First of all, hello to everyone!
What I've got planned for you guys is a Clexa sports AU in which a cute, kind, focused Clarke who wants nothing but to play hockey has to deal with the arrival of forward superstar Lexa Woods, who she has played against and isn't particularly fond of. The key is that Woods, although cocky and unpleasant, constitutes a hell of a winning asset and will most likely lead the team to victory. I know some of you (all of you, just admit it) want to see the fall of the great Lexa Woods, or in other words, see her go from arrogant asshole to little gay puppy. And I will give you just that. Prepare for angst, cool hockey games, fluff and a HAPPY ENDING (see, I am very subtly telling you that Clexa is endgame). Now, without further ado, let us begin
The shots we didn't take
Clarke Griffin knows two things about hockey: one, that winning is the best thing she ever experienced in her whole life. It brings this big, toothy smile to her face, makes her jump and drop both glove and blocker at the same time at the sound of the buzzer and run to tackle her mates, not even caring if they struggle to stand on their blades as her heavily padded frame collides with them in a ferocious hug.
Losing, on the other hand, is the absolute worst, digs a hole in her guts, brings tears of fury in her eyes, and that, that is the second thing she knows beyond doubt.
Unfortunately, for the last ten years, losing became some sort of habit for the Strikers, Arkadia's once famously successful collegial hockey team. Water bottles were furiously thrown in lockers' first shelves, players giving a glimpse of their anger while removing their equipment in a violent fashion, yanking hard on the laces of their skates, pulling their helmet's chinstrap while uttering loud, crushing sighs. Clarke, as happy as she is playing for the city team, knows that she probably won't ever get her hands on the Jaha cup, let alone admire it from a distance, as long as a contract links her to the blue and gold jersey she wears five days a week.
It doesn't stop her from giving it her best shot at every occasion, hoping that a miracle will happen, that her players will suddenly develop unique offensive abilities, finding the bottom of the net more than one and a half times per game, which was the (sad) average last season.
And that's how on a Monday morning, her mouth full of waffles (maple syrup dripping down her chin), she receives a surprising text from one of her teammates.
Raven, professional hockey unicorn 9:28 am
Holly shit Griffin, you won't believe what's happening here
Griffin the muffin 9:31 am
What
Raven, professional hockey unicorn 9:32 am
Too long to explain just get your ass here already
Griffin the muffin 9:33 am
My mom made waffles okay? A girl needs her breakfast. And how come Monday mornings are so important all of a sudden? Practice is at 10, no rush.
Raven, professional hockey unicorn 9:33 am
Trust me Griffin you do not want to be late today. I repeat, just get your ass here.
Clarke knows her friend well enough to know that she herself is rarely on time. At the thought, she realizes there has to be some sort of event, and a special one, for Raven Reyes to wake up at the alarm (not snooze it ten times) and successfully get out of the bed.
There is a heavy animosity in the locker room. Clarke can hear it the moment she's around the corner, duffel bag thrown carelessly over the shoulder and water bottle in precarious balance under the arm. A head springs out of the room, casting her an annoyed yet excited glance.
"Griffin! Thank God."
The next second, Raven is grabbing her shoulders, shaking with a strange febrility.
"Okay, so this morning Octavia texted me because she got a text from Jennings who got a text from Mitchells who was notified by the coach– "
"And it looks like you've turned into a babbling magpie overnight… Would you just get to the point?"
Raven glances at her, both exasperated and restless, her hand brushing through her hair quickly. "We traded Capcom! I can't believe it!"
"What?" The response came bursting out of Clarke - fast, loud, upset. All things reconsidered, she really likes Mia Compton, their captain for the last three years, and the thought of losing her services is both panicking and unfortunate.
"Just like that? Out of the blue? After a twenty-goal season?"
"Clarke, we're fucked. We've been fucked for the last five years. You can't blame people for trying to help us."
