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Baby, I'm the One to Beat (1/?)

Feyre Archeron is the most talked-about woman in Exy. On the court, she broke records in her first season with the Springfield Bucks, while her off-court romance with her team captain, Tamlin, had fans swooning. In the wake of a breakup, she throws it all away and transfers to the rival Velaris University. A new narrative emerges—after refusing to share the court with her ex, Exy's freshman phenomenon is "too temperamental" to play at the sport's highest levels. Feyre can't afford to get involved with another teammate when she needs another trophy to keep her dream of going pro alive. But amid all the drills, workouts, and scrimmages, Rhysand, her new team captain, becomes a smirking, sarcastic soft place to land. And Feyre doesn't miss his longing looks in her direction, either. Can she win the championship and still keep her heart—and reputation—intact?

For @belabellissima

My secret santa giftee is the loml, the queen, the legend BELA FUCKIN BELISSIMAAAAAA!!!! I literally squealed with excitement when I got my assignment, and I had the BEST time binging the Foxhole Court to create this AU (and real talk, when I started brainstorming and making a "things Bela likes" list, I was like "oh SHIT, HOW IS HER TASTE IN EVERYTHING SO IMPECCABLE???")

A huge thank you to my team of betas, brainstorming partners, and secret keepers: @c-e-d-dreamer, @violetasteracademic, @yourstarsmyscars, @reverie-tales, thesistersarcheron, berd-berd-nerd, itsthedoodle, and climbthemountain2020 And an even bigger thank you to the @acotargiftexchange mods for all their hard work putting on such a fun event!

Read it Here on AO3 or under the cut, and happy holidays everyone! <3

Feyre wished she'd thought about a revenge dress.

For the past year, she'd spent no less than an hour and a half in the weight room most days. She'd clocked enough miles to wear out three pairs of running shoes. A constant ache had settled in her shoulders from all the drills that honed her catching, throwing, and aiming. After all the work she'd put in to bring her body to peak physical condition, she really ought to have found something slinky.

But she'd put off packing until the last minute, and now the steam from her shower hadn't done anything to fix the wrinkled mess she'd shoved into her suitcase. Wrapped up in a scratchy hotel towel, she sighed in dismay at the stodgy black outfit she'd bought for her father's funeral years ago.

She forced herself to change before Ianthe banged on the door. Just a few days ago, they would have gone shopping for something new, but since Feyre had ended things with Tamlin, her roommate communicated solely in dirty looks. Ianthe's chipper demeanor had gotten on her nerves, especially before 6 AM practices, but now, Feyre would take it over the frosty silence that had followed them all the way from their dorm to the latest hotel room they'd been assigned to share.

Maybe it was just the thought of the last time she'd worn the dress, but Feyre suddenly missed her sisters fiercely. Despite their childhoods full of cutthroat competition, constant tears, and hurt feelings, Nesta and Elain would still rally behind her after a breakup. And it helped that they both had nicer closets to raid.

But college recruitment and Exy Pro League drafts had scattered the Archeron sisters across Prythian, so Feyre found herself getting ready for the Collegiate Player of the Year awards ceremony alone.

The formal, televised awards ceremony where she'd be seated next to her roided-up meathead of an ex-boyfriend. The ex who was also her team captain.

The occasion called for looking killer. But in the whirlwind of celebrations and interviews, congratulations and sponsorship offers since her game-winning goal ended Springfield University's fifty-year long championship drought, she hadn't had much time to herself.

And these days, Feyre spent her free time crying and beating herself up for not ending things the first time Tamlin put his hands on her.

She put on enough makeup to avoid being told she looked sick, then tied back her hair. After one last frown in the mirror, Feyre let Ianthe have the bathroom. Her teammate said nothing, but the disgusted curl of her lip spoke volumes about how Feyre looked.

She wandered down the hotel lobby, hoping to find Lucien. Since the breakup, hardly anyone on the Springfield Bucks spoke to Feyre unless they absolutely had to, but Lucien remained friendly. Or at least, he did when Tamlin wasn't around to glare.

A few of her teammates had already gathered on the sofa, Tamlin in the center. Irritatingly enough, he looked damn good in a forest green suit that stretched over his hulking muscles, and by some miracle, he'd managed to knot his floral tie correctly. He'd even washed his long, blonde hair for once.

