The Virus, Episode 1: Fast Times At Bow Wow Way (Part 1)

 

Pictured: Rayna Embers (L, standing) and Evie Sicario (L, seated) watch Daniel Apollo (centre) give his now famous "Virus" speech at Bow Wow Way Collegiate

April 2, 2016

13:04 local time,
Bow Wow Way Collegiate Institute,
Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, United Commonwealth of Sovereign States (UCSS)

Carl Ratzinger shifted in his seat as his best friend, Bow Wow’s multi-sport star and Cuyahoga Crooks Baseball Academy prospect Pratley Casmire, sat down next to him. Though Carl was just one of the athletic department’s water boys, “Prat and Rat” were practically inseparable, having been best friends since the first grade.

In the same auditorium sat another pair of best friends, Evie Sicario and Rayna Embers. Carl had his eye on Evie, but he could never drum up the courage to approach Evie, let alone speak to her. Pratley, who often boasted to Carl about his own “conquests” kept telling Carl to “take a chance” but Carl always has excuses.

For her part, Evie was always nice to Carl and sometimes, she found him endearing. Evie, though, did so because that was her style- she just preferred being nice and cordial with everyone, Outwardly, Evie projected the spirit of being the innocent, approachable, “everywoman”, an image she was proud to project.

Inwardly, Evie was fascinated by sex and romance, something she only brought up with Rayna. That’s because Rayna first enamoured Evie on Evie’s first day of work when she told Evie about the romance Rayna was having with a man Rayna only described as “Greg”. Rayna would often boast about Greg and Evie would often indulge her with questions at their shared workplace at the Bow Wow Resort, the Bow Wow Corners’ tourist attraction where a beach resort meets a dog park.

“So,” said Evie as she sat with Rayna, “will I ever get to meet Greg?”

Rayna demurred, as she always did.

“One day,” she said, “when the time is right, you will. I promise.”

“Good,” said Evie, who was already starting to fantasize a scene out of a romance novel in her head. “Because I want someone who can handle me like Greg handles you.”

Rayna snorted and then smiled.

“Oh,” she said with a playful grin, “Greg does handle me very well.”

The conversation was brought to an abrupt halt when the dean, Richard Head, alerted the gathered auditorium that the feature presentation was about to begin.

Today, the renowned criminologist Daniel Apollo was set to deliver a speech to the auditorium, doing so to promote his memoir, The Diary of a Crime Hunter. The speech was open to the public and the Collegiate made a lot of money selling tickets for the event, though Bow Wow students got in for free. Many of them took the tickets just to get out of class, though Evie was not one of them.

Apollo spoke softly but with conviction, immediately grabbing the audience’s attention with his decisive but smooth tenor, one that soothes and reassures. He spoke with the aura of a man who stared directly in the face of the purest evil known to humanity and didn’t flinch, with his unflappable temperament a big part of his legend.

Evie was particularly interested, as she always had a fascination with true crime. She owned several editions of Apollo’s other work, the Compendium of Serial Killers and Other Notable Criminals and sometimes dreamed of becoming a “profiler” like Apollo one day. It was one of many interests that she had, and she hoped today might give her future self some clarity.

Apollo spoke for over an hour, enrapturing the audience with accessible and digestible tales of his time fighting crime. Evie was intrigued by his stories, many of which added details and insights that Evie herself never realized before.

As he closed his speech, one part resonated with Evie more than the others:

“It is imperative that we treat crime like a virus. Once it infects a society and is left unchecked, it grows beyond containment. History shows us that sustained criminality erodes trust, stability, and ultimately the society itself.”

Evie nodded when she heard the statement. Not only did it feel right, Evie felt it could- and should- drive policy one day.

After Apollo ended his speech, he was greeted with thunderous applause. He then stuck around, as he was selling his memoir and providing autographs for anyone that wanted one.

Evie stood up, carrying one of her copies of the Compendium, but froze before she could walk any further. Rayna, ever the fearless one, took Evie by the hand and practically dragged her towards Apollo.

“Excuse me, Mr. Apollo,” said Rayna as Evie stood beside her, lowering her head and hiding her very blushed face. “My friend, Evie, here would like a copy of your memoir but she’s been fangirling so much that she’s afraid to ask, so I am.”

“Oh,” said Apollo. “Well, tell Evie she need not be afraid…‘fangirling’ is not a crime after all.”

Evie’s heart raced and she tried very hard not to babble, but she still couldn’t stop her words from exploding out of her mouth. Apollo had no idea what she said, but he found her awkwardness endearing and let out a warm laugh.

Apollo then outstretched his hand to introduce himself. Evie still babbled and said she wanted a hug and a picture, and Apollo complied, which eventually soothed her nerves just enough to finally speak in coherent sentences.

“You’re like,” said Evie, readjusting her glasses and fixing her flaming curly red ponytail, “one of my heroes, Daniel. I sometimes think of the day that I could do your job. I’d say I’d love to work with you in the field, but I feel that time may be passing.”

Apollo chuckled warmly.

“I am getting on in my years, yes,” said Apollo, “but I still have a lot of energy. I’d at least like it to be a reality.”

Apollo then passed Evie his business card.

“Crime fighting could always use more dedicated, hard-working people like you,” said Apollo. “If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

Evie acknowledged Apollo before picking up a copy of his memoir and getting that and her Compendium signed before she left the auditorium and walked down the hallway alongside Rayna, still feeling like she was walking on air.

“Can you believe that, Rayna?” said Evie, her excitable voice a bit louder than it needed to be. “I met Daniel Apollo. I still can’t believe it happened.”

Rayna then pinched Evie’s shoulder which elicited a loud “OW!” from Evie.

“At least you know you’re not dreaming,” Rayna said with a smirk.

They continued until they got to Evie’s locker, where she put away the Apollo books and gathered her things for her next class.

“So,” said Rayna, “does this mean you’ve finally settled on criminology as a career?”

Evie sighed, letting out an exasperated huff.

“I don’t know,” said Evie. “I keep going back and forth on it. I love all those true crime stories and crime fascinates me, but I also know that investigating crimes takes a lot out of you. Daniel says that a lot and I don’t know if I have the stomach to see what he sees.”

“Well,” said Rayna with a smile, “you could always be a traffic cop. No dead bodies there.”

Evie gave Rayna a look and then playfully tapped her shoulder.

“Traffic cop,” said Evie. “Pfft…come on, do you think I’m going to go into criminology just to become a traffic cop?”

“Just saying it’s an option,” said Rayna with a smile.

The Virus, Prologue 1, Part 2: A Steaming Pile Of...A Profile of the Cleveland Steamers Football Club

Picture 1: The Cleveland Steamers' official logo

Picture 2: Carl Pickford of the Cleveland Steamers is tackled by Earl Vickers of the Buffalo Beasts and fumbles the ball in overtime in the 1958 Continental Football Organization Championship Game, later dubbed "The Greatest Game Ever Played"

Picture 3: A scene from the movie "Glory Days of Mumford High" with Bebe Danvers and Harley Pratt that made the Steamers' futility into a cultural meme

Picture 4: The Steamers' official cheer team, the Boiler Crew, alongside its official mascot, Boiler Bill (the costumed steam locomotive) seen here alongside head coach Kareem Salim and new signing Drake Cozens on March 4, 2022

Picture 5: The Steamers' unofficial- and unrecognized- mascot, "Poopie" at a Steamers game on November 6, 2022

Picture 6: Eleanor Feldman, the portrayer of "Poopie" alongside her costume in her home

Historical Overview

The Cleveland Steamers are the world’s oldest professional gridiron football team. Founded by the Cleveland Steam Company in 1892, the Steamers began as a promotional enterprise for the Company itself: players were given guaranteed jobs at the Steam Company in addition to their football wages. The Steamers initially recruited recently graduated college stars and formed a barnstorming team that toured the fledgling northeastern republics of Gideon and Columbia, playing a mix of city all-star teams and collegiate powerhouses. Their jerseys, then as now, featured the Company’s colours — brown as the primary colour, accented by yellow and black.

Led by the iconic coach Sidney Brown, the Steamers quickly proved to be more than a novelty. Their early success helped spur the formation of the Continental Football Organization (CFO) in 1904. In its earliest years, the CFO consisted of only a handful of teams, and the Steamers were the only club that reliably fulfilled its full schedule each season. As a result, from 1904 to 1919, the Steamers officially claimed all but two of the CFO’s recognized championships, awarded largely on the basis of what the league termed the best overall record.

Part of the Steamers’ success stemmed from another early innovation: the incorporation of the forward pass into their offensive playbook. Contrary to popular belief, the Steamers’ early offence was not built around passing. Like most teams of the era, they were primarily run-first. However, the forward pass existed as a tactical option — deployed sparingly as a “trick play,” most often when the Steamers needed to gain large chunks of yardage quickly.

The Steamers would not become a predominantly passing team until Bear Bowman assumed the head coaching role in 1938. Bowman fundamentally reimagined the offence, transforming Cleveland into one of the continent’s earliest pass-centric teams. From the outset, the Steamers’ passing attack employed route concepts and timing patterns that remain commonplace today, alongside formations and reads that would still be considered exotic by modern standards.