Clarke is about to reply when she promptly closes her mouth and decides to reflect on the matter. Raven isn't wrong. Time after time, their coach has yelled at them, telling them that there would be changes in the roster if they didn't start performing. Again, that's the missing puzzle piece, that has been the missing puzzle piece for over ten years now: performing, not playing, not doing their job, but performing. It's not a game anymore, it's a show. Fans expect to see the red light flashing and hear the buzzer resonating in the arena, they buy tickets to see action, fights, a fire burning at the core of this team.
"Who is it? Is she good?" Clarke asks, starting to calm down, starting to see the logic in the issue.
"They say she's some sort of hockey prodigy. Drafted by the Polis Scorpions, played for them for the last three years. Scored thirty-two goals last season. I'm thinking she might be the real deal, Griffin."
The real deal. Truth is, the team has been waiting for this "real deal", has signed youngsters who apparently had potential but later proved to lack the experience, has traded their worst players for poor draft picks, has trained, trained, trained until players can't skate, can't shoot, can barely get to the bench, and there, sigh in exhaustion as their muscles beg for mercy. Each season, new players are gradually disillusioned, as they begin to realize that their dreams will always remain just that: dreams. Unattainable, too good to be true.
And with that, both girls enter the locker-room, freeing the equipment from the bags, putting it on like it's something mechanical, an automatism, almost. Clarke is halfway through her first skate when Octavia enters her line of sight, looking disheveled and grouchy like she's just been dragged out of bed. She raises her hand in a pitiable salutation, the other occupied with containing the impressive yawn that tears her mouth open. Raven raises her eyebrows, shooting a glance in Clarke's direction. "Good morning to you too, Blake," they salute sarcastically and almost in unison. "Oh, hey guys", the dark-haired girl replies semi-consciously, eyes glancing on both sides of the room like there's something missing. "Where's the new chick?"
Clarke can't help the ironic smile from spreading across her face. "Are you guys obsessing over her already? Who is she, Madonna?"
"Nah, she's the female Sydney Crosby. But younger, so Conor Mcdavid I guess? Or even Auston Matthews, once we're at it-"
Charlie Langton, second line wingman who has overheard the conversation, jumps on the occasion and joins the three girls.
"Okay just to clarify real quick, she is NOT Auston Matthews, and certainly not Sydney Crosby. Blake, just face it, putting her on the rink will be just like inventing a new show called "Asshole on ice"."
At that, Clarke intervenes, perplexed. "First, I'm guessing this is a poorly delivered joke about Disney on Ice. Second, is she that bad?"
Langton quickly nods, ignoring Clarke's comment (they're past that, really), then licking her lips like she's preparing for a sharp speech. "She's just that, actually. Hey Briggs, remember when we played against them mid-season and she gave you that check?"
When named, Lauren Briggs turns around, and she seems busy with her helmet but quickly lets down the equipment to join the conversation. "Holy fuck, I still have back pain whenever I think about it."
Clarke's jaw drops. "That was her?"
The memory is imprecise, but she vaguely remembers seeing Briggs collide with a player she thought played defense at the time (because really, who else could check like that if not a defenseman?), and the result was spectacular and painful at once, sending Briggs on a front flip only to land flat on her back. It was completely legal and completely vicious. "Reyes, were you there? I think you weren't there yet, am I right?"
Raven nods, curious to learn more about the subject. "I think that was the year before I joined the team." Langton's reaction is one of satisfaction (she guessed right) and she stands beside Octavia to exemplify the situation using reconstitution. "So, Briggs was going like that – and she had the puck, going for the net… Next thing you know, Woods (she motions in bewilderment) appears out of nowhere and she's fierce, and she wants to taste blood, you know, like a shark-"
Octavia interrupts her. "Or a wolf. I mean, they don't call her Big Bad Woods for nothing."
Clarke glances at Octavia exasperatedly. "Hey I'm just saying", she defends herself, hands in the air in a defense motion, and adding a shrug for symbolic reasons.
