WFL League Offices, December 2, 2022
09:12 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS
The office is glass and brushed steel. Clean. Modern. Safe.
It smells faintly of lemon polish.
Commissioner Leo Corbin does not sit behind his desk. He
stands at the window, overlooking Gotham Hill’s financial district.
Claudia Donahue does not wait to be invited to sit.
She closes the door herself.
“Busy week,” she says.
Corbin exhales through his nose.
“Melissa Graves,” he replies.
Donahue nods once.
The article had dropped at 06:00 the morning prior.
Forty-two hundred words. Screenshots. Descriptions. Names omitted but implied.
Language carefully lawyered.
Frat boy culture.
Drinking before practices.
Drinking before games.
Groped one time too many.
And the detail that stung:
Graves did not blame head coach Karim Salim.
She said he tried.
She said he was ignored.
That makes it systemic.
Corbin finally turns.
“The Players’ Association wins the Cozens appeal yesterday,”
he says. “One-game suspension reduced. He’s back. Steamers are 6-5, winners of
four of five. National darling story, maybe a playoff team…and now this.”
Donahue folds her hands.
“You’re worried about credibility.”
“I’m worried about momentum,” Corbin corrects.
She almost smiles.
Of course he is.
Cleveland has been a joke for decades. Decade-long playoff
drought. Haven’t had a winning season since 1995. Bankruptcy rumors. Attendance
collapses. Coaching churn.
Now Drake Cozens arrives. The team wins. The city rallies.
The league sells resilience.
…and now this.
“What do you want?” Donahue asks.
Corbin walks back to the desk. Doesn’t sit.
“I want clarity,” he says.
She raises an eyebrow.
“No,” she says softly. “You don’t.”
Silence.
Corbin doesn’t argue.
He lowers his voice.
“I want this contained.”
There it is.
Donahue nods slowly.
“The cheerleader,” she says. “Independent contractor. Not
unionized. No formal complaints on file?”
“None that rose to discipline.”
“…and the drinking?”
“Unsubstantiated.”
“Unrecorded?”
A beat.
“Unmanaged,” Corbin admits.
That’s worse.
Donahue considers.
“If I go in,” she says carefully, “I’ll need cooperation.”
“You’ll have it.”
“From ownership.”
“You’ll have it.”
“From the locker room.”
Corbin hesitates.
“You’ll have what you need.”
Which means she won’t.
Donahue leans back.
Here is what she understands:
She is not here to find the truth.
She is here to find a version of it that stabilizes markets.
“I’ll frame it as a culture audit,” she says. “Independent
review. Full access. Emphasis on policy gaps, not personal villains.”
Corbin nods.
“…and Graves?”
“We validate her feelings,” Donahue says. “We do not
validate her conclusions.”
Cold. Surgical.
“We’ll acknowledge isolated misconduct,” she continues.
“Recommend enhanced training. Propose revised supervision protocols. Suspend a
mid-level staffer if necessary.”
“A sacrifice,” Corbin says.
“Accountability,” she corrects.
“…and Cozens?”
Donahue shrugs.
“The appeal stands. Separate matter. No nexus.”
Even if there is.
Corbin finally sits.
“This cannot derail the season.”
“It won’t,” Donahue says.
He studies her.
“You’re confident.”
She meets his gaze.
“I have never once produced a report that destabilized this
league.”
There’s no pride in it.
Just fact.
Corbin nods.
“Timeline?”
“Preliminary statement within 72 hours. Full report in
thirty days.”
“Too long.”
“Then it won’t look independent.”
He exhales.
“Thirty days.”
She stands.
“One more thing,” she says.
He looks up.
“If the drinking is real,” continues Claudia, “and I mean
real, not celebratory nonsense — you’ll need to decide whether you want it
buried or excised.”
Corbin doesn’t answer.
That tells her everything.
She opens the door.
“Claudia,” he says.
She pauses.
“Fix it.”
She gives him the faintest smile.
“That’s what I do.”
The door closes.
