Rumi freaks out in her room for a while longer. She tries to calm herself but it's useless.
When someone knocks on the door Rumi's worked herself into such a frustration she doesn't even check it before she swings it open.
Oh absolutely not.
“What are you doing here?” She snarls.
“Not even a ‘hello’?” Kang quips, that infuriating smug smirk on her lips.
“How did you get my room number?”
Before Rumi can protest, Kang pushes her way into the room.
“Nice digs,” she quips, looking around. “Of course, the one they gave me has a balcony.”
“Whatever this is, I'm not in the mood,” Rumi practically hisses.
“So you don't want your notebook back?” Kang withdraws the aforementioned object from a pocket in her jacket, pinching it between her long pointer and middle fingers.
Rumi's blood runs cold.
“Where did you get that.”
“Changing room.”
“That's not--I don't--I've never seen that–”
“Then why's your name written in it?”
“You--you read it?”
Kang arches a brow.
“No, no, no,” Rumi turns her back because she can't bear it. She can't see Kang's face for one more second. This is it. Her career is over. What was she thinking, using her stupid playbook to journal in? Her therapist said--no, screw what her therapist said, this is all Rumi's fault. Her own failing. And now Kang's going to--Kang's going to–
Kang looks at the notebook, and then back to Rumi.
“I promise I won't tell anyone.” She holds the book out and Rumi lunges for it but it's nothing but a ruse.
“On one condition.”
Of course she wouldn't have mercy on Rumi. Kang isn't capable of mercy.
“What do you want,” she asks. Her voice sounds desperate even to her own ears. Kang smirks. She's got Rumi pinned like a bug to a wall and she knows it.
The next words out of Kang’s mouth hit Rumi like a bus.
“Hi!” The woman continues to frantically click at her screen.
“Uhm. My name is Rumi. I saw you at the, uh, the draft? In June? You were doing photography.”
The woman swivels her chair around and slaps her forehead.
“Oh my gosh duh, hi, sorry, I’m Zoey! Sorry. I work here. Kind of.” She holds out her palm and Rumi shakes it. “I also do photography for the League sometimes, which I mean duh of course you know, I saw you at the draft pick.”
Rumi blinks a few times.
“You remember me.”
Zoey’s grin is blinding.
“How could I forget?”
She says it so casually like she hasn’t just cut through the armor around Rumi’s heart with a single sentence.
Completely oblivious to Rumi’s internal distress, Zoey continues.
“I usually do water-related sports photography, but my contract expired, and my friend Ajay’s having me fill in for a few jobs. Hang on, did you say Rumi? As in the Ryu Rumi? How did I not realize your hair was purple!”
“U-uh, I keep it tucked under my helmet, usually?”
“Oh sick. It's a fantastic color. By the way, I saw your championship game. The junior one, Canadians versus Americans. You were incredible.”
Rumi’s stomach sours. The International one. The one she lost.
“Thanks.”
“You carried that team, you know? That award they gave you for ‘best forward' was a complete no-brainer.” Rumi forgot she won that. Zoey the photographer takes a sip from her cup. “Hey, do you want some coffee?”
Rumi blinks rapidly.
“Isn’t that your coffee?”
“Oh. Oh, yeah! I guess it is.”
“We should really take the exposure down a half stop if we want her abs to maintain their shape in the final image,” Zoey murmurs to herself, clicking away. Rumi chokes on her own spit.
“You okay?”
“Yeah! Yes! I mean, she’s very, she’s, her, um–”
“She’s blue,” Zoey gripes, then looks at Rumi, then to Kang, then to Rumi. “Oh. Ohhh. God, yeah.” A smile creeps across her face. “She’s hot, huh?”
Wait. No. That’s not–she didn’t mean–
“Rumi!” Celine’s voice cuts through the buzzing that’s started in Rumi’s head.
"Yes!” When she walks over to meet her guardian she tells herself she is not running away.
AKA after reading this fic not only will your knowledge of hockey be a net zero it will be a negative number because I am in fact going to give you incorrect information about hockey. Because I don't know how hockey works.
cw for language and mentions of suicide, mental health.
---
Rumi, Canadian-Korean, is drafted by a team called the Montreal Meteors
Mira, American-Korean, is drafted by the Montreal's rivals, the Pittsburgh Pumas
Rumi had been desperate to be drafted by the Pumas
Zoey is normally a wild life photographer but is temporarily doing sports related work
No I dont know how the photography industry works
The story takes place from roughly 2010-2017
Rumi is deeply closeted
Mira pretends to be a massive bitch. But she's only a bit of a bitch.