"Thanks, Blake, that will be all for now", gratifies Langton. "So, back to it. Briggs is just cruising, you know, just chilling, and then Woods bends down, sliding towards her quick as a snake, and hits her, using her ass as leverage to flip the chick who's then flying like a retarded pigeon, and it only took like two seconds. I'm telling you, Woods is a sneaky bastard."
Always the rational, Clarke processes the information, then takes it with a grain of salt. She's quick at finding explanations for things - for anything, really, whether it be an event, an inappropriate comment, a rude behavior. "But it was legal, wasn't it? I mean, Briggs, you lived to tell the tale."
Lauren shakes her head with a crooked smile. "I didn't actually tell the tale." In response, Clarke shoots her an annoyed "don't give me that shit" look.
Then there's silence. Prolonged, complete, utterly unusual silence.
Clarke likes to think she adored what she saw when she turned her face at the door. But truly, she hated her at first – that cocky grin, confident demeanor and thick, brown, curly hair that gave the reckless, "takes no shit from anybody" vibe. Lexa Woods. A goddess surrounded by mere mortals. A statue that stood on its own little pedestal, happy with the attention, convinced that it looked grand, bigger than life. And even if it was true, it was still annoying to witness.
"Hey, team." It's simple, concise, to the point. And yet it holds a smugness that makes Clarke nauseous.
At this point, it seems the girls can't get a hold of their emotions: some are overflowing with excitement, others have dark, angry eyes, and the others…? Basically, a mix of the two, really.
Then, a miracle: all noise comes to a brutal stop. "Hi, Woods,", the team says, all players seemingly part of the same entity.
Whispers are heard, some encouraging: "shit, that's Lexa Woods", other, less so: "oh god, not her".
Raven bends over, murmuring to Clarke. "Look how jacked she is."
And it's impressive, really. She has quite large shoulders, and solid, capable arms. Suddenly, Clarke is happy to be a goalie, relieved, even, since she will never have to face any of Lexa's famous checks.
As if on cue, Woods proudly makes her way through the crowd, dropping next to her bag on a bench, so laid back it's almost weirdly elegant. "I like the deco", she mutters under her breath with a half grin, resulting in a fit of giddy laughter from girls sitting next to her.
"Shit, she already has her fan club", deplores Langton, sarcastic and frustrated altogether.
"It won't last long", Clarke points out, shrugging with the maximum indifference level she can manage to summon.
The sad thing is: it does.
An annoying babble fills the locker-room for as much time as it takes for girls to leave for the rink. Soon, only Clarke, Raven and Octavia are left sitting on a bench, already looking tired.
Clarke sighs. "Yeah, it'll be a long season."
Coach Reeve calls them up in the beginning of practice, giving them a speech on the importance of kindly welcoming a new teammate, and how it can enforce good chemistry from the start. The whole time, Clarke is bouncing from one foot to the other, impatient, eager to go to her goal. She glances around mindlessly, still noticing the fact that fifty percent of the team seems already sold to the mere idea of having Lexa Woods gracing the ice with her two skates. She rolls her eyes at the thought.
The coach gives her orders.
"All right girls, listen up. Skill drills for half of you, and shoot outs for the other half. Make sure to spread evenly."
As a goalie, Clarke has the habit of manning the goal for a while, and then switching to various exercises, some involving making a precise pass from behind her net or practicing her change of stance while following the movement of the puck.
"Hey, O, come over here", she says, motioning for her friend to join.
Octavia skates her way up to her, then turns her head, looking over Clarke's shoulder.
"Oh my god, Griff."
"What?"
"Lexa's in the shootout squad. Because of fucking course… She wants to test you."
"You think?"
"I know. Eh, probably wants to make sure she has a high caliber goalie to work with."
Clarke is suddenly uncertain, despite it being a feeling she's unaccustomed to - and for that reason, she's puzzled, even surprised, for a while, and she faces the fact that Alexandria Woods is skilled and confident and threatening and she just has that effect on Clarke.
"Am I a high caliber goalie?"