By 1920, the CFO had consolidated stronger leadership and a deeper competitive field, breaking the Steamers’ near-monopoly at the top of the league. Even so, Cleveland remained the CFO’s most dominant club and developed a defining rivalry with the league’s other great power, the Buffalo Beasts. The two franchises traded championship dynasties into the 1950s. The apex of the Steamers’ dominance came in 1951, when they defeated the Beasts 29–25 in their final regular-season game, sealing the CFO championship on a last-second flea-flicker pass.

The Greatest Game Ever Played

In 1954, the Continental Football Organization (CFO) divided itself into two divisions, separating Buffalo and Cleveland and creating a formal CFO Championship Game between the two division winners at the conclusion of each season. League officials believed that a dedicated championship final was both more compelling for audiences and more competitively fair than determining champions solely by regular-season record. To lend the new game prestige and neutrality, the CFO selected the Yale Bowl as its permanent host and signed a broadcast agreement with Electronic Poetry — a partnership now widely regarded as the precursor to the eventual creation of the EPSC.

The Championship Game’s early years were uneven. Because Buffalo and Cleveland now competed in separate divisions, only one of the two powerhouses typically reached the final. Once there, the Steamers and Beasts routinely overwhelmed their opponents, resulting in a series of lopsided contests. Executives at Electronic Poetry privately expressed concern about the long-term appeal of such blowouts, but the CFO resisted calls to alter the format, prioritizing competitive integrity over spectacle.

That dynamic finally shifted in 1958, when Cleveland and Buffalo met in the CFO Championship Game for the first time. The Steamers were still led by Bear Bowman, whose innovative passing schemes had frustrated CFO defences throughout the season and propelled Cleveland to a wide margin lead in scoring. Buffalo, by contrast, was anchored by a bruising defence and a punishing running game, led off the field by coach Greg Gifford and on it by Earl Vickers — widely regarded as football’s first true ball-hawking cornerback, as well as one of its most reliable open-field tacklers.

The matchup was immediately framed as a clash of philosophies, and it lived up to the billing. Buffalo’s defence and ball-control offence kept the game close even as Cleveland periodically broke loose with explosive plays. Late in the fourth quarter, the Steamers clung to a narrow 30–27 lead. A Vickers interception in Cleveland territory gave the Beasts the field position they needed to drive into range, and a last-second field goal as time expired sent the game into overtime.

Overtime football was itself a novelty. The 1958 Championship marked the first overtime game in CFO history, played under rules far harsher than those used today. CFO regulations called for sudden death, even if the team receiving the opening kickoff marched down the field and ended the game with a field goal.

The contest was spared that anticlimax, but its conclusion proved even more controversial. Cleveland won the coin toss and elected to receive. Within moments, Bowman’s passing attack carved through the Buffalo defence, reaching the Beasts’ one-yard line in barely ninety seconds of play.

On first-and-goal, Steamers running back Carl Pickford took the handoff and was met immediately behind the line of scrimmage by Vickers. The collision was violent enough to jar the ball loose. Buffalo defensive end Brent Luckman recovered the fumble and returned it the length of the field for a game-winning touchdown.

Cleveland immediately protested the result, arguing that Pickford’s knee had been down before the ball was dislodged and that possession should not have changed. The protest was rejected on the field by referee Joe Niemen and later upheld by CFO commissioner Brad Parkley, cementing the Beasts’ victory and ending what many still regard as the most dramatic and contentious championship game in league history.

The Long, Slow Decline

In the aftermath of the 1958 Championship Game loss, the Steamers collapsed. Cleveland finished 1–11 in 1959 and failed to win a single game in 1960. In the wake of the back-to-back disasters, Bear Bowman retired, closing the most innovative era in franchise history. He was replaced by Henry Heckleford, who immediately imposed a run-first offence in an effort to restore discipline and stability.

Heckleford succeeded in returning the Steamers to basic respectability, but the philosophical shift came at a cost. His approach ran directly against the strategic tide of football, as teams across the continent began embracing more aggressive passing concepts — many of them inspired, ironically, by Bowman’s earlier successes in Cleveland. While the sport evolved, the Steamers retreated.

The franchise’s descent from powerhouse to punchline was ultimately cemented by its failure to capitalize on football’s transformation from a niche regional pastime into a continent-wide commercial enterprise. The Steam Company remained structured as a regional industrial concern and treated the Steamers accordingly. Unlike their rivals, Cleveland never expanded its stadium, nor did it reinvest the growing windfall from broadcast rights back into the team.

By the time the CFO merged with the Gideon Football League in 1972 to form the World Football League (WFL), the Steamers had already fallen far behind the league’s new economic and competitive realities. From 1961 to 1977, Cleveland managed just one winning season — in 1969 — a statistical outlier that did little to disguise the franchise’s steady decline.

The "Joke"

In 1984, the coming-of-age comedy Glory Days of Mumford High was released to enormous box-office success during the summer season. The film was both a commercial hit and a critical darling, following its protagonist, Benjamin “Benny” Weaver, as he navigated teenage hormones, insecurity, and the pressure to lose his virginity. Unlike many films of its era, Mumford High rejected the conventional “quest for sex” narrative. Benny sought genuine intimacy rather than conquest, and the film famously ends with him remaining a virgin, forming a deep friendship with the female lead while only hinting at a future romance.

One of the film’s most memorable scenes occurs when Benny meets a girl at a party and the two retreat to a bedroom. No nudity appears on screen — a concession the actress portraying the girl, Bebe Danvers, insisted upon, briefly delaying production of the scene. As Benny nervously prepares himself, the girl, a Cleveland native, abruptly asks him to “poop all over me like the Cleveland Steamers poop all over their fans.” Benny recoils in horror, bolts from the room, and leaves the party entirely, declaring that “Cleveland girls are weird.”

Danvers would later be closely associated with the scene, not because of its shock value, but because of the behind-the-scenes dispute that preceded it. The scene was initially filmed with both actors nude, as Danvers was dating the film’s star, Harley Pratt, at the time. After filming, however, Danvers expressed reservations and requested changes. Rosenhaus publicly defended her insistence, arguing that the scene’s discomfort — rather than titillation — was essential to the film’s message. While critics praised the final version for its restraint and purpose, the scene nevertheless became a favorite among audiences drawn more to its shock than its subtext.

The line was written by director Paul Rosenhaus, himself a longtime Steamers fan, and reflected his frustration with the team’s prolonged mediocrity. The moment landed immediately in popular culture. Within months, “Cleveland Steamer” entered the vernacular as slang for a form of coprophilia — a reference that followed the team far beyond sports pages.

Steamers officials pushed back forcefully, and fans initially resisted as well. However, as Cleveland continued to field subpar teams, sections of the fanbase began to embrace the scatological association as a form of protest. What began as ironic chanting escalated into performative provocation. The team attempted to suppress the behavior by banning chants, ejecting fans wearing poop-themed attire, and even removing spectators dressed entirely in brown — despite brown being the Steamers’ primary official colour.

In isolated but widely publicized incidents, fans defecated in public areas of the stadium or hurled feces onto the field, prompting intervention from the World Football League. (The spectacle was later echoed when the comic character Borat staged a similar stunt during a televised visit to Cleveland in 2003.)

By 1992, facing mounting backlash and diminishing returns, the Steamers adopted a reluctant compromise. While neither the team nor the league endorsed the behavior, Cleveland formally ceased suppressing poop-themed protests so long as they were deemed “not extreme.” The result has been decades of uneasy coexistence: broadcasts in which fans appear in scatological regalia and chant innuendo-laden slogans, while commentators and officials pointedly ignore the spectacle on air and in all official materials.

"Poopie" vs. the Team's Official Cheer Squad

Since their inception, the Steamers have employed an official cheer squad known as the Boiler Crew — a gender-mixed group whose uniforms incorporate industrial motifs and make extensive reference to the steam industry. The Steamers also maintain an official mascot, Boiler Bill, a two-person act operating a costume resembling a steam-engine locomotive. Depending on the performers, Boiler Bill has alternated between graceful and awkward; in more recent years, the latter impression has predominated.

In contrast, beginning in 1993, an unaffiliated individual began appearing at Steamers games wearing a crude felt costume with arm and leg holes and oversized, beady eyes, unmistakably shaped like a stylized swirl of feces. The character remained unnamed until a local reporter referred to it as “Poopie,” a label that quickly stuck. The identity of the original Poopie remains unknown, and over the years multiple individuals — both men and women — have claimed to have been the first to portray the character.

Since 2000, Poopie has been portrayed continuously by Elanor “Ellie” Feldman (née Hughes). Feldman’s version of the costume, visibly distinct from its 1990s predecessors, was designed and constructed by Feldman herself. She maintains that the redesign was undertaken with the blessing of the original portrayer, whose identity she has consistently declined to reveal. A theatre actress by training, Feldman has long been a fixture in Cleveland’s cultural scene and is known to continental audiences through numerous supporting roles in television and film.

A lifelong Steamers fan, Feldman was a season ticket holder well before assuming the role of Poopie. She met her future husband, Timothy, at Steamers games, and he is frequently visible nearby whenever Poopie appears on broadcast. Feldman has stated that she draws on her background in theatre and dance when performing in costume. However, she has also acknowledged the costume’s limited sightlines and frequent instability, often compensating for stumbles with exaggerated, deliberately comic gestures. Because of these limitations, Feldman avoids performing in upper-deck seating areas near railings, citing concerns about balance and personal safety.

