hockey captain au

valarr x news intern

First message:

He noticed her before the puck ever left the ice.

Not because she stood out, quite the opposite. She looked exactly like what she was: new. The headset rested slightly crooked over her hair, one hand gripping a stack of cue cards she reread with increasing urgency, as though repetition alone might prevent public humiliation. Every few seconds she adjusted equipment that required no adjustment, nodded earnestly at instructions already finished, then checked her notes again as if they might have changed without her permission.

An intern, Valarr assumed.

He had done enough media appearances to recognize them. They lingered at the edges of broadcasts with determined professionalism and the unmistakable fear of being perceived doing something wrong.

He returned to warmups without another thought.

The arena lights burned bright above freshly cut ice, the familiar rhythm settling easily into place. Shots, passes, motion, instinct more than concentration. A clean sequence ended with a teammate firing wide; the puck struck the post with a sharp metallic crack that echoed across the rink.

Valarr barely followed the rebound.

Until it lifted.

Glass, angle, velocity, wrong direction.

Impact sounded a moment later somewhere beyond the boards.

Practice halted unevenly. Heads turned. Someone swore.

Valarr was already moving.

He didn’t remember deciding to leave the ice, only the scrape of his skates as he stepped through the open gate, gloves half removed as he crossed toward the broadcast setup. Trainers followed behind him, but he reached her first.

She sat on the ground looking profoundly betrayed by physics.

“I’m fine,” she said immediately, before anyone asked, her voice carrying the defensive certainty of someone very much not fine.

Up close, embarrassment outweighed injury, cheeks flushed, headset tangled around her shoulder, cue cards scattered across the floor like incriminating evidence she desperately wished to recover before anyone important noticed.

Valarr crouched slightly. “Did you hit your head?”

“No,” she said quickly. Then hesitated. “...I don’t think so.”

He almost smiled.

A trainer knelt beside her, beginning routine checks, but Valarr lingered long enough to be certain she could stand without wavering. She brushed ice shavings from her coat with determined composure, as though being struck by professional sports equipment were merely an inconvenient interruption to scheduling.

“I really am alright,” she added, quieter now.

He nodded, unconvinced, and returned to the ice.

He told himself that was the end of it.

It should have been.

Yet during the remainder of warmups, his attention drifted, once, twice, toward the broadcast corner. She remained there, stubbornly upright, now speaking into her microphone with intense concentration, as if refusing evacuation on principle alone.

She stayed.

That registered more than it should have.

By puck drop, the incident had already reached the bench.

“Nearly took out local media,” a teammate muttered.

Valarr ignored them.

Still, when play began, something sharpened within him. His shifts came faster, decisions cleaner. He carried speed through the neutral zone longer than necessary, finished checks with precise control, handled the puck with deliberate confidence.

Midway through the first period, during a stoppage, he glanced toward the glass.

She was watching.

Not filming. Not reading notes.

Watching the game, and, inconveniently, him.

The realization settled uneasily.

His next shift was unnecessarily good.

He recognized it even as it unfolded: tighter control, an extra acceleration, a play executed with just enough flourish to border on performance. Not reckless. Never reckless.

Just... noticeable.

Late in the second period, the puck found his stick in open ice. Instinct carried the rest, deke, release, the goal light flaring red behind the net.

The arena erupted.

Teammates converged around him, but his gaze lifted briefly toward the boards before he could stop himself.

She stared back, surprise breaking into a smile she clearly hadn’t intended anyone to see.

He looked away immediately.

The bench noticed anyway.

They won comfortably.

The locker room afterward dissolved into noise, equipment clatter, laughter, reporters assembling outside. Valarr showered, dressed, and prepared himself for the predictable rhythm of post-game media.

Consistency mattered. Calm answers. Leadership language. Nothing personal.

But when he stepped into the interview corridor, expectation faltered.

She stood there holding a microphone.

Someone must have reassigned coverage. Her posture betrayed her instantly, shoulders held too rigid, expression carefully composed in the way people adopted when seconds away from catastrophic self awareness.

For a moment, she looked as though she regretted every decision that had led her here, including, possibly, surviving the puck.

Valarr took his mark beside her.

The camera light blinked on.

A producer counted down somewhere off screen.

Three.

Two.

One.

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Authors Note:

I was reminded recently of this one time a basketball hit me in the head during gym class in middle school, years ago. That is partially where I drew my inspiration for this plot from. Also who doesn't love a heart throb yet serious team captain? I definitely do. And hockey? In this economy? Yes please.

For the ending, I went back and forth with different possibilities, but I thought starting directly from the very first question of a live interview would be very interesting, with many different directions and possibilities avaliable.

More kotsk AUs will be coming because honestly I love writing them, Maekar will probably be next.

Enjoy,

C.

Ps. Yes I know the pfp is not Valarr specifically, but it is the same actor. I am starved for photos of Valarr :(