Feyre just silently hovered at the edge of the group. None of her teammates looked at home in clothes that didn't wick sweat, dry fast, and stretch in all directions, save Lucien, who could command a runway just as well as he could dominate an Exy court. He caught Feyre's eye, flashed her a warm smile, and then went right back to nodding along as Tamlin spoke.

She tried not to take it too personally.

As they waited, a few of the Bucks took pictures together. Pictures that pointedly did not include Feyre. Ianthe would probably flood the Exy hashtags with captions about how they all clean up nice, but even that couldn't drown out excited online chatter about Feyre "the Cursebreaker" Archeron.

Breaking records got people talking a hell of a lot more than a few nice photos ever did. Feyre let that knowledge bolster her spirits.

Time seemed to drag on as the team gathered and boarded the bus. Ianthe snagged the seat next to Lucien before Feyre could, so she spent the ride to the Middle Theater staring moodily at downtown traffic. Each time Tamlin's booming voice cut through the Bucks's conversations, she nearly flinched.

As they arrived and took their seats. Feyre tried not to fidget. With all the recent travel, she hadn't gotten a workout in, and even though she needed the off-season to rest up, she felt like she might explode if she didn't run a few laps to burn off excess energy.

Since the breakup, she hadn't gotten this close to Tamlin without the benefit of a helmet, pads, and a mouthguard. The memory of that smashed study room still burned behind her retinas. As the lights dimmed and the ceremony began, she forced herself to breathe slowly. In through her nose, out through her mouth.

Feyre tuned out the introductions and the season recap—after all, she'd lived through it. Eventually, her ears pricked at the sound of her name as the nominees for Rookie of the Year were announced. A camera probably zoomed in on her face, and somehow, she managed to smile through the host listing out the nominees' achievements.

It helped that Feyre's stats blew everyone else's out of the water. Despite her limited playing time as a second-stringer, Feyre put up insane numbers of goals and assists all year. From her very first on-count appearance, when she'd body-checked a Middengard senior then twisted out of the tackle to steal the ball and score, she'd made Bucks fans believe in an end to the Springfield curse. And in the championship, she'd made it happen by slamming Amarantha, Hybern's captain, into a wall to clear the way for the game-winning goal.

The Cursebreaker was a freshman phenomenon if there ever was one.

And yet, when the host opened the envelope and read out her name, Feyre still blinked in surprise. Everything about this season felt like a dream.

She stood, and next to her, so did Tamlin. He pulled her into a hug, every inch the proud team captain the fans expected to see despite the breakup, and it took everything in Feyre to push down on the instinct to shove.

If Lucien hadn't gotten to her next, Feyre might have vomited. By some magic, he always seemed to smell like cinnamon and campfires, even drenched in sweat—decidedly not like Tamlin. "You earned it," he whispered, pulling her close.

Feyre let those words steady her as she walked up to the stage. She hadn't thought about an acceptance speech—couldn't think of one even now, amid the too-bright lights and too-loud applause. All she could focus on was not making a fool of herself and tripping as she stepped up to the podium.

But Feyre Archeron always landed on her feet, and she dutifully got through all the necessary thank-yous. The words felt like ash in her mouth, and she didn't mean most of them. Her father, who'd pushed his daughters into Exy because a shattered kneecap ended his dreams of going pro. Her sisters, who she'd been pitted against. Her teammates, who'd rallied behind Tamlin despite the abuse. Her coaches, who'd never really cared about her off the court.

Her hands still shook as she returned to her seat, only vaguely aware of her teammates clapping her on the back as she walked. The ceremony moved on to the next award, and Feyre's heart stopped hammering in her chest.

Something ugly coiled in her gut ahead of the final prize of the night—Player of the Year. Feyre hadn't been nominated. The old guard at the PCAA—Prythian College Athletics Association—still expected underclassmen to pay their dues. Despite exceptional performance that would have earned it, she wasn't eligible for the award.

But Tamlin was a finalist.

Feyre could practically taste something bitter on her tongue as Tamlin's highlights were read out. His stats weren't any better than hers—but he had the benefit of being a starter. Unlike him, she'd managed those numbers while waiting around for him to tire out and need a sub.

He'd graduate in a year. Feyre would get the playing time eventually. She knew that.

Yet…she couldn't help but wonder what she could have achieved if she'd been on the starting lineup from the beginning.