Under Feldman’s stewardship, Poopie expanded beyond a localized protest symbol into a continent-wide cultural reference point. Feldman made numerous appearances in costume on late-night and morning television programs, substantially raising Poopie’s public profile even among non-football audiences. Her version of the character helped crystallize a visual language that later informed early digital iconography. When international standards bodies moved to formalize emoji-style symbols, the “poop” glyph they adopted bore a clear resemblance to the Poopie design that had already entered popular consciousness.

As a result, Poopie carried the Steamers’ futility far beyond the boundaries of football, transforming the franchise into a recurring punchline for comedians and commentators who leaned heavily into its scatological associations. This development has proven deeply embarrassing for both the Steamers and the league, neither of which possesses a practical mechanism to suppress the phenomenon so long as Cleveland’s on-field struggles continue.

The Current Situation

The Cleveland Steamers last won a playoff game in the 1957 CFO Championship, defeating the Toronto Blues 45–7. Since that victory, the Steamers have qualified for the postseason only six times, including their appearance in the 1958 Championship Game. Cleveland’s most recent playoff berth came in 2012, a season shortened by the Byzantine Flu, a norovirus pandemic. The Steamers have not recorded a winning season since that year and have not finished above .500 over a full schedule since 1995.

Prolonged futility has produced constant organizational churn. Cleveland has cycled through head coaches, general managers, quarterbacks, and offensive philosophies with such regularity that inconsistency itself has become the franchise’s defining trait. Although World Football League salary-cap rules require teams to spend above a minimum threshold, the Steamers consistently rank near the bottom of player payrolls, reflecting the Steam Company’s preference for cost control over competitive risk.

Frustration among the fanbase has mounted accordingly. Many supporters — Poopie included — have openly called for the Steam Company to sell the franchise to an owner willing to invest aggressively in winning. The Company has refused, and the league has shown little appetite for forcing a change, preferring the stability of a compliant if unremarkable ownership group. At the same time, a smaller but vocal segment of fans resists the idea of a sale on sentimental grounds, noting that the Steam Company has been a continuous presence not only in Steamers football, but in the professional game itself.

The Steamers’ current head coach, Kareem Salim, was hired in 2020. Under Salim, Cleveland has regained a measure of on-field respectability through a stifling defensive identity and a conservative, run-first offence designed to control possession and shorten games. However, Salim’s relationship with management has been strained by repeated disputes over roster investment. Team leadership has routinely declined to pursue players Salim believes would meaningfully elevate the roster — with one notable exception.

In March 2022, the Steamers departed from their usual caution and signed veteran quarterback Drake Cozens to a five-year contract worth $175 million, with $55 million guaranteed. The move was widely interpreted as an attempt to stabilize the franchise’s long-troubled quarterback position. Instead, Cozens’ tenure has been marked by controversy, repeated clashes with Salim, and uneven on-field results. Many observers believe Cozens signed in Cleveland only because he had exhausted other options, and pundits continue to question whether the arrangement can succeed — or whether it merely represents another chapter in the Steamers’ long cycle of miscalculation.

The Virus, Prologue 1, Part 1: A Steaming Pile Of...- "Shiny Happy People"

 

From Full Steam Ahead! A Cleveland Steamers fan blog dated November 20, 2022, promoted on the FanBlog Network. Picture is dated to March 4, 2022.

March 4, 2022.

It was supposed to be a happy day. The Cleveland Steamers of the World Football League signed quarterback Drake Cozens to a five year, $175 million contract, though with only $55 million guaranteed. It was supposed to be a sign that the Steamers, owned by the Cleveland Steam Company and professional football's oldest team, was suddenly relevant again and serious about winning. A team that was once the standard bearer in professional football but had become a perennial laughingstock (in more ways than one), Cozens' signing was meant to be a sign that the team was as tired of their losing ways as their fans were.

Sure, Cozens entered Cleveland with a lot of baggage, and many pundits believed Cozens was signing with the moribund Steamers because he had burned all his bridges in the WFL and had no options left. Still, Cozens' gifts could not be ignored and while he wasn't elite, Cozens had a winning record as a starting quarterback and his smart, efficient play promised to bring stability in an area that the Steamers' offence needed it most.

So the team happily arranged a photo opportunity to display its newest signing, seen in the picture here. Brought to the picture was the Steamers' cheerleading squad, the Boiler Crew, as well as the team's official mascot, the happy steam engine Boiler Bill, and head coach Kareem Salim. Taken at the Steamers' practice facility, the aim was to create a photo that showed Cozens happily enmeshed with the team, creating a sense that now he was part of "the family".

The reality was anything but, and Steamers brass should have realized problems were coming just from looking at the picture. Though the cheerleaders are happy, most of it is performative, as Cozens gave off a vibe that was off-putting for many of them. Cozens stole one of the cheerleaders' hard hats and insisted on posing with the cheerleaders instead of having them simply surround him as was intended. The middle blonde cheerleader, Melissa Graves, would state that Cozens didn't ask to put his arm around her but she didn't offer a protest because she knew management would protect Cozens. Two other cheerleaders off to the right side can be seen holding each other's hands in an effort to steady themselves and "just get through" the photo op.

Finally, Salim stands to the far left like a sentinel, his presence there to make sure things didn't go completely off the rails even though he knew there was not much he could do if it did.

The photo foreshadowed a 2022 season that was uneven as the photo itself. After ten games, the team sat at a point where a winning streak might secure a playoff spot but a slump could derail the season completely. The defence kept the team in their games but the offence was inconsistent. At the core of the offensive struggles was the clash between Cozens and Salim, as Cozens often audibled out of Salim's play calls and tried to run the offence himself.

When the offence went well, Cozens often took the credit. When it stalled, Cozens blamed others, often publicly, making claims like "the coach doesn't know what he's doing", "I don't have any weapons", and "our schemes are bad", among others.

It was the same script that Cozens employed that got him run out of every other team in the WFL, and history was, sadly for the Steamers, repeating itself.

Still, that wasn't the worst of Cleveland's misery entering its Week 12 matchup with the Chicago Caribou, a "Showcase Series" game in Borealis Bay in Sombak'e that could either make or break the Steamers' season.

Just days before, Graves resigned from the Boiler Crew and immediately gave a scathing tell-all interview with renowned sports investigative journalist Erin Campbell. Graves described for Campbell that Cleveland had cultivated a deeply ingrained "frat boy" culture within the team, with Cozens at the centre of it. Graves asserted that drinking was rampant among coaches and players, even during games, with obscene pranks, comments and gestures being commonplace. Graves further claimed that the cheerleaders were often targets for abusive conduct and harassment, with Graves stating, "I experienced one grope too many which is why I left the team".

Notably, Graves did not blame Salim for the culture, stating the team often hid the worst parts of it from him and that Salim made multiple attempts to stop the toxicity but management and security kept stonewalling him. Graves said that by the end of her tenure with the Steamers, Salim was "the only nice guy left".

The interview cast a pall over what is arguably the Steamers' most important game of the season, with the question remaining- can it get any worse?

The Grass Isn't Greener- Chapter 9

The Ronald Hypergrid Stadium, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

 

November 20, 2022,
8:02 local time,
The Grand Sǫ̀mbak’è Ballroom,
Yellowknife District, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

Morning light filtered through the crystal panels of the Grand Sǫ̀mbak’è Ballroom, refracted into cool blues and pale whites that softened the edges of power. Breakfast had been laid with deliberate restraint- coffee, fruit, bread still warm- nothing indulgent, nothing that lingered.

By afternoon, a WFL game would kick off across town.

By evening, Borealis Bay would be judged.

The owners took their seats with the quiet efficiency of people who understood time as leverage. Some sipped coffee. Others didn’t touch a thing. The windows behind them framed the harbor, where icebreakers and cargo ships moved with slow confidence through the bay. Capital at ease.

Neutral ground. For now.

At the head of the room stood Leo Corbin, Commissioner of the World Football League, already halfway through his second cup. He didn’t waste time with ceremony. The league seal hovered discreetly beside him, rotating slowly.

“Let’s begin,” Corbin said.

The agenda illuminated the wall.

Ownership Approval – Gotham Tea Party
Ownership Approval – Washington Football Club
Market Observation – Borealis Bay (Informal)

The last line carried no vote.

Everyone understood it anyway.

Thomas McCrain sat alone—not isolated, just unencumbered. No team colors. No pin. No attempt at performative continuity. He looked less like a man acquiring a football team and more like one closing a merger before lunch.

Across the table, Ronald Rust looked energized by the room. Open collar. Confident posture. He smiled easily, spoke quietly, and made sure to be seen doing both. Washington- or whatever would come after- already felt portable in his hands.

Corbin gestured. “Mr. McCrain. Before the vote, questions.”

One came quickly.

“You’ve announced a full organizational overhaul,” said an owner from the Philemon delegation, voice measured. “Coaching. Front office. Player personnel. Midseason. The Tea Party are one and nine. Why should this league absorb that level of disruption right now?”

McCrain folded his hands.

“Because the disruption already exists,” he said evenly. “I’m not creating instability. I’m ending denial.”

A low murmur passed through the room.

“The Tea Party aren’t losing because of randomness,” he continued. “They’re losing because no one’s been willing to break the glass. I am.”