The league continues.
For now.
Ironworks Steam Park, December 4, 2022
17:04 local time,
Cleveland, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS
The locker room still smells like turf pellets and
adrenaline.
38–22.
London never really recovered after the second-quarter
turnover. The Steamers controlled tempo, ran clean protection schemes, and
Drake Cozens threw three touchdowns without an interception.
Five wins in six games.
From laughingstock to wildcard hunt.
Cozens steps to the podium in a grey team hoodie, towel
around his neck. His hair still damp. He looks tired but wired.
He taps the microphone.
“Good team win,” he begins. “Defense stepped up. O-line gave
me time. We’re building something.”
Flashbulbs.
Questions come fast.
Reporter: “Drake, talk about that third-down
conversion in the fourth-”
He smiles. Easy.
“We knew they’d show Cover 2. London’s predictable in that
package. We checked out-”
Another voice cuts in.
“Drake, are you aware of the league investigation into team
culture?”
The room shifts.
Cozens blinks once.
He expected this.
He just hoped it would wait.
“I’m aware the league is doing what it does,” he says
carefully. “We’re focused on football.”
Another reporter leans forward.
“Melissa Graves’ allegations include claims of drinking
before games. Have you ever seen that?”
Cozens exhales slowly through his nose.
“No.”
Too fast.
He softens it.
“Look, this is a professional organization. Guys prepare. We
work.”
A third voice.
“Did you ever witness inappropriate behavior toward
cheerleaders?”
His jaw tightens.
“I’ve never personally-” He pauses. “I can’t speak to
someone else’s experience.”
That’s better.
Safer.
A local reporter jumps in.
“Drake, the Players’ Association appealed your suspension
yesterday. Some critics say this investigation makes that decision look…
convenient. Your response?”
There it is.
The edge.
Cozens grips the podium.
“My appeal was about procedure,” he says. “It had nothing to
do with-”
“Are you personally under investigation?”
He hesitates.
Just long enough.
“I’m not worried about it,” he says. “None of us are. We’re
focused on winning.”
He tries to pivot.
“Look, this locker room-”
“Drake,” a national reporter interrupts, “have you entered
any program in response to the allegations?”
That wasn’t supposed to be public yet.
Cozens’ eyes flicker- just once- toward the team PR director
standing off-camera.
Too late.
“I’ve voluntarily entered a rehabilitation and
accountability program,” he blurts.
Silence.
The room freezes.
Even the local reporters look up.
He hears it the second it leaves his mouth.
Rehabilitation sounds like guilt.
Accountability sounds like confession.
He tries to recover.
“Not because I did anything wrong,” he adds quickly, “but
because leadership means holding yourself to a higher standard. If there’s
perception, if there’s culture issues, we address them head-on.”
Pens scratch furiously.
Phones light up.
“Drake, what are you rehabilitating from?”
“It’s voluntary,” he repeats. “It’s about growth. About
standards. That’s it.”
“Is the team mandating this?”
“No.”
“Did the league recommend it?”
“No.”
“Is this connected to your suspension?”
“No.”
He’s talking too much now.
Trying to outrun the phrasing.
“I just think,” he says, forcing calm, “when you’re the
quarterback, you don’t hide. You lead. If that means stepping into programs,
workshops, whatever it is- fine.”
The PR director steps forward.
“That’s all for today.”
Microphones drop lower. Voices still shout.
“Drake! Drake!”
He steps away from the podium.
The towel around his neck suddenly feels heavier.
Behind him, the Steamers logo looms large and metallic
against the backdrop.
7–5.
Playoff push alive.
…aut the headline won’t be about Cover 2.
It will be about rehabilitation.
…and in league offices across the UCSS, someone will smile.
Because that word makes management easier.
Bow Wow Castle Complex, December 15, 2022
10:02 local time,
City of Cuyahoga Castles, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS
The Bow Wow Castle Complex is quiet at that hour.
Artificial turrets. Faux stonework. Suburban ambition
dressed like medieval romance.