The smile froze on her face as Tamlin's name was called. It wasn't a surprise; the captain of the championship-winning team was always a shoe-in for Player of the Year. But something inside her seemed to burn anyway.

She hated it all—that dopey smile that once charmed her, his massive bear-paw hands that dwarfed the host's as they shook, the good-natured way he bumbled through the acceptance speech. He was such an oaf. And the more the Exy community applauded him, the more Feyre wanted to scream.

She did her best to push those thoughts aside for the rest of the evening. The season had ended, after all. After tonight, she'd have a whole summer ahead of her, plenty of time to catch her breath away from Tamlin. Maybe with a chance to relax, the thought of setting foot on the Springfield campus again wouldn't make her feel quite so nauseous.

After the ceremony, there was still a banquet dinner to get through. Just the thought of it sounded exhausting, and Feyre didn't know how the teams in other college leagues managed two whole banquets a year.

But at least, there would be players and coaches from other teams, and even if the Bucks all hated her, the Archeron name meant something in Exy. Nesta had gone pro with the Velaris Valkyries, and all the analysts were predicting that Elain would be chosen during the first round when the draft occurred in a few weeks.

Feyre had gotten used to all the gawking years ago.

She lost track of everyone that came to congratulate her. Helion from the Suns, Adriata's goalie Tarquin, that dealer named Kallias that she'd bowled over during the game against the Frost, plus an assortment of coaches and officials she'd never met before…

Players mingled freely—the league wasn't that big, and everyone knew everyone else, at least by reputation. Feyre had wanted to melt into the floor and disappear every time a player she'd just met told her they were sorry things didn't work out between her and Tamlin. But as usual, Velaris was the exception.

The Velaris University Stars always kept to themselves, not that anyone wanted to get mixed up with them anyway. Like everyone else, Feyre had heard all the whispers about bribing officials, and rumor had it the Stars kept a slush fund to pay players for intentionally knocking out opponents. Someone had even said Velaris had mafia connections, like some of the teams over in America. Rhysand Darling, their captain, had refused to shake Tamlin's hand before the coin toss at all of their games.

Springfield and Velaris had one of the longest, bitterest rivalries in all of college sports, so Feyre would have dismissed it as immature drama. But one tackle from Rhys had concussed Lucien despite the helmets all Exy players wore, and for weeks, she'd worried the hit had scrambled her friend's brain.

In retaliation, she'd knocked Rhys on his ass no less than five times when they'd faced off again during the playoffs. She'd delighted in the angry flash of his violet eyes behind his facemask, and with Feyre covering him, he'd hadn't scored once.

She felt those same violet eyes landing on her throughout dinner. Feyre tried to ignore it. He probably just held a grudge because she'd made him look like a chump in the playoffs, and some idiot event organizer had been stupid enough to put the Stars's table near the Bucks's.

Feyre wasn't quite sure when it all became too much. But she could barely take a bite of her chicken without another player coming to talk to her, and a few seats over, even more of them were fawning over Tamlin. She needed air.

Once she caught sight of the line to the ladies's room snaking around two corners, Feyre tried to find somewhere quiet. She walked through the halls without any sense of where she was going, other than just…away from everyone else.

She finally stopped in front of a door labelled "EXIT" that was probably in some staff-only section of the building she shouldn't have entered. But it didn't seem to be a fire door. And when she pushed, it opened without alarming.

The smell of garbage hit her like a freight train. Good—it might stink, but no one would come find her near the dumpsters. Feyre stepped outside, careful to wedge a doorstopper into place just in case it locked from the outside.

She let out a shaking breath, tipping her head up to look at the sky. Even on a cloudless night, the city was too bright for stars, but she took in the sight of the full moon rising over the skyscrapers.

She could do this.

Feyre Archeron could be as enduring and faceted as the night. Her teammates in Springfield just couldn't see in the dark.

"I was hoping to find the woman of the hour out here," a voice purred behind her.

Feyre's face twisted into a scowl before she'd turned around. But there Rhysand was, smirking at her with his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit. Impeccably dressed and camera-ready, he looked out of place in the dingy alleyway.

"What do you want?" she said, too drained to put any venom behind it.

"To speak to you privately."