“And the fan base?” another owner asked. “Gotham isn’t known for patience.”

McCrain looked up.

“Fans don’t need reassurance,” he said. “They need clarity. If clarity hurts, it was already broken.”

Corbin watched him for a beat, then nodded. “Thank you.”

The vote appeared.

Approved.

Unanimous.

Breakfast plates remained untouched.

Corbin turned. “Mr. Rust.”

Rust straightened, already ready.

“There has been significant discussion,” Corbin said carefully, “regarding your public comments on Washington’s long-term future.”

Rust smiled, hands open. “Discussion is healthy.”

“You’ve stated your intent to relocate.”

“I’ve stated my intent to evaluate opportunity,” Rust replied smoothly. “Including Borealis Bay.”

No one missed the glance toward the windows.

“You’re aware Washington is one of the league’s legacy identities,” said Jerrel “J.J.” Jameson, leaning back in his chair. His voice carried the weight of someone who’d buried that argument under stadiums and survived. “Cities don’t forget being abandoned.”

Rust met his eyes. “Neither do leagues that refuse to grow.”

A pause- longer this time.

Corbin raised a hand. “This body is not voting on relocation. Only ownership eligibility.”

“Understood,” Rust said, without hesitation.

The vote appeared.

Approved.

Not unanimous…but more than enough.

As the results faded, Corbin stood.

“Today’s game will proceed as scheduled,” he said. “We’ll observe. Quietly. Operations, turnout, civic response. No promises. No announcements.”

Outside, a ship’s horn echoed faintly across the bay.

Sǫ̀mbak’è heard it.

McCrain rose first, already mentally elsewhere. Rust followed, smiling like a man who enjoyed being evaluated.

Two new owners.

Two incompatible visions.

And a city that knew this was more than a game.

Breakfast adjourned.

Kickoff awaited.

After the meeting, most of the owners drifted toward side conversations or their phones. A few stood at the windows, already talking about kickoff logistics and broadcast angles. The Ballroom had relaxed—not because tension was gone, but because the formalities were finished.

Thomas McCrain had already sat back down.

A plate had appeared in front of him without comment. He hadn’t ordered. He never did. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Black coffee. He ate like someone who didn’t expect to be interrupted.

Ronald Rust slid into the chair across from him, carrying his own plate, still warm.

“So,” Rust said lightly, setting it down. “That went well.”

Thomas didn’t look up. “It went predictably.”

Rust smiled. “You always say that after the fact.”

Thomas took a sip of coffee. “I say it before, too. People just don’t listen.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Forks. Porcelain. The muted sound of money thinking.

Rust broke first.

“You didn’t flinch,” he said. “Not once. Even when Jameson started posturing.”

“He wasn’t posturing,” Thomas replied. “He was mourning.”

Rust laughed softly. “You make it sound so clinical.”

“It is,” Thomas said. “Cities age. Leagues pretend they don’t.”

Rust studied him, then leaned back slightly.

“You were right,” he said. “About Washington. About the timing. About Borealis Bay.”

Thomas kept eating.

“But,” Rust continued, “you’re also… invested.”

That got Thomas’ attention. Not a reaction—just a pause.

“I’ve seen the filings,” Rust said. “Infrastructure. Hospitality. Secondary logistics. Quiet stakes. You’re not just betting on the team. You’re betting on the city.”

Thomas set his fork down neatly.

“I don’t bet,” he said. “I position.”

Rust tilted his head. “That’s a big position.”

“Yes.”

“Why here?” Rust asked. “Of all places. You could’ve pointed me at a dozen markets that would’ve said yes faster.”

Thomas glanced toward the windows, where Borealis Bay sat under a pale winter sun—ice, steel, water, and order.

“Because this city doesn’t need permission,” he said. “It needs recognition.”

Rust frowned slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” Thomas said. “You just don’t like it.”

Rust smiled despite himself. “Alright. Then give me the other one.”

Thomas leaned back.

“Borealis Bay already functions like a major market,” he said. “Capital concentration. Transit. Corporate appetite. Labor discipline. It just hasn’t been branded as one yet.”

“And the cold?” Rust asked. “The distance?”

“Features,” Thomas said. “Not bugs.”

Rust chuckled. “You sound like a planner.”

“I sound like someone who reads balance sheets,” Thomas replied. “Warm cities spend money trying to look important. Cold cities spend money because they already are.”

Rust let that sit.

“You’re sure the league follows through,” he said. “No last-minute hesitation. No sentimental revolt?”

Thomas met his eyes.

“The league doesn’t decide first,” he said. “It ratifies last.”

Rust exhaled slowly. “So it’s done.”

“It’s done,” Thomas agreed. “They just haven’t written the language yet.”

Rust picked up his coffee again, swirling it thoughtfully.

“And Gotham?” he asked. “You really going to burn it down midseason?”

Thomas shrugged. “I’m going to stop pretending it’s fine.”

Rust smiled. “You convinced me to move a team halfway across the continent, and you still look like the calmer one.”

Thomas took another sip.

“Because I’m not attached to outcomes,” he said. “Only trajectories.”

Outside, somewhere across the bay, preparations for kickoff were already underway.

Rust stood, plate empty.

“Well,” he said, “if you’re right about this place…”

Thomas looked back to his breakfast.

“I am,” he said.

Rust laughed once, low and satisfied, and walked away—already picturing a new skyline, a new logo, a city that would soon belong to him.

Thomas finished eating.

Winter waited.

As the owners ate, Leo Corbin stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, facing the windows.

From this height, Borealis Bay looked almost deliberate—ice tracing the shoreline, steel rising cleanly from rock, ships cutting slow, disciplined lines through the water. Winter hadn’t softened the city. It had clarified it.

Thomas McCrain joined him without announcement.

“They’ll like the game,” Leo said, more to the glass than to Thomas. “Cold weather sells. Broadcast numbers love contrast.”

“They already love it,” Thomas replied. “Your numbers are the best they’ve ever been.”

Leo turned slightly. “They are.”

“And yet,” Thomas continued, “ESPC renewed with a polite bump. Not an aggressive one.”

Leo sighed. “You saw the deal.”

“I read contracts for sport,” Thomas said.

Leo gave a half-smile. “That’s my problem.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the city doing what it always did—working.

“You don’t think they value us?” Leo asked.

“I think they value exclusivity more than they value you,” Thomas said. “Those aren’t the same thing.”

Leo frowned. “We’ve had a good relationship with ESPC. I’m not interested in poisoning it.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Thomas said. “You’d be fertilizing it.”

Leo turned fully now. “That’s a generous metaphor.”

Thomas didn’t smile.

“Right now,” he said, “they have no reason to compete. You’re the biggest property they can keep without effort. So they do.”

“And your solution is to scare them?” Leo asked.

“My solution,” Thomas replied, “is to remind them what fear costs.”

Leo folded his arms. “You’re talking about courting other networks.”

“I’m talking about options,” Thomas said. “Marquee. Civic. Different audiences. Different incentives.”

Leo shook his head. “That’s a line you don’t uncross easily.”

“You don’t need to cross it,” Thomas said. “You just need to step on it.”

Leo raised an eyebrow.

“Give them a package,” Thomas continued. “Not the crown jewels. A late window. A regional slate. A handful of neutral-site games. Let them prove production value. Let ESPC notice.”

“And if ESPC gets offended?”

Thomas gestured toward the skyline.

“They’ll get competitive.”

Leo stared back out at the bay. The wind had picked up; flags along the harbor snapped sharply.

“You make it sound simple,” he said.

“It is,” Thomas replied. “It’s just uncomfortable.”

Leo exhaled. “I don’t want to blow up a relationship that took years to build.”

“You won’t,” Thomas said. “You’ll strengthen it. Exclusivity breeds complacency. Access breeds bids.”

Another pause.

“I’m not committing to anything,” Leo said finally.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Thomas replied. “Only to notice the leverage you already have.”

Leo glanced at him then—really looked.

“You know,” he said, “for someone who can’t tell a nickel defense from a paper bag, you sound awfully confident about the future of football.”

Thomas’ eyes stayed on the city.

“I don’t talk football,” he said. “I talk business.”

Leo laughed quietly at that—not because it was funny, but because it was uncomfortably true.

Outside, Borealis Bay held its shape.

Somewhere, also, networks were already recalculating.

November 20, 2022,
12:12 local time,
Ronald HyperGrid Stadium,
Yellowknife District, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

Ronald HyperGrid Stadium was not loud yet.

That was the first thing the owners noticed as they stepped into the bowl—no music, no crowd, no forced spectacle. Just space. Cold air. Structure. The quiet confidence of a system warming up.

The field crew moved with rehearsed precision, checking seams in the smart turf, calibrating embedded sensors, confirming wind deflection along the open rim. Above them, faint holographic traces flickered and vanished as the HyperGrid ran diagnostics- routes appearing briefly in the air, ghosting out again.

Leo Corbin stopped near the railing.

“This is… finished,” he said.

“It was finished before you agreed to come,” Ronald Rust replied mildly.

Rust stood a step ahead of the group, hands clasped behind his back, watching the stadium the way an architect watches a building finally stop resisting its purpose. Composite alloys caught the pale daylight cleanly. Nothing wasted. Nothing decorative.

