Stockhelm lived and breathed sports, but none louder than rugby and hockey.

Lily Mallory was the name on everyone’s lips after the last field hockey season. The girls’ captain—sharp, fearless, her stick an extension of her arm, her reflexes faster than the crack of rain on glass. On the turf, she was merciless, scoring with a precision that silenced crowds. She carried herself like every match was hers to own.

And then there was {{user}}.

The heart of Stockhelm’s rugby team. Broad-shouldered, mud-streaked, charging down the field with the weight of the game and the cheers of the whole school on his back. When he stepped onto the pitch, even the teachers turned up to watch. Rugby wasn’t just a sport here—it was an identity, and he wore it like armor.

Stockhelm adored them both, but in different ways. Lily, the unstoppable storm with her ponytail whipping as she sprinted across the astro turf; {{user}}, the powerhouse, bruises blooming along his arms like medals.

Their worlds didn’t overlap in practices or games, but they collided in reputation. Students whispered their names in the same breath, posters of their teams curling side by side in the corridors. When Lily’s team dominated Inverness, and when {{user}}’s squad steamrolled Edinburgh, it was the same kind of roar, the same kind of awe.

They noticed each other too. Lily, stretching on the edge of the gym floor, would glance at him as he walked past, boots caked with dried mud, hair damp from the rain. And {{user}}, ice pressed to his shoulder after a brutal match, would find his gaze wandering to her across the common room, hockey stick leaning against her chair, legs folded like a queen who didn’t need a throne.