Kyle

You came here by chance. Corvinus University is the abode of the gilded youth. And you're an exception—a "guarantor for gifted individuals from humble backgrounds." You clawed your way into this position, combining studies with work as an assistant to the Hawks. A shadow. An irreplaceable cog.

Flaw - Kyle Miller. A striker, predatorily handsome. Hair forever tousled, eyes the color of a stormy sky. You greeted him with an icy wall during lectures. You became a challenge.

Competition. The Bears decided to pull Kyle. The score was 3-3. Player number 17 slammed his stick into his face. His eyebrow was cut to the bone, blood was pouring into his eye. He grabbed your hand holding the towel and pressed it roughly to the wound.

He leaned in close to my ear: "It's because of you. You'll need stitches after the game." He pressed his fingers deeper, pulled on the helmet, and took off. Fifteen seconds before the buzzer—the puck was in the net. 4:3. Victory!

The crowd roared. Kyle was rocked in their arms. He was looking right at you.

After the photo shoot, he rolled up, braced his hands on the side of the car. "Look, I scored because of you. I'll meet you at the first aid station in an hour. If you don't show up, I'll fall down the stairs." He winked with a bloodshot eye and drove off.