Miyeong died in a car crash and tot his day nobody's sure if it was an accident or a suicide.
People only remember Miyeong as "that poor woman" or "that career ruining whore". Nobody remembers her for her record breaking figure skating.
Except for Mira.
Celine was huge in the intramural sports teams but wasn't officially allowed to play on the men's teams and there were no official women's teams when she was an active player
She dressed up and took the place of one of her college friends and helped win . Whatever the collegiate level trophy is.
But she was found out afterwards so the win was nullified.
Zoey is obsessed with her.
And really. Who wouldn't be. What a woman. Bark bark.
Started to write a polytrix hockey au (warning: I do not actually know anything about hockey).
My beta is unavailable for the while and Ive decided I dont want to publish it on ao3 til she's had a chance to look at it so
Instead Ill put snippets here.
Snippet 2
--
The fourth time she sees Mira Kang is at the dinner the night before the final round of games. All the international teams are encouraged to mingle with each other in an effort to foster camaraderie. At least, that’s what the league says.
Dozens of massive circular tables are placed strategically across the ballroom floor, fine white cloths covering their surfaces, plates laid out with cutlery to the sides. The dinner has yet to start but the seats are rapidly filling with bodies.
Rumi casts about, searching for her team, when she spots Kang’s bright pink hair.
“Hi,” she greets, sliding into an empty seat. “My name’s Rumi!” She holds out her hand. Kang’s gaze flicks her up and down for a moment before she takes a sip from the glass she's holding. Rumi wilts, her fingers curling back into her palm. Did she say something wrong? Did Kang not hear her? “Um, Ryu, Rumi. My mom was Ryu Miyeong–”
“I know who you are.” Kang’s expression remains neutral.
“O-oh, cool.” Not surprising. Everyone knows who Rumi is. “I know who you are, too.” She releases a short laugh. “I’ve watched your game against the Finns. The way you move is incredible.”
Kang takes another sip from her glass.
“Thanks.”
“Um, I-I’ve been trying to get your attention the whole week.” Rumi reaches to grab her own drink so there's something to do with her hands.
“I know.”
“You know?”
Kang lifts one perfect brow.
“Your lung capacity is impressive.”
What the hell does that mean?
“I, uh, thought maybe we could talk, since, you know, you're captain of the American team, and I'm captain of the Canadian team, and, well, w-w'ere both half-Korean, so maybe, um.” Kang makes no move to save Rumi from her floundering. Rumi sips at her drink. Kang, meanwhile, pulls a silver flask out of her pocket.
“I thought the drinking age in America was twenty-one,” she blurts.
Kang lifts her brow again. Her mouth is a flat line.
“The drinking age in this province is nineteen.”
Stop. Mind your own business. But Rumi's mouth is way ahead of her brain.
“But you're eighteen.”
“Bit nosy, are we?”
Rumi feels her face heat.
“I–I overheard some of the other girls talking,” Rumi stammers. Kang doesn’t even look at her.
“You shouldn't believe everything you hear.” Kang's come up a few times since her team's first conversation when she stepped off the bus. Besides the suggestion she started playing in the league when she was fifteen, someone else mentioned they'd heard her family was rich rich, and that her brother was going to Harvard, or Yale, or MIT, or that she started out as a ballet prodigy but switched to hockey, or no it was figure skating and then hockey, or that her dad was dead or out of the country or in jail or estranged. The only thing anyone seemed to be able to really agree on about Mir was that she was the second best freaking hockey player in the IIHF.
Second only to Rumi.
“Something else I can help you with?” Kang queries.
You don't have to be a jerk, is what she wants to say. What she says instead is,
“Oh, sorry, no.”
Kang stares.
“You can go now.”
Maybe I'll stay. Canada's a free country, too. But she bites her tongue. Shame coils in her stomach. She's above that kind of thinking.
“If you didn't want to talk, why were you staring at me after your game?” Rumi blurts. She tries not to wince at her own outburst.
“You were there?” Kang doesn't sound terribly surprised, but her tone hasn't exactly been expressive.
“I said I watched it, didn't I?” Rumi pulls her hands off the table and rests them in her lap, fighting against the anxious bubbling sensation in her chest.