For a moment, Feyre said nothing. She'd assumed he'd sought her out to gloat after hearing about her breakup, but that was the sort of thing people generally did in public, the bigger the audience the better. Narrowing her eyes, she said, "Why?"

"I assume you're thinking of transferring. Anyone in your position would be."

"I'm not," she lied. Admitting it to Rhysand before she'd made a firm decision wouldn't end well.

He shrugged, the simple movement of his shoulders somehow painfully elegant. "If you want to spend your time warming Tamlin's bench, then it's your season to waste."

So he was here to gloat, then. "Fuck off," she said, moving to push past him and head back inside.

Rhys didn't move out of her way—his hand shot out, and he stiff-armed her just like he would on an Exy court. Feyre growled, dropping her shoulder and shoving properly. But the godforsaken heels on her feet made her movement wobbly. He still didn't budge.

"And that," he said, sliding his hand back into his pocket, "is why you should come to Velaris."

Feyre let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "I should've known you weren't above player tampering. Did your team bribe someone to ignore that, too?"

Technically, he'd just tried to recruit her before she'd entered the PCAA portal and officially declared herself open to a transfer. Players could talk to each other, but if a coach had put him up to it, the PCAA would hit their team with a fine and suspension. The officials didn't look kindly on schools who swooped in and seduced away proven talent. But Velaris, apparently, didn't care.

His gaze roved down her body, a predatory gleam in his violet eyes. Feyre's mouth went dry. She knew that look—had worn it herself often enough.

Rhysand was hungry.

"Maybe I just think you look good in black," he murmured.

Until tonight, Feyre hadn't attended a formal event since her father's funeral. The black dress she'd bought amid a fog of grief covered her knees and collarbones, but she had the strangest sense that Rhys wanted to tear it off her with his teeth.

Feyre didn't mind. There was something deliciously heady about no longer scurrying back into Tamlin's shadow when someone looked at her like that.

But not quite heady enough that she wouldn't make him work for it. With a shrug, she said, "If I wanted to transfer, I'd have options. Adriata also needs a striker, and their jerseys match my eyes."

"Tarquin couldn't handle you."

"And you think you could?"

"You've watched enough film to know your play style is far too aggressive for the Summer Court. They rely on quick, short passes, and there's no room for someone who prefers to slam her way through lines of defenders. You'd thrive in Velaris, Feyre."

He wasn't wrong. Feyre understood how the defenses in the league operated just as well as he did, and damn near every article last season said Archeron's got that dawg in her. From what she'd heard, the culture in Adriata was good—no one ever had anything bad to say about Tarquin, and the Jellyfish would welcome a newcomer with open arms, even if they quietly grumbled about her holding onto the ball too long.

But Velaris…well, she'd heard the rumors. And even if she hadn't, Rhys rattled Lucien into dropping passes with taunts about Jesminda rolling in her grave, their quiet backliner had once grabbed Eris Vanserra by the neck when the refs weren't looking, and that tiny demon of a goalie actually bit Varian last year.

If it were any other team, Feyre could deal with a few cutthroat, psychotic teammates. An eventual spot on a pro roster would be worth it. But she'd catch hell for leaving Springfield for its biggest rival, especially after a breakup with the Bucks's beloved golden boy.

She should have just written it off. Even if she decided against Adriata, Helion might have a spot on the Suns, and there was the possibility of putting real distance between her and Tamlin if she transferred to the Continental League and joined Vallahan or Rask or Montessere. Or hell, even that ragtag American team with the orange uniforms.

But a clean break didn't compel her as much as Rhysand did.

"How would you make it worth my while?" she said, drinking in the desire burning behind his eyes and gulping it down like wine.

"Strikers come in pairs, Feyre. I need an equal partner I can split the court with and trust implicitly, but unless you transfer in, I'll be picking up the slack of whichever halfwit underclassman makes the roster," he said, not answering her question.

Feyre opened her mouth, fully intent on telling him she didn't care what he needed. But before she could, he advanced on her and added, "Tell me what you want, and if it gets you on the Stars, it's yours."

She almost said she wanted him. A cruel part of Feyre wanted to see if he'd kneel and bury his head between her thighs, just to convince her to transfer. She could imagine tangling her fingers in his blue-black hair, keeping his mouth exactly where she wanted it until he'd proved just how badly he needed her on the team.