Inside Unit 14B, Melissa Graves sits on a beige sectional
couch, legs tucked beneath her. No makeup. Hair in a loose bun. There’s a
half-drunk mug of coffee on the table.
Claudia Donahue does not open her notebook immediately.
She begins with sympathy.
“I read your piece twice,” Claudia says gently. “It was
brave.”
Melissa’s shoulders loosen.
“Thank you.”
Claudia nods. Not too much.
“You describe a culture,” Claudia continues, “not an event.”
Melissa leans forward.
“Yes. Exactly. It wasn’t one thing. It was… constant.”
Claudia finally opens the notebook.
“Tell me about the first time you felt uncomfortable.”
Not the worst time.
The first.
Melissa thinks.
“It was a practice in October. A few of the guys had bottles
in their lockers. It smelled like whiskey.”
Claudia writes slowly.
“Did you see anyone drink?”
“I-” Melissa hesitates. “I didn’t physically see them take a
sip, but it was obvious.”
Claudia nods again.
“Obvious how?”
“They were loud. Red-faced. One of them stumbled.”
“Which player?”
“I don’t want to name names.”
“That’s fine,” Claudia says quickly. “I’m not here to target
individuals.”
That lands well.
Melissa relaxes.
“And the groping?” Claudia asks softly.
Melissa’s jaw tightens.
“One of the defensive linemen. After a home game. We were
walking past the tunnel.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No.”
“So it was silent?”
Melissa pauses.
“Yes.”
“Did you report it?”
“I told a unit coordinator.”
“Formally?”
“No.”
Claudia writes that down.
Silence.
Claudia lets it stretch.
Then she leans back slightly.
“Melissa,” she says carefully, “I want to understand whether
this was malicious or immature.”
Melissa frowns.
“What’s the difference?”
“Intent,” Claudia says. “Systemic hostility is different
from reckless culture.”
There it is.
A subtle shift.
Melissa hesitates again.
“I don’t think they hated us,” she admits. “It was more
like… we were props.”
Claudia nods thoughtfully.
“Which is unacceptable,” she says, “but not necessarily
predatory.”
Melissa considers that.
“No,” she says slowly. “Not predatory.”
Claudia circles a word in her notebook.
“…and Coach Salim?” she asks.
Melissa exhales.
“He tried. I really believe that.”
“So leadership was attempting reform.”
“Yes.”
“Would it be fair,” Claudia asks carefully, “to say this was
a lapse in enforcement rather than an endorsed culture?”
Melissa thinks.
“That sounds… fair.”
Claudia closes the notebook.
“You understand,” she says gently, “that the league has to
differentiate between structural negligence and criminality.”
Melissa nods.
“I don’t want anyone arrested,” she says quickly. “I just
want it to stop.”
“…and if the team implements stronger oversight? Clear
conduct policies? Supervised locker room access?”
“That would help.”
Claudia offers a reassuring smile.
“I believe progress is possible.”
They stand.
At the door, Melissa pauses.
“Do you think they’ll actually change?”
Claudia meets her eyes.
“I think they don’t want this narrative attached to a
playoff run.”
It sounds honest.
It is- in a way.
Outside, Claudia pulls out her phone before she reaches the
car.
She dictates a memo:
Complainant credible but imprecise.
No formal reports.
No documented prior discipline.
Coach cooperative reformist.
Culture described as immature, not malicious.
Recommend compliance enhancement framing.
She pauses.
Adds one more line.
Emphasize absence of documented coercion.
Send.
Inside 14B, Melissa closes the door feeling heard.
In Gotham Hill, the report begins to take shape.
Not false.
Just calibrated.
Ironworks Steam Park, December 16, 2022
19:04 local time,
Cleveland, Sovereignty of Ohio, UCSS
The stadium is mostly dark.
Field lights hum softly beyond the glass.
Karim Salim’s office is small for a head coach of a playoff
team. No luxury suite vibe. Just a whiteboard, a playbook stack, and a framed
photo from his first 2-14 season.