“This place is going to be miserable,” muttered Rolando Virelli, the South Beach Tide representative, squinting toward the open edge of the bowl where cold wind threaded through unimpeded. “My receivers are going to file grievances.”

Thomas McCrain didn’t turn.

“They’ll adjust,” he said. “Or they’ll lose.”

Virelli snorted- but he didn’t argue. His eyes had already drifted back to the field, to the massive lower bowl that seemed to press inward rather than rise, compressing noise into something sharper.

Someone else said it quietly, almost reverently.

“Ninety-two thousand,” an owner murmured. “And every seat wired.”

“Optional overlays,” Rust corrected. “We don’t punish traditionalists.”

Thomas glanced at him. “You don’t indulge them either.”

Rust smiled faintly.

Above the stadium, drones lifted in synchronized arcs, rehearsing the opening moments of the Bison Charge- not yet the full stampede, just outlines, test patterns, a suggestion of motion to come. Even unfinished, it was arresting.

Leo exhaled slowly.

“You built this,” he said to Thomas. Not a question.

“I asked for it,” Thomas replied. “Ronald executed.”

The group began moving again, drawn toward the south end where the halftime staging area was already alive with activity.

That was when someone noticed her.

Tulip Errons stood near the edge of the field, wrapped in a long coat that did nothing to disguise her presence. Technicians hovered respectfully nearby, adjusting lighting angles, testing audio levels. Even without music, the space bent toward her.

A few owners slowed. No one said her name out loud at first.

“That’s… for halftime?” someone asked.

“Yes,” Rust said. “She wanted to rehearse in the actual environment.”

Thomas watched the owners watch her.

Not awe. Calculation.

Then someone else noticed him.

Off to the side, half-shadowed near a tunnel entrance, Eamon Archer stood with his arms folded, eyes fixed on Tulip. Not performing. Not signaling. Just there- present in the way people are when they’re anchored to something they don’t fully control.

A couple of glances flicked his way. No one lingered.

He wasn’t the story.

Tulip was.

Yet the owners felt it almost simultaneously- the shift, the quiet intake of breath that happens when money senses culture before culture senses money.

“If even a fraction of her audience-” one of them began.

Leo didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Football had never needed permission to be popular. Yet this- this was adjacency. Osmosis. A different kind of growth.

Thomas said nothing.

He didn’t need to sell the idea. The stadium had already done it. The city had done it. Tulip was just the catalyst that made the math obscene.

Ronald Rust looked pleased- but not surprised.

“Kickoff’s in two hours,” he said. “We’ll let you get settled.”

As the group turned back toward the concourse, the HyperGrid completed another silent check. Data flowed. Wind shifted. The cold held.

Borealis Bay was ready.

The league was catching up.

By nightfall, everyone would pretend this had always been the plan.

The owners continued their tour. They were halfway along the lower concourse when the flow stalled—not from confusion, but recognition.

A small security detail had appeared ahead, understated but unmistakable. No uniforms. No weapons on display. Just posture.

Leo slowed first.

“Ah,” he said quietly.

The man who stepped into view wore a dark overcoat suited more for wind than ceremony. No entourage. No performance. Just presence.

Darren Rydell, Great Speaker of Sǫ̀mbak’è, surveyed the stadium with a measured calm that suggested he was less interested in being impressed than in confirming what he already knew.

“This is,” Rydell said, “larger than the renderings.”

Ronald Rust inclined his head. “We aimed for honesty.”

Rydell smiled faintly. “You aimed for inevitability.”

The owners straightened—not out of fear, but instinct. Even Virelli nodded politely.

“For the record,” Rydell continued, “the Republic appreciates that the league chose to visit rather than announce.”

Leo answered carefully. “We’re evaluating.”

Rydell glanced toward the field, where faint HyperGrid overlays shimmered and disappeared.

“So are we,” he said.

He didn’t linger. He didn’t bless anything. He simply walked with them for a few steps, long enough for everyone to understand what this meant.

This wasn’t a lease.

It was alignment.

As Rydell peeled away toward the tunnel, Thomas caught Leo’s eye.

No words.

Just confirmation.

Later- much later- analysts would say this was the moment the WFL stopped treating Borealis Bay as a market and started treating it as a partner.

In the stadium though, in the cold, with drones rehearsing above and Tulip’s voice echoing faintly from the far end of the field, it felt simpler than that.

A country had shown up.

The league had noticed.

The Grass Isn't Greener- Chapter 8

 

Eamon Archer after he woke up

November 20, 2022,
06:46 local time,
Boreal Hotel,
Yellowknife District, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

“Did I just f*** my favourite pop star last night?”

Eamon Archer woke up, but it still felt like a dream. He was still glowing from last night, with the memories and the senses of night before coming back and giving him a euphoric high.

Sure, Eamon dreamed many times about spending the night with Tulip Errons, fantasizing about how it would go and even drawing fanart of him and Tulip together.

…but none of that could compare to the real thing…and the real thing happened.

…and it was better than he could ever dream of.

He laid there in his bed, going through every sequence and replaying them in his mind, sometimes acting out because he could feel Tulip there with him. Reliving the event seemed to be the only way Eamon could rectify that it was real, and even then, he still didn’t believe he wasn’t actually dreaming.

He still in his haze when Tulip returned to the room with breakfast.

“Hey,” said Tulip, putting down the breakfast and kissing Eamon on the lips, the two of them holding in the kiss to take it in better. Tulip herself was flushed with joy, as she, too, got wrapped up in how great last night was for her as well.

“Hey,” said Eamon following the kiss, euphoria still painted all over his face. “Pinch me, I still can’t believe last night was real.”

Tulip didn’t need a second invitation…so she pinched his arm.

“OW!” said Eamon wincing in pain, jerking himself upward for a moment.

“You told me to pinch you,” said Tulip with a playful grin. “So I did.”

“I…I,” said Eamon, “I mean…I didn’t think you’d actually do it…but I’m glad you did.”

“So now do you believe last night was real,” said Tulip, kissing Eamon again. “Or do I need to pinch you again?”

“No, no,” said Eamon. “I’m good with the pinching. It still doesn’t mean that last night didn’t feel like a dream. I told you, I’d been fantasizing about that moment forever and you…and you…”

Eamon smiled wide with a satisfied breath.

“You were better than I could have ever expected,” said Eamon.

The two kissed again momentarily, kissing a little deeper this time.

“…and you were incredible too,” said Tulip. “It wasn’t just you living the dream…I was living the dream too.”

Eamon looked up, wearing a confused expression on his face.

“Wait, really?” he said. “For real? You mean you’ve been fantasizing about me your whole life? I’m sure I’m not the only one who fantasizes about you, but me…no one fantasizes about me.”

Tulip laughed before sitting down to eat her breakfast.

“Honestly,” said Tulip, “no…I didn’t fantasize about you growing up. I told you…I’m a Cory Reed girl…but, I think I always fantasized about meeting a guy just like you…caring, sweet, sensitive, delightfully awkward.

“…and very f***ing hot.”

Eamon blushed.

“Oh no,” he demurred. “Me? Hot? Nah. You the hot one.”

Tulip flashed a warm smile.

“You sell yourself short Eamon,” said Tulip. “You’re hotter and better than you think…but don’t ever change. I like your humility…I meet too many arrogant types in my line of work.”

Eamon let out a huff and started eating his own breakfast.

“Me too,” said Eamon. “The WFL is full of them. “I could never be like those guys…I see what it does.”

Eamon took another bite of his food before continuing.

“Honestly,” said Eamon, “I thought you’d be arrogant. I know you’re so down to earth in interviews, but I always worried that was just an act…I see that too many times too.”

Tulip smiled, exhaling with a soft release.

“I get that,” said Tulip, “but I could never be arrogant in real life. The way my career has gone, and how quickly it has gone and all the people who have come together- out of their own goodwill- to make it as strong as it has makes me feel truly grateful and blessed. My success is a team effort…I lived it. So I know I can’t be ‘above’ anyone, because without them, I wouldn’t be here.

“It’s one of those things Cory taught me when I watched him as a little girl…never take anything for granted. Success is earned, and every step of the way someone helps you get there. You never do it all alone.”

Tulip’s eyes began to glaze over.

“Besides,” she said, shedding a tear. “When you get all these messages from people who say ‘your album helped me get through a breakup’ or ‘you give me the confidence to take my exam tomorrow’…you can’t help but have your heart melt reading all that. When I say I want to hug all of my fans, I really mean it.”

Eamon reached for Tulip’s hand. Tulip took it and squeezed it.

“You deserve all the success in the world,” said Eamon, “and all the hugs. You really are the greatest person in the world. I learned that last night.”

They kissed again briefly.

“…and so are you,” said Tulip. “I’m as grateful for you as you are for me.”

The two then continued on with their breakfast before switching topics.

“Speaking of Cory Reed,” said Eamon, “are you looking forward to Erin Campbell’s documentary series on the ‘Harmless Fun’ Era?”

“Oh,” said Tulip, “absolutely. I’ve read so much about it. Especially what happened to the poor Sheik, forced to watch as Vince f***ed his wife on live TV. I can’t believe anyone would think about going that far.”