"Jesus, Clarke, you're scary, today. Am I a high caliber goalie? Where does that even come from? Of course, you are, you dummy, you're the best goalie in the league!"
The shocked tone employed by her friend soon makes a shy smile grow on Clarke's face. "Maybe you're right." Then, nearly theatrical. "Let's see, shall we?"
She's between the two goal posts in close to four seconds, and a line is formed in front of her. The players all look relaxed, casual, except for Lexa, obviously. There is a concentration that appears to have melted, dripped all over her rigid frame - arms crossed, chin low, jaw set (Clarke swears she sees it twitch, just once, and it's almost scary enough to make her lose focus).
"Ready, Griff?" asks the first player: a 4th line forward, who Clarke knows is mediocre at scoring.
Calmly, she pulls down her mask, taping her stick on the ice and pressing her two gloves together in an instinctive preparation ritual. "Sure, bring it."
The save is easy, as Clarke predicted, for the player chooses a simple wrist shot that was meant to slip between the pads. Only, it bounces against one due to Clarke shifting swiftly to the left.
With each save, a goalie gains confidence, and Clarke becomes the living proof of that, with the smug grin that illuminates her face (though partially hidden behind the mask) until it replaces itself with a look of determination when Lexa Woods is waiting at the blue line.
Without a word, the first line center gives two powerful strides, and she's effortlessly flying towards Clarke, who scans her like a robot would do, looking for clues, signs of the intended target.
Lexa's stick is bending, she lifts a leg slightly, and the puck is shot like a bullet. It was terribly fast, too fast to respond, but Clarke Griffin is no ordinary player, and she either found the time to react or made it out of thin air. Both are plausible, because the puck is now in Clarke's glove, and the realization is sudden: she made the windmill save, twisting and turning and raising a hand like clockwork, closing on the puck and pulling it away safely, all without blinking.
Which is now what Lexa Woods does: blinking. Looking incredulous (though trying to hide it), shaking her head in confusion, and blinking.
But then when Clarke pulls off her mask to let it rest atop her head, their gazes meet, and it's quite the experience. It lasts a couple of seconds, after which Lexa addresses Clarke with an imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. Some sort of yeah, you're pretty good.Some sort of yeah, you're better than I thought.
It soon becomes a concert of cheers and gasps as some of Clarke's teammates are coming by to offer some encouraging words and a friendly pat on the head. One of them mentions that they've never seen a goalie deny Lexa Woods her top corner, which she is apparently very fond of. Another one adds that the forward must now be furious, out of her mind, even, and that she'll probably act on it later. At the indication, Clarke fails to repress the shiver that reverberates through her spinal cord. She's both curious and worried to learn the measures Woods intends to take in such situations.
The answer comes later, when Clarke's leaving the arena.
"Hey. Griffin, is that it?"
She turns around at the call, standing still at the sight of Lexa Woods in all her glory, hair pulled together in a messy bun, all ripped t-shirt and baggy sweatpants and tattooed up to the wrists.
"Yeah, it's Clarke, actually. Clarke Griffin."
Immediately, Clarke hates the tone she used, and the answer in itself, because why say your name twice, that's just plain awkward, and frankly, she would've been "mind-rambling" for another five minutes if she hadn't seen the smile on Lexa lips, and the way she cocked her head to the side just a bit, as if studying a cute exotic animal.
"That was a tight save, back there."
The offensive player rubs her neck confidently, going for the casual, unbothered style. "I liked it", she adds, her eyes looking like they're smiling too, so in the end it's like a double smile, isn't it? And the blood is rushing to Clarke's temples, rather dizzying, and she can't really think of an answer, not now, not like that.
"I guess I'll see you around then", Lexa adds, waving slightly, then leaving.
It lasted only twenty seconds, and on paper, twenty second encounters are meaningless, just a jumble of quick words, but as Clarke walks back home, lost in thoughts of green eyes and that annoying, damned smirk, something tells her she will remember this moment for quite a long while.
Thank you so very much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Feel free to leave a review, it would make me extremely happy!