Kang hums. “I was looking for someone else.”
“Okay, well,” Rumi stands up when it's clear that Kang isn't going to offer any further details. “Good luck in the rink tomorrow.”
“I don't need luck to beat you,” Kang returns, a smirk curling at the corners of her lips.
(KPDH polytrix hockey au. No I don't know anything about hockey. if you're reading this and you know hockey: I am so sorry.)
---
The press photographer releases them, and they split off to speak to their new respective coaches. Rumi stares down into the bubbles rising in her sparkling juice. Voices of the other attendees wash over her as a dull hum. Kang's on the terrace a floor up, leaning against the railing, long hair flowing behind her. The column of her throat bobs as she laughs, a slender hand moving up to cover her smile. A man with a broad back just as tall as Kang stands at her side, his hand on her elbow.
“Can I get a picture?” A bubbly voice asks. Rumi looks to see an Asian woman with jet black hair and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks.
“Hi,” Rumi smiles, perhaps her first real one since the placements were announced.
“Hi,” the woman smiles back, her eyes bright, her business casual attire accentuating the curve of her hips ('stop looking, Rumi, you creep'). “Can I get a picture of our newest Montreal Meteor and her coach?” Then lifts her camera in askance.
Rumi tries not to let the words sour her expression. Meteor. Not a Puma.
“Yes, of course.”
She moves to stand beside Coach Lowell, their arms brushing. The photographer spends a long time looking through the viewfinder of her camera before finally snapping a few shots.
“Excellent, wow, Ms. Ryu, you are gorgeous in that dress,” the woman says as her camera clicks away.
“Thank you,” she says demurely.
“Could you place your hand on your hip--not quite like that, here--may I?” The photographer's hands are soft, and warm, and firm as they guide Rumi's into position. Sparks seem to leap up Rumi's forearm from the point of contact, but just as quickly as she's there the photographer’s gone again.
“Ms. Kim, could I have you get in here too, please?” the woman asks, and if her voice is a little higher than before it must be Rumi's imagination.
“Great, thank you!” She squeaks as Celine moves to where she's indicated. The woman snaps a final few photos before lowering her camera, offering a wave, and disappearing into the crowd.
The delight of a pretty woman's attention is quickly quashed as Rumi is reminded of where she is, and of what she has failed to do.
If you write 3 sentences on one of your works in progress, I'll write 3 sentences on mine.
okay okay I did it.
I rewrote the opening paragraph of Bladed.
"The first time that Rumi sees Mira Kang, she isn’t thinking about hockey at all. A local news crew is parked off to the side of the arena where the teams are congregating, shooting B footage of shuttles coming and going. Rumi wonders if they'll film the games. She wonders if they'll interview her. She wonders if they'll treat her the same way they treated her mother."
Polytrix hockey au (warning: I don't know anything abt hockey)
---
She places her long sleeve shirt on top of her sweatshirt. The buckle of her pants clinks as she undoes the clasp. She can hear Kang shuffling around in the background but she’s careful to keep her focus on the wall in front of her.
Rumi's outerwear is in two neat stacks by the time she's done.
But of course it's not going to be that easy.
“Do you fold your clothes before you have sex, too?” Kang asks, corner of her lips quirking up. She's sitting on a bench in a tank top and panties, leaning forward, elbows braced on her knees.
Rumi blinks rapidly.
“What?”
“If a guy tries to take off your shirt do you let him? Or do you always do it yourself?”
“You can’t just–if I do, that’s not–how is that relevant?”
Kang stands up and runs her hands over the shirt lying on top of the pile.
“The fabric isn't even a good quality. Where'd you get that shirt? Sears?”
“I--they are–what’s wrong with Sears!”
“Whatever you say, Princess.”
Princess.
Rumi’s heart lurches in her chest as something ugly snakes up her ribcage. Her nerves are replaced by an iron anger. It’s been a long time since she last heard that particular nickname.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? What’re you gonna do about it?” Kang snarks, eyes still half lidded, infuriating smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Kang. I’m serious,” Rumi growls. She clenches her right hand over her left wrist, squeezing down hard hard hard. Is it possible Kang doesn't know?
There’s a heavy moment where Kang just looks at her in that quiet way that she does. Rumi bites the inside of her cheek.
Before either of them can say anything else the double doors to the locker room are thrown wide as a PA rushes in to gather them for the shoot.
