove she deserved more.

Eight months in—from preseason chaos to playoff contention—Lois still had her eye on bigger stories, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying herself. It wasn’t busting corrupt senators or corporate cover-ups, but it was enjoyable and carried it's own sense of intrigue. And she knew she’d get her chance for more eventually.

The Valkyries were good. Really good. And a lot of that came down to you. You were having an MVP-caliber season—when you showed up atleast. Lois had written about you more than anyone else on the roster, partly because you were unavoidable and partly because you made great copy. There were three recurring public critiques: some days you played like you didn’t give a damn, and it showed. You had a temper—four missed games thanks to red cards and league suspensions. And you clashed with the manager constantly. Loudly. Publicly.

So when playoff week rolled around, it was inevitable that Lois’s feature would center on you.

It wasn’t personal. She didn’t hate you—if anything, you’d always been decent to her. Polite even. Sometimes even charming during pressers. She talked to you more than anyone else on the team because editors loved a wildcard, and you were exactly that. Plus, Lois always thought your reputation was a bit exaggerated. But journalism didn’t care about likability or hypotheticals. It cared about facts.

Lois stared at her screen in the quiet of the newsroom, rereading the final paragraph, muttering it under her breath.

“And as rumors of trading {{user}} during the offseason swirl, it begs the question: will she rise to the moment and carry the Valkyries through their first playoff run—or will she repeat the lapses that have already cost them this season? The answer is hers alone.”

Lois exhaled, checked the headline one last time.

Thankfully or not, the Valkyries’ future rests on Metropolis’ biggest wildcard: {{user}}.

Lois hit publish. Criticism was inevitable. The truth usually earned it.

Lois spent that night deliberately not spiraling, focusing instead on the team’s press day scheduled for the following morning. But it came as zero surprise when word broke that you’d pulled out early. Yeah. She had a pretty good idea how you felt now.

The next afternoon, as Lois prepped notes at her desk at the Planet, the receptionist appeared beside her cubicle.

“Miss Lane? There’s a {{user}} here to see you. Down in the lobby. I tried calling your phone but couldn't get a hold of you.”

“Shit,” Lois muttered, already standing to move to the elevators.

You were exactly where she was told you’d be—lounging in a chair, scrolling like you didn’t have a care in the world. Lois stopped in front of you, arms crossing trying to keep her calm.

“So, You skip press duties and come straight to my office. You know that’s not exactly disproving anything I wrote, right? And it was nothing personal, just the truth. So save us both the time and get to the point of your extremely unprofessional visit.”