“Not just Vince f***ing his wife,” said Eamon. “Salman al-Shehhi had to bow to Vince like a god and go through the pilgrimage…that’s…that’s…”

Eamon couldn’t finish his sentence, as there were no words he felt could articulate the shock and disgust his thoughts gave him. Fortunately for Eamon, Tulip shared the same feelings about the incident, known as The Forced Subjugation Ritual. It’s the only broadcast of the World Fighting Empire’s Combat Arts division that the WFE never aired again, though clips exist online if you dig hard enough.

“Sometimes I wonder why I still support McGreedy,” said Tulip, referring to the WFE’s boss, Vincent “Vince” McGeady, who is often nicknamed “McGreedy”. “It’s not like the product has really gotten better since ‘Harmless Fun’…they just don’t do the outrageous stuff anymore. It’s still sleaze, but different sleaze.”

“It’s why I watch the IWC,” said Eamon, referring to the WFE’s sole main competitor, the International Wrestling Council. “Paul Carney knows how to run his s***.”

“How is that?” said Tulip, as the two continued enjoying their breakfast. “I’ve always been meaning to give it a watch but I never get around to it.”

“Well,” said Eamon, “if you like stories, and you like good storytelling and you like good long stories…Paul’s got you covered. It can be a bit difficult to get into if you’re joining in halfway into a major arc, but you can at least trust Paul’s going to tell a good story and he’s not going to hijack it with stupid stuff like Vince does. I mean, really, the IWC restored my faith in wrestling.”

“Hmmnnn,” said Tulip, nodding her head and acknowledging the point as she finished her breakfast. “I guess I’ll give it a go one of these days. Thanks Eamon.”

Eamon smiled. “Did I convince you?” he said with a grin.

“We’ll see,” said Tulip with a smirk of her own. “The WFE is hyping the debut of Astaroth. Said they plucked him from the fight clubs of the Carnelian Blade. Could just be hype, but, if that’s true, he’s a legit fighter.”

“I kind of hope it’s just hype,” said Eamon. “The Blade is serious business…if he’s from there, I can’t imagine the horrors he went through.”

Tulip then got up from her chair, sighing with her shoulders slumping.

“I gotta go get ready for my day,” said Tulip. “I don’t want to…I’d rather spend more time with you.”

Tulip then flashed another smile.

“…and maybe reenact more of that fanart you showed me,” said Tulip as Eamon laughed.

“I gotta get ready for the game too,” said Eamon, sighing in resignation. “So I feel the same way, but hey…you want a Night #2, right?”

“…and 3, and 4, and 5, and 6,” said Tulip, “and hopefully more than that.”

“Me too,” said Eamon, getting up from his chair. “So let’s focus on that.”

Tulip then took off her bathrobe.

“One more naked hug at least?” she asked with a hopeful smile and sparkles in her eyes. Sparkles that were also in Eamon’s eyes.

“You don’t need to ask,” said Eamon, taking off his clothes too. “You know I’ll always say yes.”

The two then wrapped each other in a tight, full-bodied embrace, melting into each other and feeling like there was nothing else in the world. They took in each other’s scents, breaths and the feeling of their skin on theirs, relaxing, contended in each other’s arms. For both Eamon and Tulip, this was more than just a sensual embrace- it was am embrace of unity, of solace. An embrace that soothed them both. An embrace that said, “you will be protected in my arms.”

An embrace that confirmed that these two really did become one.

For Eamon, it was a night he dreamed of for so many other nights, and it went far beyond what he could have ever expected. Tulip became more than just his favourite artist. She was now his favourite person.

That was better than any dream.

For Tulip, she might not have fantasized every day about Eamon, but Eamon was exactly the kind of person she knew she wanted in her life. She always fantasized for this moment, the moment where she could finally say, “I have found the one”. Yes, it was still early, but for Tulip- and Eamon too- this felt different.

Sometimes you start a relationship and you just get the feeling there is no future.

Then you start another relationship and this time…you just know.

For Tulip and Eamon…they knew.

The Grass Isn't Greener- Chapter 7

Tulip

November 19, 2022,
21:16 local time,
Boreal Hotel,
Yellowknife District, Borealis Bay, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

Bruce McCrain could barely sleep. The news blindsided him with fury, and Bruce himself became a torrent of emotions.

So, with Thomas and Kyle asleep in Mogadishu and Norah Anam working late, Bruce turned to another friend for solace.

Even though she was an ex.

“Oh, hey Bruce,” said Tulip Errons, sitting up on her bed while talking to Bruce via the hotel phone. “Yeah, I saw the news…the Dallas Revolvers traded for you…the talking heads won’t stop talking about it.”

“I figured it would be all over ESPC,” said Bruce, trying- and failing- not to cry over the phone. “I can’t bring myself to watch…I’m still stunned. Even Carly was blindsided.”

“Not even your agent knew?” said Tulip. “Wow…usually they’re the first to know.”

“I know I had my problems in Atlanta,” said Bruce, “but I…I thought…”

Bruce let out a sniffle, then he went silent.

“Sports is cruel,” said Tulip, breaking the silence. “The talking heads are saying that since you’re not committing to either football or baseball that Atlanta had to make a decision, and they decided a haul was better than losing you for nothing.”

“That’s the thing, Tulip,” said Bruce. “I gave Atlanta my word before leaving for Mogadishu that I’d play baseball next season. I know getting drafted into the WFL would be a longshot, and I thought Atlanta would know that too.”

“Seems to be news to ESPC,” said Tulip, “because they don’t think you’ve made a commitment.”

“I thought telling Atlanta management that it would be enough,” said Bruce. “I guess I was wrong.”

Tulip let out a measured sigh.

“Didn’t you want to leave Atlanta anyway?” said Tulip. “Going to Dallas could be a blessing in disguise.”

It was Bruce’s turn to let out a huff.

“Yeah,” said Bruce. “I wanted to leave…but I also thought about giving Atlanta another season. I had a rough patch but…it was only three months. I was under the Dawgs’ control for another three seasons…I was prepared to wait for free agency and see if things got better.”

“Well Bruce,” said Tulip, “if management is bad to you from day one, things don’t usually get better. They usually get worse. Atlanta is doing you a favour.”

“I guess,” said Bruce.

“I know,” said Tulip. “It stings. It should sting. Getting traded is never easy. You go from the lows of knowing a team doesn’t want you to the highs of another team that does. It’s quite the rollercoaster.”

“You have a lot of wisdom for someone who’s never been traded,” said Bruce.

“I watch a lot of sports,” said Tulip, “and ever since I started the World Tour and my album went platinum, I’ve met a few sports types. So I know more than you think.”

“How is the tour going,” said Bruce, hoping a different subject would ease his mind.

“It’s a grind,” said Tulip. “I never thought it would be this tough. The music videos, the movies, TV…they all present the glamorous side of it…they don’t show you all the tough parts like the dress rehearsals, the costume changes, the brutal travel schedule…I mean, I wouldn’t trade this for the world, but…man, is it tough.”

Bruce let out a little chuckle, starting to relax a little.

“You deserve the success,” said Bruce. “I’m glad your hard work is paying off for you.”

Tulip smiled. A video of her impromptu stage performance at a small Irish benefit concert in Marian went viral in August 2020, prompting her to record the song she sang that night, called “Child’s Play”. Tulip then played a number of small bars, cafés and lounges with a setlist of old Irish folk tunes and “Child’s Play”. The more she played, the more her crowds grew and eventually a few musicians offered to help her out.

Together, they formed a band and together they wrote and recorded an album. They didn’t have a name, so when the producer mistakenly thought “Tulip” was the name of the band, the name stuck.

Which was fine for Tulip, who revelled at doing all the work of being “the face of the band” while her bandmates stayed in the shadows, where they felt more comfortable.

Despite the dynamic and even after “Child’s Play” eventually became a chart topping single worldwide, Tulip was adamant that the band was a collective and that they deserve as much credit for Tulip’s success as Tulip did. Pundits often thought it was just PR, but Tulip’s love for her bandmates was genuine.

Bruce knew that too.

“You have a good group, Tulip,” said Bruce. “I hope they are doing well.”

“Oh,” said Tulip, smiling, “my sisters are doing great. They’re sleeping in their rooms…we flew in a few hours ago…it’s a rare off-day so they’re taking advantage of it.”

“Why aren’t you?” said Bruce.

Tulip breathed out and slumped her shoulders.

“Do you remember Greg?” said Tulip.

“Parker…the star centre for Toronto,” said Bruce. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Do you remember Greg and my dad never got along?” said Tulip, “and that we broke up because Greg couldn’t be bothered to even try to get my dad a Christmas gift?”

“Yes, I recall,” said Bruce. “Greg said he’s dating you, not your dad…and you were understandably upset.”

“Today is the one-year anniversary of that breakup,” said Tulip. “I go back and forth thinking I made a mistake. Greg was a great guy…and, yeah, I love my dad but I know he can be prickly. I shouldn’t have dumped him because Greg didn’t impress my dad.”

“You know what I would say to that,” said Bruce.

“I know,” said Tulip, “if Greg and I really had a future…we’d figure something out. Not just the two of us…but Greg and my father as well…but still…what if I sabotaged that future?”

“You didn’t sabotage anything,” said Bruce. “You just hit a hurdle that neither of you were willing to cross.”

“…but Greg doesn’t have to impress my dad,” said Tulip. “He is right about that.”

