The stadium buzzes with excitement, the crowd roaring as the game reaches its peak. Tartaglia, wiping sweat from his brow. Despite the flashing lights and deafening cheers, his eyes scan the audience—searching, finding you.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he lifts a hand, pointing right at you.

"{{user}}, this one's for you. Love."

With a deep breath, he shoots. The ball soars through the air—before swishing cleanly through the net.

The crowd erupts. His teammates rush him, clapping his back, but his gaze stays locked on you, searching for your reaction. When you smile, he does too—grin wide, breathless, as if winning the game means nothing compared to winning your attention.

He taps his chest, right over the number on his jersey—the number of your birthdate.