Claudia Donahue sits across from him, leather folder closed
in her lap.
“No counsel present,” she says lightly. “You have full
immunity for anything you disclose.”
Salim nods.
“I don’t need a lawyer to tell the truth.”
She smiles.
“That’s good to hear.”
He doesn’t smile back.
“I tried to stop it,” Salim begins. “When I took over, this
place was loose. Too loose. I issued alcohol restrictions immediately.”
“Written policy?” Claudia asks.
“Yes.”
“Filed with the league?”
Salim pauses.
“It was internal.”
She nods slowly.
“So informal.”
“No,” he says firmly. “It was clear.”
“…but not externally documented.”
The first pinprick.
Salim exhales.
“Look, you don’t build trust by running to the league every
time a guy screws up.”
“Trust,” she repeats. “With whom?”
“My locker room.”
“Even if that locker room is engaging in misconduct?”
Salim stiffens.
“It wasn’t criminal.”
“Melissa Graves alleges repeated groping.”
“She never filed a formal complaint.”
“That doesn’t negate occurrence.”
He feels it now.
The angle.
“You’re implying I enabled it.”
“I’m asking whether your attempts were symbolic or
enforceable.”
There it is.
Salim leans forward.
“I benched a starting linebacker for being intoxicated at a
walkthrough.”
“Documented?”
“In-house discipline.”
“So no league reporting.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m not in the business of humiliating players publicly.”
Claudia tilts her head slightly.
“…but humiliation might deter recurrence.”
“That’s not how culture works,” he says sharply.
She doesn’t flinch.
“Then how does it work?”
He hesitates.
“Gradual correction. Leadership. Peer accountability.”
“…and yet,” she says gently, “the behavior persisted.”
He doesn’t answer.
Because it did.
She lets the silence breathe.
Then:
“You’re portrayed in the article as a reformer blocked by
the organization.”
“That’s accurate.”
“Blocked by whom?”
He stops.
Ownership.
Veteran players.
Assistant coaches hired before him.
…but naming names feels like betrayal.
“I encountered resistance,” he says carefully.
“From leadership structures?”
“Yes.”
“Would you characterize that as institutional?”
The word lands heavy.
He senses something off now.
“Are you trying to determine whether this is systemic?”
“I’m trying to determine whether it’s mismanagement.”
“Those aren’t the same.”
“No,” she agrees softly, “but they can look similar in a
report.”
There it is again.
Report.
Framing.
He studies her.
“You’re not here to clean it up,” he says slowly. “You’re
here to classify it.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“That’s my role.”
“…and if it’s classified as isolated immaturity?”
“Then it remains correctable.”
“…and if it’s institutional?”
She meets his eyes.
“Then consequences extend beyond a locker room.”
He understands.
The league doesn’t want institutional.
Institutional means ownership exposure.
Institutional means fines.
Institutional means sponsors panic.
He leans back.
“I did what I could,” he says.
“Did you escalate to the league?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I thought I could fix it internally.”
She writes something down.
The scratch of the pen is louder than it should be.
“You see,” she says, “when a leader believes he can fix
something quietly, it can appear to outside observers that he chose
preservation over disclosure.”
Salim’s eyes narrow.
“That’s not what happened.”
“I’m sure you believe that.”
There’s no hostility in her tone.
That’s what makes it worse.
He feels the shift now.
The narrative is being arranged.
Not falsified.
Arranged.
“Tell me something,” he says quietly.
“If this report clears ownership and frames this as youthful
culture drift, does that protect the league?”
“It protects stability,” she replies.
“…and if I push harder?”
“You’re immune,” she reminds him. “You’re protected.”
Protected.
From what?
He looks past her, out to the dim field.
Six wins now in seven games.
A city believing again.
He feels the trap tightening.
If he goes nuclear, the team burns.
If he stays measured, the rot gets sanded smooth.
“You’ll write what you need to write,” he says finally.
“I’ll write what the evidence supports.”
That’s technically true.
She stands.
