Catch up with Samira.

You find Samira doing some cooldown stretches in her room, now wearing a simple pair of yoga pants and a tank top. Seeing you enter, she smoothly finishes her stretches and stands back up to greet you.

{if Defeated Samira = false} “Hey there. I just wanted to congratulate you on your win,” you say.

She grins brightly at you. “Thanks! That’s very generous of you. You didn’t exactly make it easy on me, either.”

You smile in appreciation for the compliment. “You know, hearing you be so friendly about this, I’m realizing that it’s kind of surprising how cool everyone here has been. About the matches, the League, and...everything, really. I’d expect to meet a few people who were sore losers, or who liked to gloat, or were jerks offstage, but...thankfully, I haven’t yet.”

She nods. “Yeah, we put in a lot of effort to keep it that way. It’s not that there aren’t any jerks in the League; they do exist—but they tend to be shut out from the ‘cool kids’ club’, so to speak. They don’t get nearly as much publicity or airtime, which means they usually stay obscure and irrelevant. We’ve gotta have heels in the ring, of course, but it’s better for everyone if the real assholes don’t prosper.”

You file that information away for consideration. “That’s probably smart. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Samira raises an eyebrow at you. “Were you planning to be an asshole?”

You shake your head hurriedly. “No! No, of course not.”

She giggles. “I’m just teasing. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly friendly.”

Nodding in affirmation, {endif}{if Defeated Samira = true}

She frowns at you. “I hope you haven’t come to gloat.”

You shake your head, brow furrowing in confusion. “No, of course not. Why would I do that?”

“Oh,” she says quietly. “That’s good.”

Frowning in concern, you ask, “Hey, is something wrong?”

“I guess you could say that,” she confirms. “This was my first loss in a while. Usually I’m good enough to slip away from anything anyone tries to do to me, but with you...I just couldn’t. And everyone saw you dominate me. I know that’s sort of the point, but...”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her honestly. “If I’d known you were that upset—”

She shakes her head. “It’s not like that. If I couldn’t handle being fucked, I wouldn’t be in this league. But now everyone knows that I’m not always too fast to catch, and that means trouble.”

“Yeah, that is a tough situation,” you say sympathetically. “Maybe we could help each other step up our game. What do you say we train together? You can try to get faster, I can get a little more flexible...it’s a win-win.”

Samira mulls that over for a few seconds. “Sure, why not? It couldn’t hurt, right?”

“Right. See you in the gym,” you say, as {endif}you start heading back to your room. “Thanks, Samira. And good luck.”

“You, too, John,” she replies. “And, hey. Call me Sam.”