“Maybe so,” said Bruce, “but if your dad means something to you- and he does- then Greg should have at least tried to impress him or at least be cordial enough to have a relationship with him. If your dad never warmed to Greg, that’s on your dad and not Greg’s fault…but Greg…he dismissed even trying.

“Not trying is worse than trying and failing.”

Tulip smiled, breathing out with the tension dissolving.

“Sounds like you could use that same advice too,” said Tulip with a wry smile. “You’re sad that Atlanta didn’t want you? Well, feel happy they decided not to try.”

Bruce chuckled.

“That’s true,” said Bruce. “I’m happy you put things into perspective.”

“Anytime, Bruce,” said Tulip. “Take care of yourself…and hopefully our paths can cross again.”

The two of them said their goodbyes as Tulip got off the phone.

She then decided to get off the bed. She didn’t feel like sleeping, so she slipped on a night gown and decided to go for a walk.

Tulip then passed a man who was shaking the vending machine. He was dark-skinned, slender but muscular, with braided shoulder-length hair. He was wearing simply his shorts and his sandals, meaning the muscles he was using to coax a soft drink out of the machine were in full view.

“I guess it ate your dollar, huh?” said Tulip as the man was getting angry at the machine.

“You could say that,” said the man. “I had a craving for Lucy’s, but the bottle is stuck in the machine. The stupid thing didn’t get off the ledge.”

“Let me try,” said Tulip, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her credit card.

Tulip saw the stuck bottle and decided to make the same selection.

The machine whirred into action, slowly and methodically, which built the anticipation within both Tulip and the other man. Time seemed to move still as the machine worked, the whizzes and the clanks of the machine the only noises as it dutifully picked up a bottle of Lucy’s and tried to dispense it.

Fortunately for both Tulip and the man, the machine managed to jar loose the stuck bottle and dispense the other bottle that Tulip paid for, doing it effortlessly.

Meaning now both of them had a soft drink.

“Maybe I should have done that,” said the man, picking up his bottle.

The man then took a longer look at Tulip and made a realization.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You’re Tulip, aren’t you? I didn’t recognize you without the makeup.”

Tulip chuckled and smiled warmly.

“Yeah,” she said, “that’s me all right. I look far different than the pretty thing you see on stage.”

The man then gave her a look.

“Oh come on,” he said, “you look absolutely gorgeous. Even without the makeup. Heck, I think the natural look suits you.”

Tulip blushed, lowering her head unsure of what to say. The man had a charm to him that Tulip couldn’t deny and she sensed that his words were more than just an attempt to be sweet.

Still, Tulip was not one to boast or gloat, so, in her humility, she always sought to deflect compliments instead of acknowledge them.

“You’re a kind man,” said Tulip. “I’m sure your wife feels the same way.”

This time the man demurred, lowering his head momentarily and letting out a melancholic smile.

“I got no wife,” said the man. “My high school sweetheart dumped me midway through my rookie season…ever since, I’ve just been so focused on football that I just don’t have the time to date.”

“Oh,” said Tulip. “You’re in football, eh? I’m playing the halftime show at the game tomorrow. I assume you’re playing?”

“Eamon Archer,” said Eamon. “I’m the running back with the Chicago Caribou…you probably know about our quarterback, Sqweebz…he gets all the press while I do all the work.”

“Doesn’t sound like you two have a harmonious relationship,” said Tulip.

“Nah man,” said Eamon. “Sqweebz and I…we’re brothers. I’d die for my teammates and my team…it’s just…the press and the fans, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Tulip. “No one wants to give my bandmates any credit for our success either. They think I’m doing all the work…truth is, they don’t like being in front of the camera but I do. So I just do all the interviews. I didn’t plan for that, nor did I plan for our band to take my name…but we’re so far along and everything’s working, so why stop?”

Eamon smiled, and then he looked at his bottle and at Tulip’s.

“Say,” said Eamon, a nervous hesitation creeping into his voice that he was trying hard to suppress. “We both got our Lucy’s…you want to drink them together over a movie or something?”

“You’re shooting your shot now with an international pop star,” said Tulip with a playful smile. “I should have known…you running backs are fearless.”

Eamon shook his head, smiling awkwardly and looking rather embarrassed.

“Nah,” said Eamon, “I didn’t mean it like that…I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to bed and you seem cool…cooler than I could have ever thought. I mean, real talk…your album is my favourite…I haven’t told the guys because they’d clown me all day if I admitted to it.”

Tulip smiled and took Eamon by the hand, which sent a jolt of electricity into both of them.

“Well,” said Tulip, “if I do your room, I’m picking the movie.”

“I can do that,” said Eamon.

“You also better score me a touchdown tomorrow,” said Tulip with a smirk, tightening her grip on his hand.

“I’ll do my best,” said Eamon with a smile.

The two then walked hand in hand back to Eamon’s room. Neither knew what the future held but they could sense that tonight was going to be the first of many. 

The Grass Isn't Greener- Chapter 6

Pictured (clockwise from L): Marcy Carter, Evangeline Elliott and Carly Sweeting

November 19, 2022
00:02 local time,
Corsair Memorial Arena,
Mogadishu Capitol District, Sultanate of Mogadishu

Most of the arena was dark now, echoing faintly with crew chatter and the clatter of packing crates. Inside the women’s locker room, the lights hummed low, casting long shadows over the benches.

Evangeline Elliott sat alone in the corner, still in half her gear, hugging her knees lightly. Her eyes were red — not swollen, not sobbing, just… hollow. The way people look after saying goodbye to something they didn’t want to let go of.

Her phone lay beside her, screen dark, because she couldn’t bring herself to open the last message from the Banger Britches group chat.

The door clicked softly.

Carly Sweeting stepped in, not bursting with her usual energy — just a gentle, cautious entrance like she already sensed what Evangeline was carrying.

“Hey, sugar cube,” Carly said softly. “Can I sit?”

Evangeline nodded, quickly wiping under her eyes.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to cry. I’m okay. It’s just—”

“You had a hell of a night,” Carly said, lowering herself onto the bench. “A debut and a breakup wrapped into one.”

Evangeline’s breath hitched. That was all it took.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she said. “Banger Britches was my home. We trained together, we traveled together… they were my sisters. I thought we had another year. Maybe more.”

Carly’s expression softened into something tender and protective.

“I watched you three tearing it up at The Academy,” she said. “You were lightning. No wonder Triple X was high on you and Vince couldn't ignore you. Doesn’t make it hurt less, though.”

Evangeline swallowed hard.
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye properly. They just—cut the angle. Tonight. Out of nowhere. I had to go smile on camera while my whole… whole world just—”

She couldn’t finish.

Carly leaned closer, bumping her shoulder gently.
“Hey. Listen. Leaving a good stable hurts worse than any bump in that ring. You’re allowed to feel it.”

Evangeline nodded, eyes wet again.

Before Carly could say more, the locker room door swung open.

Marcy Carter strode in like someone who powered the entire building by sheer discipline. Boots still on, gear still tight, posture cold and sharp.

“There you two are,” she said briskly. “Where’s Leah?”

Carly answered without missing a beat.
“Went back to her hotel room.”

Marcy clicked her tongue.
“Of course she did...we’ll talk about that later. I’ll be in the gym at four.”

Evangeline blinked. “Four… AM?”

“Yes,” Marcy said as though four AM were a universal standard. “We’re a group now. We train together.”

Evangeline tensed, the fresh wound of leaving her old stable throbbing under her ribs.

“I— I can’t,” she said quietly. “Not at four. I barely slept last night. And tonight was—”

“A test?” Marcy finished for her. “Everything is a test. Your old team isn’t here anymore. We are. Are you committed or not?”

Evangeline flinched like she’d been slapped.

Carly rose instantly, stepping between them.

“Okay, no,” Carly said firmly. “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

Marcy raised an eyebrow. “I’m asking for commitment.”

“And she’s grieving,” Carly snapped. “She lost her stable three hours ago, Marcy. She doesn’t need a drill sergeant at dawn. She needs sleep.”

Evangeline’s voice cracked softly.
“I just… I just need time.”

Marcy crossed her arms, unimpressed.
“We don’t always get time in this business.”

Carly fired back, “And pushing her until she breaks won’t make her loyal to us. Respect goes further than cardio.”

Marcy hesitated — only a second, but enough to show the words hit.

Finally she grabbed her duffel bag.

“Fine,” she said. “Do what you want.”

At the door, she paused and looked back at Evangeline — not with compassion, but with a flicker of understanding.

“Loss makes you soft,” she said. “Training makes you hard again. Think about which one you want.”

Then she walked out.

The silence afterward was heavy, but not suffocating — because Carly stayed.

Evangeline rubbed at her face. “She hates me.”

“She doesn’t,” Carly said gently. “She’s just intense. And a little emotionally constipated.”

That earned a weak laugh from Evangeline.

Carly sat beside her again.
“We’ll figure this out. All four of us. But right now?”
She bumped Evangeline’s shoulder again.
“You go call your girls. Say what you didn’t get to say tonight.”

Evangeline nodded, tears gathering again — but this time, they didn’t feel like collapse.
They felt like release.

“Thanks, Carly,” she whispered.

“Anytime,” Carly said. “Welcome to the circus.”