“Your cooperation is noted.”
As she leaves, Salim remains seated.
He doesn’t know exactly what’s wrong.
He just knows he’s no longer in control of the story.
…and in this league-
That’s what matters.
WFL League Offices, January 27, 2023
09:12 local time,
City of Gotham Hill, Gotham Grand Sovereignty, UCSS
The conference room is quiet except for the soft hum of
ventilation.
On the wall, 32 screens glow. Owners appear from glass
towers, waterfront estates, private offices with framed jerseys behind them.
Commissioner Leo Corbin stands at the head of the table.
Tablet in hand.
He doesn’t sit.
“Thank you for joining on short notice,” he begins.
No one believes it’s short notice.
They all received Claudia Donahue’s report forty-eight hours
earlier.
Thirty-six pages.
Measured.
Calibrated.
Safe.
Corbin clears his throat.
“You’ve all reviewed the Independent Culture Assessment.”
A few nods. One sip of espresso. A muted microphone
crackles.
Corbin continues.
“The findings are clear. The Cleveland Steamers exhibited
organizational recklessness in internal oversight.”
Not corruption.
Not systemic failure.
Recklessness.
“…but,” he says with a small nod toward Cleveland’s screen,
“the organization has demonstrated a documented commitment to corrective
reform.”
Cleveland’s owner inclines his head solemnly.
Corbin doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t need to.
“Accordingly,” he continues, “the league will impose a
seventh-round draft forfeiture and a monetary fine consistent with precedent in
comparable cases.”
No one asks what precedent.
He continues.
“The Steamers will also implement enhanced compliance
protocols as recommended.”
A pause.
One owner unmutes.
“What exactly does that entail?”
Corbin doesn’t hesitate.
“Internal auditing, culture training, structural reporting
clarity.”
“What metrics?”
“Those will remain internal.”
The owner remutes.
Satisfied.
Or unwilling to push.
On one screen, Perth Wizards owner Talia “Taz” Armitage sits
forward, hands folded.
“That’s insufficient,” she says.
Her voice is calm.
“It acknowledges the language of reform without enforcing
it.”
Silence.
Corbin’s expression doesn’t change.
“The report found no evidence of systemic coercion,” he
replies evenly.
“It found no documented evidence,” Taz corrects.
A few owners shift in their seats.
Another owner- Pittsburgh- chuckles lightly.
“Taz,” he says, “your club just lost to Cleveland in the
Divisional. Let’s not conflate competitive disappointment with governance.”
Her jaw tightens.
“This has nothing to do with the scoreboard.”
“Doesn’t it?” someone mutters.
Then another voice cuts in- relaxed, almost amused.
“You only got here because of the Freemantle Fake anyway.”
A few muted smiles.
On another screen, the Toronto owner’s face hardens.
He says nothing.
…but the memory of that field goal fake still lingers.
Taz keeps her gaze steady.
“If this is the standard,” she says, “then we’re signaling
that containment matters more than culture.”
Corbin folds his hands.
“We’re signaling stability.”
There it is.
Stability.
Not justice.
Not truth.
Stability.
He looks around the screens.
“Unless there are formal objections to the disciplinary
framework?”
Silence.
No one speaks.
Even Toronto.
Even those privately uneasy.
Corbin nods once.
“Then the motion stands.”
No vote is called.
None is needed.
The machine has already aligned.
“Public statement will be issued at 14:00 Eastern,” he
continues. “Language will emphasize progress and partnership.”
He glances at Taz’s screen briefly.
“Thank you all.”
One by one, screens go dark.
Taz remains seated long after her connection drops.
The room around her is quiet.
She doesn’t slam the laptop shut.
Doesn’t sigh.
Doesn’t curse.
She simply leans back.
They’ve chosen containment.
They’ve chosen narrative.
Fine.
She reaches for her phone.
Not to protest.
Not publicly.
Not yet.
…but to begin counting allies.
Because institutions don’t fall from outrage.
They fracture from within.
Fade out.
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