But she wouldn't. After Tamlin, Feyre couldn't argue that she had great taste in men, but at the very least, she preferred entirely willing partners. Beyond that, she wouldn't be able to look Rhysand in the eye again, let alone play alongside him for a year.

Her good sense won out. "I need player development, a spot on your starting line, and teammates who won't cause problems."

"We'd treat you right in Velaris," Rhys purred. No one had any right to make a discussion of team culture sound that…well, sensual. Feyre shivered.

"Would you?" she said. "I'd be a distraction."

"Hungry dogs run faster, Feyre. Springfield might have tried to protect Tamlin, but it's hard to keep secrets when a captain is violent enough to throw a desk at his girlfriend. I know this is personal for you. And I'll put up with a media circus if it means I'm playing alongside a talented striker with something to prove."

Rhysand might have been the next in a long line of people who only wanted her for what she could do on an Exy court. But at least he wanted her. Besides, he didn't have to care as long as their goals aligned.

She crossed her arms. "I'll think about it."

Feyre had never seen Rhysand smile. And maybe that was the for the best because if it had happened on an Exy court, she might have been dumbstruck long enough for him to steal the ball from her racquet. Despite all the muscles, most Exy players looked like thumbs. But Rhys was devastating.

"We'll talk once you've entered the transfer portal," he said, as if it were inevitable Feyre would join the running list of players who'd officially declared their intention to leave for new schools.

With that, Rhys sauntered back inside, and Feyre silently glared at his back until he'd disappeared down the hallway. Definitely at his back and not at all at the sculpted ass perfectly accentuated by his well-tailored, stupidly expensive-looking suit.

When she was alone again, Feyre took a few deep breaths of cool night air. It didn't do as much to clear her head as she hoped. She needed to sit and think about this—make a list of the pros and cons, maybe even talk to her sisters and get their opinions.

But no one wanted to snatch that trophy back from Springfield more than Velaris. And no one wanted to shut Tamlin up more than Feyre.

If she closed her eyes, Feyre could imagine the boos if she entered the Spring Court in black. Each goal would quiet them down until the Bucks fans just sat in stunned silence or left early in disgust. All of the hype and excitement ahead of the biggest rivalry game of the season, the hype that only came after winning a championship…fizzled out into nothing.

It would be a perfect end to Tamlin's college Exy career. He might even cry.

But then again, if she transferred for more playing time and underperformed, she'd be Exy's biggest bust. A freshman who let one good season go to her head, then floundered. Too confident for her own good, too temperamental to play alongside her ex, too emotional to play Exy at the highest levels. A disappointment compared to her sisters—someone cracked under pressure with a national audience watching.

It could kill her chances of going pro.

Feyre couldn't stay out in the alleyway much longer before someone came looking for her. Steeling herself to get through the rest of the night, she headed back to the banquet. The rest of it seemed to pass in a blur, and she pretended not to notice the Velaris players whispering among themselves.

She'd left her phone in the pocket of her jacket. It had been sitting on a hanger at the coat check all evening, but when Feyre checked her messages on the bus, there was a new text from a contact that definitely hadn't been there before the awards ceremony.

Rhysand Darling 🌟: It was a pleasure meeting you tonight.

Feyre locked the screen before any nosy teammates had a chance to peek over her shoulder. The whole ride back to the hotel, Feyre felt like her phone was burning a hole in her pocket. Lucien even seemed to notice—she'd forced an uncertain smile when he'd shot her a worried look.

It wasn't until Ianthe's snores filled their shared room that Feyre dared sneak off to the bathroom. The tile was cold against her legs as she sat on the floor, back against the door. Before she had a chance to sleep on it or talk herself out of the decision, she started drafting an email to Springfield's coach and administrators. Once she'd typed it, she just stared at the subject line as her stomach did backflips.

Notification of Transfer

Feyre squeezed her eyes shut and hit send. She waited to feel regret or horror or even the urge to un-send the email and pretend nothing had happened. But it never came, and she'd run out of tears. Something inside her hardened into cold, icy resolve.

She switched to her messaging app and replied to Rhysand. The Spring Court had better not be standing when we're done with it. And no bitching if I get a penalty for spearing Tamlin's head on my racquet.

His response came seconds later, so quickly that Feyre had to wonder if he'd been waiting by his own phone. You're going to fit right in at Velaris. Can't wait to see you on the Court of Dreams 🖤

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