Pictured: Carly Sweeting (L) and Leah van Dahl (R)

November 19, 2022,
00:42 local time,
The International Hotel,
Mogadishu Capitol District, Sultanate of Mogadishu

The hallway of the hotel was soft-lit and silent, the kind of silence that only came after a show — when adrenaline had drained out of everyone and the only thing left was fatigue.

Behind one of the doors, Leah van Dahl was fighting with a zipper.

“Shannon, sweetheart, hold still,” she whispered, trying to get her daughter into pajamas. Shannon giggled and bounced away, her tiny curls springing with each hop across the bed.

Leah sighed — tired, still half in her gear, makeup smudged, hair pulled back in a messy tie. She’d come straight to her room after the show, wanting nothing except sleep and a few minutes to herself.

A knock. Sharp. Too awake.

Leah startled. Shannon froze.

“Mommy? Who’s that?”

“Nobody important,” Leah murmured, scooping up the little girl and setting her on the bed.
“Stay right there. No moving.”

Shannon nodded solemnly — then immediately grabbed her plush rabbit and began humming to it.

Leah grabbed the first dress she saw on the chair — soft blue, wrinkled — and tugged it over her head. She checked her reflection in the darkened TV screen, saw the fatigue in her eyes, and decided it was good enough.

She opened the door halfway.

Carly Sweeting stood there in a cocktail dress — pink, fitted, bright, a stark contrast to Leah’s wilted exhaustion. She looked like she belonged in a music video, not a hallway at 12:43 AM.

“Hey,” Carly said, almost apologetic. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Leah blinked at her. “Not yet.”

Carly smiled nervously. “Right. Uh… I’m heading down to the hotel bar. Gonna unwind. Thought I’d see if you — y’know. Wanted to join me.”

Leah stared at her.
Long, suspicious, unblinking.

“…You want to grab drinks. With me.”

Carly shrugged lightly. “I figured we could catch up. Talk. Be… normal.”

Leah’s voice flattened.
“Now you want to be friends?”

Carly’s smile faded a little. “Leah—”

“You never came to my room after shows before. Never checked on me.” Leah’s tone sharpened. “But now that we’re in a faction together, now suddenly you’re showing up at my door? In a dress?”

Carly opened her mouth. “That’s not—”

“And let me guess,” Leah continued, “if we don’t get along, the group falls apart, management loses interest, and your place in Combat Arts gets shaky. That it?”

Carly’s face fell.
“That’s not fair. I’m not here because of—”

“Yes you are,” Leah said simply. “You’re here because now my relevance affects your relevance. And you can’t afford another flop.”

Carly’s brows knitted in hurt. “Leah, I came because I care. Because you seemed off tonight. Because—”

“Because of the faction,” Leah said. “Everything is because of the faction.”

Carly’s mouth tightened.
“That’s not true.”

Leah folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe like she was holding the whole world at bay.

“You don’t get to vanish for years,” she said quietly, “and then knock on my door like nothing happened. I don’t need… whatever this is, Carly. Not tonight.”

Carly’s posture sagged — the first crack in her confident façade.

“Leah… it wasn’t like that. I didn’t just vanish.”

“You didn’t stay either,” Leah replied softly. “And I can’t do this right now.”

From inside the room, Shannon called out,
“Mommy? Who’s there?”

Leah glanced back briefly, then turned to Carly again.

“I need sleep. And my daughter needs me.”
Her voice softened, but her guard never dropped.
“Goodnight, Carly.”

She started to close the door.

Carly’s voice slipped through the narrowing gap, small and wounded.

“…I just wanted to help.”

The door clicked shut.

Leah leaned her forehead against it for a moment — breathing out slowly, steadying herself.

Carly stood in the hallway, alone in her cocktail dress, staring at the closed door like it was a punch she didn’t see coming.

After a moment, she turned and walked toward the elevator.

The hallway swallowed the sound of her heels.

Pictured: Carly Sweeting (L), Evangeline Elliott (R)

November 19, 2022,
01:12 local time,
The Continental,
Mogadishu Capitol District, Sultanate of Mogadishu

Evangeline Elliott had changed into a tank top and shorts, hair tied into a loose bun, curled up on the end of the bed with her knees pulled close. The TV glowed faintly in front of her — she’d scrolled through streaming platforms for twenty minutes without committing to anything.

A sudden knock made her jump.

She hesitated, then opened the door.

Carly Sweeting stood there in her pink cocktail dress, makeup smudged from the night, heels dangling from two fingers. She looked tired — not in a defeated way, but in a been-hit-by-emotions-all-day way.

Carly lifted the shoe-dangling hand in a half-wave.

“Hey, sugar cube. I know it’s late. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come down to the bar with me.”

Evangeline shook her head immediately.
“Oh — uh, no, I’m not… a bar person. And after tonight I just want to curl up somewhere safe.”

Carly nodded, not offended.
“Yeah. That makes sense.”

A pause.

Then Evangeline stepped back, opening the door wider.

“…But you can come in.”

Carly blinked. “You sure?”

Evangeline nodded. “I don’t want to be alone right now. And you look like you don’t either.”

Carly let out a breath — the kind that carried relief in it — and stepped inside.

Evangeline climbed back onto the bed; Carly kicked off her heels, set them by the wall, and sat beside her cross-legged. The two of them scrolled through streaming options, snickering at ridiculous titles and overdramatic thumbnails.

They eventually settled on a comfort movie — something with sparkles and bad choreography — and let it play.

A half-hour passed before Evangeline spoke softly.

“Can I ask something?”

Carly clicked pause. “Shoot.”

“What happened between you and Leah?”

Carly’s posture stiffened. She stared at the TV for a long moment, like she was reading her memories off the reflection in the screen.

“…It’s a long story,” she said.

“I don’t mind long,” Evangeline replied. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Carly exhaled.
Then quietly, she began.

“Leah and I met at Gotham University,” Carly said. “My freshman year, Leah's senior year. I was this tiny little thing from Galveston who didn't know what Gotham would be like and Leah was this super-confident Gothamite who talked like she was afraid someone would judge her vibes.”

Evangeline smiled. “That sounds like her.”

Carly stared at the paused movie for a long moment, her expression tightening the way someone’s does when an old wound reopens.

Evangeline turned fully toward her.

Carly drew a slow breath.

“Leah and I met at a college party. Not during classes. Not over coffee. A party.”
A humorless smile. “A loud, sweaty, bodies-everywhere Gotham party.”

Evangeline nodded, listening quietly.

“That night…” Carly hesitated. “Leah danced with this guy. Cute, older guy, already graduated, big smile, the type who made girls feel safe even when they shouldn’t.”

Evangeline’s brows furrowed.

“They were both drunk,” Carly said. “Really drunk. They grinded together...Leah says he exploded so much, she felt it on her dress. So Leah escalated...they disappeared into the club bathroom together. I didn’t know that part until much later.”

Carly swallowed.

“It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t romantic. Just… two drunk kids making a mistake. And the second they were done, he left. No number. No check-in. He didn’t even look back.”

Evangeline’s mouth softened in sadness.

“And Leah…” Carly continued, her voice lowering, “…she didn’t think anything happened. Neither of them did. She was tipsy, dizzy, confused — and she thought it was nothing.”

Carly’s eyes glazed over with old guilt.

“I found her outside the building maybe an hour after. Sitting alone on the curb, shaking, mascara everywhere, her phone dead. She didn’t even know how she got outside.”
A beat.
“So I took her home. I cleaned her up. I put her to bed. She was this scared, vulnerable girl I’d just met, and something in me knew she needed someone.”

Evangeline gently touched her hand.

Carly continued:

“Weeks later… she told me she was late. Then she told me she was pregnant. She didn’t know when or who. We put the pieces together later — the dancing, the bathroom, the guy leaving before she even got her balance back.”

Her voice cracked.

“She was terrified. And I was terrified for her. But I stayed. I bought the tests. I went to the clinic. I helped her tell her mom. I helped her stay together.”

A shaky breath.

“And then… life happened. Volleyball took over. Travel took over. And she was in Gotham raising Trevor alone while I was chasing my career. We drifted. Not because I wanted to — but because I didn’t know how to stretch myself across two worlds.”

Evangeline’s voice was soft:
“You did what you could.”

Carly wiped at her face.

“I don’t know. Leah thinks I abandoned her. And maybe she’s allowed to think that. But that night — the night Trevor was conceived — I was the one who made sure she got home. I was the one who held her while she cried. And I can’t shake the feeling that leaving Gotham… meant leaving her to deal with everything alone.”

Evangeline squeezed Carly’s hand.

“She still needs you,” she whispered.

Carly nodded, tears gathering again.

“And I need her,” she said quietly. “More than she’ll ever know.”

Evangeline placed a hand over Carly’s.

“You were kids,” she said softly. “And the world kept moving. That doesn’t mean you didn’t love her.”

Carly nodded, eyes shining.

“I just… I want her to know that I’m here now. That I’m not running. That I want us to be friends again.”

Evangeline squeezed her hand.

“Then start small,” she said gently. “Not with a bar invite at midnight. With real apologies. Real conversations. Real time.”

Carly laughed wetly.
“Rookies have wisdom, huh?”

Evangeline blushed. “Sometimes.”

The movie resumed, the two of them sitting a little closer now.

And for the first time that night — maybe the first time in weeks — Carly Sweeting felt like she wasn’t alone.